Not All Treasure Is Silver and Gold

I'd fancy you return the way you said (but I grew old and forgot your name)

2008-12-02T07:23:55Z

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.

Jack's not having any of that. He's never done well as a patient man.

The map in front of him says the island's another two to three days' journey. Or something like that. The properties keep shifting on him anytime he goes to read a measurement. That could be his frusteration blurring out the details. It might also be the rum. Hard to tell, really. Besides his elbow, the needle of the compass twirls and twirls in a most unhelpful way. Jack gives it a sturdy glare every few seconds but it never does him any good.

He still can't quite figure what he wants.

The night is eerily silent. All the men are tired or disheartened or confused. Jack won't tell them the places they're going and now they're not going anywhere. He'd put an ear to the ground -- well, deck -- for mutterings of mutiny except he hasn't really the time for it. There's too much else to concentrate on, with Davy Jones and Beckett and James. The three people from his past Jack most wishes he never had to see again.

Beckett's a mere curiousity, a bitter after-taste that lingers long after Jack forgot the night of drinking. Davy Jones is more pressing, with his Kraken and his threats. James is -- something else.

Something close.

Something barging through his cabin door.

Jack lifts his head just in time to see the good ex-Commodore stumble violently into the room. He keeps his fingers splayed over his map like they were and lifts the bottle of rum. James has his own (really, one from Jack's stash, and one day they're going to have a talk about taking things what don't belong to you) so it's only fair that Jack should join him in a drink.

"I hear mud holes are popular if you're to be looking for a place to collapse."

Day Two: Old friends make the best strangers

2008-09-22T01:27:08Z

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.

captjacksparrow @ 2008-02-25T08:10:00

2008-02-25T14:35:15Z

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.

captjacksparrow @ 2008-02-15T02:23:00

2008-02-15T08:46:38Z

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.

captjacksparrow @ 2007-08-01T23:42:00

2007-08-02T04:56:59Z

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.

Answering machine for dark_desert_hwy

2007-06-28T02:36:20Z

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*

random_fic Does your inevitable death make you take pause?

2007-06-26T10:06:15Z

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

Lemme tell you something

2007-06-24T22:01:26Z

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?

Someone wants to know a few things about ol' Jack...

2007-06-24T04:03:11Z

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.

For lordcbeckett:

1. If you had the chance to return to the moment in time that you ~~betrayed me~~ were assigned the cargo whose escape branded you a pirate, would you do anything different? If I had known that it were going to be your intention to sink my ship, I might’ve been more inclined to tell you I was releasing the “cargo” a bit farther away. But if you hadn’t done what you did and I hadn’t done what I did, we wouldn’t be where we are now, would we? And I’d still be serving under the orders of a feckless rat like you. Er. No offense meant.

2. Similarly, do you ever miss your life as a respectable member of society? Similarly... no. Can’t say I miss it at all. Never really been one for respectability or society. Not something I ever regret losing.

3. You're aware the Wench (You're calling her the Pearl now, aren't you?) is still the property of EITC, aren't you? Mmm... yah! Stings a bit, don’t it, having the most notorious pirate ship in the Caribbean having been one of yours? Now she’s chasing down your little trade ships and robbing them blind. Quite the judgment error, wasn’t that?

4. For a man who stabs anyone in the back to save his own hide you certainly seem offended when others return the favor. Why is this? I think your question might need a little bit of work as I haven’t gone ‘round stabbing people in the back what haven’t stab me first. Or, more’s like, anytime it looks as if I’ve done that, it’s really because those who complained of the stabbing weren’t very clear in our original agreement to what point and purpose I should be following. Not my fault if I’m in the habit of saving my own neck and they didn’t consider that into their little plan. It’s not like I’m mum on that desire.

But I think, really, you would be confusing the two of us. You seem far more likely than I to get all twisted up over duplicity.

5. Why did you refuse to transport that cargo anyways? Because that “cargo” was people and you didn’t go telling me I’d be chaining them all down in the holds like they were nothing but crates and barrels themselves. After you went and nipped them off from their families without even a by-your-leave and expected them to do the doing of whoever wanted to buy them. To annoy you.

realmofthemuse prompt 1.63.3

2007-06-24T03:08:36Z

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

eclecticmuses June Topic

2007-06-22T00:20:33Z

Prompt: I Believe (When I Fall In Love It Will Be Forever) by Stevie Wonder

He saw her first when he were just a lad, not more than eighteen if memory might serve to stretch and fade a bit. She had white sails then. Pristine. Newly shellacked and near about golden in the sun. Floating in some harbour what he can't even recall name of now. All's his mind set on was her and her form, the look of her.

But he never were a shallow man, even as a young thing, and his admiration for her grew all the more once he got to know the inside of her as well. Got to hear her voice, the creaking in the shoals of the Gold Coast and the groaning in the deep waters of the Indian Sea when she were almost struck down by cannon fire.

He ached for her then, as she bled water through the wounds in her sides. Still a lowly deckhand was he but he cared for, he did. And he swore she did for him as well.

Never been a superstitious man either, but there were times aboard her, when the sound of gunpowder sizzling in the background, and she'd lunge forward just enough to throw him off balance -- missed the eight ball what got shot his way. Took it on herself to save him and wreck her pretty hull in his stead. He owed her for that. He'd pay her back one day.

Day came with Beckett. Lord Beckett as he is now, but then it were just Beckett, and it were just Jack, and it were Jack's decision what sunk her. Her what glowed golden in the sunlight on the day he first saw her all them years back. Now burnt black and charred and sitting on the bottom of the ocean. All because of him. She took wounds for him and this be the last, the final cutting blow that killed her.

There are stories that get traded in the dark on the lower decks, late nights working or drinking or no sleep to be coming any old which way, and the men tell stories. He heard some, fellow mates reminiscing about loss of wife or child, things what they loved. What pain it caused them in whatever water-logged hearts still might reside in their chests. Good, honest men claiming to have part of themselves ripped away by whatever death took place. He never thought himself a good man, or an honest one, though he'll tell the truth more times than not except when he don't, but he never loved something like them. Never had it in him. He loved the sea and that was that. No changing it now, especially if that be the fate of loving something: to lose it.

But when she sunk, he knew it. He were capable of loving something more than the sea. More than hisself. He loved her and the pain he felt then, he remembered the tales he heard. How a man might feel gutted in that position. Gutted and burnt just like she. Beckett placed the fire to his wrist and what image it brought back was smelling the smoke from her sails as she drowned.

They used to be white.

So when Davy Jones came, with his heart cut out for the sake of loving too much, and Jack could understand that. But he owed it to her, what saved his life time and time again, not to do the same. He'd pay her back, his love, branded as they were together with the same fire. He was a pirate now, if the right-handed world didn't want him, and she would serve as his flag ship. Because the world didn't want to seem to want her either. There were just Jack, then, who was to be knowing all the better.

He named her The Black Pearl when he saw her again. Black sails but otherwise not a spot on her. And the figurehead giving a sparrow its wings. Sparrow like him. And he felt it then, too, why it was worth the loving of something even if you stand risk of losing it. Not that he ever would again if he could help it.

Jack Sparrow and his Pearl. Stuff of legend, that.

Muse: Jack Sparrow
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Word Count: 704

fandom_muses June Prompt: Chains

2007-06-09T08:14:04Z

For someone so obsessed with the idea of his own freedom, he finds himself spending a lot of his time clapped in irons. Or sitting in a brig with excess water seeping into his boots as he waits for an escape plan to fall into his lap. He likes to call these opportune moments. It isn't carelessness that gets him into these situations --

Okay, yes, maybe that bit with Cotton's parrot was a bit far fetched and he never did trust a man who introduced himself as John Smith (used that alias a few times hisself, like the time he was over at… Well, that's another story) but Gibbs thought he was all right too. Or did he say he didn't like the look of him? There was something there about bad luck and peg legs but then he was hit on the head when the brawl started so he can't really recall.

Point is. Point, point, he had a point right? Right! Point is it wasn't carelessness per se that has him sitting here now, boots twice their weight from all the water gain. He's what you would call a free thinker. Likes to live outside the box. That's what freedom is, the chance to pursue one's own gain, and sometimes. Well. Sometimes you can get a bit sidetracked. But he's never found a jail he can't escape or a bit of iron he can't weasel his way clear off.

Because after all. He is Captain Jack Sparrow. Not probable feats of his forte.

Though that could also be drinking rum. What's wrong with the prison system today, no rum in the cells. When he gets back on board the Pearl he's going to stow a flask full of it in one of the cells. Just in case.

And that's what could be known as free thinking.

Muse: Jack Sparrow

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean

Word Count: 309

captjacksparrow @ 2007-06-07T20:35:00

2007-06-08T01:44:31Z

The problem what comes with sailing in naught but a digny when going after your ship when it starts to be sailing away without its rightful Captain is not the water gain but the man power. But I do like my flag.

rp for commodore_jln

2007-06-07T04:18:20Z

The digny is tethered to one of the many boulders that protrude from the water along the cresent line of the cove. Jack sits in its bow, the lamp in front of him doused, and rocks back and forth slowly in time to the waves crashing against the cliff face. It's not quite sunset but the shadows have already grown long, hiding him and his crew from the would-be sight of Norrington if/when he should come. Three men are piled in the stern of the digny, awaiting orders to row, and Mr. Cotton's parrot is perched on a rock nearby, able to warn Jack should the Commodore renege on his word and bring more men than stated in their exchange of letters.

He wasn't quite honest himself in his last letter to the Commodore. There is a longboat tied not many metres from where Jack hides now and there is a bottle inside with stationary, should Norrington feel up to writing him any more terms of endearment. If it is true that there are only four men with the Commodore -- three of his own, and the crew member he captured from the Pearl -- then Jack will blindfold them and ferry them over to where the Pearl lies anchored in a secret spot not far from the cove. If Norrington brings more men than he swore, or it looks to be a trap, well. Well, Jack will think of something then. Get word out to Gibbs somehow that the plan failed and mark the man he lost as fell behind.

It isn't even that he cares much about the man in Norrington's capture. Doesn't know his name; assumes he worked as naught more than a deck hand for two months. Must have picked him up in the last port of call. If he were stupid enough to let hisself be caught by the Navy then that be his problem. Jack isn't the type to go risking his neck for wayward pirates. Norrington's man too, locked below decks in the brig, he swears he could care very little about. Except he is a young and rashly brave -- reminds Jack a bit of young Will with his dolly belle back at wherever-it-were -- and in his letter Norrington remarked about the loss of a young Marine already due to storm. Something about the description piques his curiousity, that Norrington would think he could get any sympathy from a pirate at the loss of a soldier.

Yet Jack does feel sympathy and maybe. Right, well. Even if the wanting to see Norrington face-to-face again after all these months has something to do with this stark crazy mad affair, it doesn't all reason everything away. Reasons got nothing to do with it. Maybe he just wants to know what two supposedly good men can do when lopped together aboard one ship. His ship.

A splashing noise from the distance raises Jack from his thoughts and cautiously, slyly, he ducks his head around the rock to see if it be Norrington and his men.

Application for realmofthemuse

2007-06-06T07:51:59Z

1.58 #2. When all else fails, what one gift or quality within yourself can you fall back on to get by?

The Black Pearl is gone, disappeared out onto the horizon and the open ocean while he sits there dripping onto the sand. He watches the scabless feck of a first mate sail away with his ship and then stares at the crystalline drops of sunlight as they spread with its rising after the stern vanishes. Looks down at his hands still bound and the pistol wedged into his belt by Barbossa’s own. He might have said something as he shoved it in right before pushing Jack off the gangplank but he doesn’t remember it. Isn’t worth remembering it. He’ll make something up, something wicked and verbose, when he tells about it later.

Right now just going to swear to hisself that he’ll shoot Barbossa before he even contemplates placing that bullet near his own brain.

The Pearl is gone. Along with Barbossa and his crew. Now all he has is an island, this white spit of land in the middle of nowhere, a pistol that does him no good ‘til he can get back what he lost, and his compass. And his hat. Can’t forget that. Least he still looks like Captain Jack Sparrow even without the ship to prove it.

Slip out of the ropes as sure as any -- or that’s what the story will say when he tells it. No need to have them pesky little details like the hour it takes him rubbing his hands against a palm trunk trying to get the bindings out. Look at compass to see where it is that he really wants.

He wants a way back to the Pearl. He wants rum. He wants off this godforsaken beach where he can’t feel the rise and shift of the waves beneath his feet.

And the compass only points in one direction. How very interesting.

Might as well go exploring then. Maybe he can find something worth doing on this island and a way back to his ship. At least this’ll make for a great story, if he ever gets to tell it. He starts concocting the many different versions in his head as he walks. Something about Indians and being made their chief. And really bad eggs.

Muse: Jack Sparrow

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean

Word Count: 366

captjacksparrow @ 2007-06-03T21:32:00

2007-06-04T02:38:24Z

I re-braided me bread. This calls for celebratin'. Where'd I set that rum?

Letters between commodore_jln and captjacksparrow

2007-06-03T02:09:34Z

2 June, 1712
My dear Commodore.

As it might have been drawn to your lugubrious attention back on the docks the other night, I managed to finagle that which we already spoke about managing. This would seem to be the second time within a week, wouldn't it, that you have determined to clap me in irons and missed the mark, as they say, eh? If you plan on continuing this pursuit 'cross the high seas, you'd best be warming up to this feeling.

And in case I failed to say it in our past dealings, that was a day you shall always remember as the day you almost caught [words blotted out by rum having been spilled].

Bugger.

Freely yours,
Capt. J. S.

Introduction

2007-05-29T23:11:31Z

Not that introductions are the antithesis of a forte in my intuitive sense of charm and superb generosity in the sharing of self-affected tales, unless of course you people are incognizant of the glorious stories that encapsulate my being, but there is something to be said for the act of being humble. And I am everything if not humble. So I shall only say this: all the stories are true, especially and particularly those which are to be representing my personage in an affable and or ineffable light, and disregarding those which are nothing but slander and falsehood to bear up against my egregious self. I will rely it on your fine judgment to be able to anticipate the difference.

Still to be wanting to know who I am? Well, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow. Savvy? Pirate. Purveyor of the high seas. Passionate consumer of rum and all its kin. That would be all.

And one more word, which is to be longer than the previous word but correlative to length in its important to the knowing and realization of me. The Black Pearl is my ship. She’s my ship, despite whenever whatever anyone else says, such as feckless dull-witted scabless dogs named Barbossa who might try to cruelly mislead you into the thinking of otherwise stated beliefs. That would be a fine example of one of those slandering untruths which were once already mentioned that honestly dishonest men such as meself can interpret as being nothing more than what they really are.