“Am I wrong so often that you feel my being right in your presence is an act of superiority, or are you just pissed off you didn’t notice this before I could call and act on it?”
The intervention comes from an unexpected quarter – a clash of metal alerting him even as he struggled to regain his feet, and he watched on in silence as Billy bore the brunt of the assault before lashing out with his foot and hauling his opponent off his own. The finish was quick – efficient and permanent, and their eyes met in the ensuing silence.
For several moments, the world held its breath as acknowledgement shifted between the two of them. Any doubt that was still harbored that Billy Bones was a man of the Ranger now fell away, as Charles inclined his head and offered his humility in a rare show of gratitude before picking up his sword and striding over.
“There’s more over the ridge,” The information was offered at close range, their shoulders almost brushing – and with a slight cant, Charles brushed against Billy before leading the way. An unnecessary touch, the claim was as silent as it was absolute – the acceptance entirely complete without a word spoken.
Though an observant sort might recognize that Billy now stood among a select few aboard the Ranger, there were none present to witness the exchange and attest to it.
“Who the fuck are you?” Charles had no intention of doing either of those things, though if there was persistence on the subject he was prepared to put this man straight into the dirt for that opening line.
Charles didn’t know what to expect of this man of Flint’s, but as the words droned on he supposed it wasn’t at all surprising that he would turn out to be inherently similar. He spoke a great deal – and if his words were winds, they would surely fill sails. Unlike Flint, however, he lacked the ability to captivate, to push those sails into any particular direction – causing them to fall flat despite all the blustering.
He certainly had a lot to fucking say about nothing at all worth hearing, at any rate.
“You know,” Charles did not deign to uncross his arms, maintaining his unimpressed position propped against the doorframe and observing Hamilton from a distance, “There are a few men on this island that fancy themselves storytellers – men who inspire with their words, to rouse others to do things they might never think of.”
Straightening, he unfolded his arms and set his hands idly at his sides as he stepped over, coming to rest them against the back of a chair. “I’m going to recommend you leave the talking to them.” It was perhaps difficult to tell with the raspy quality of his voice that these words lacked any malice – but in truth, Charles felt this to be genuinely thoughtful advice as opposed to any direct insult – and perhaps in anticipation of the presumption he was directing an assault, he went so far as to elaborate himself, which was not something he extended often.
“You assume that your history makes you bigger than you are – all you just did was illustrate why no man here should trust you, though I think you were aiming for the opposite effect. Best then, to learn how to navigate before trying to lead, wouldn’t you agree?”
@oceanfoamed liked for a starter from calico jack !!!
jack never cared for port royal. it might have been subconscious pride for his own home port or the raving attacks on the spanish that kept him constantly on edge to see those great, red – crossed sails on the horizon. his dislike didn’t stem from unfamiliarity, as jack prided himself on being an adaptable creature. perhaps it was simply something in the air.
the sky bled scarlet and the sun shared the hue of a firing canon as it kissed the wavering, oceanic horizon. purple bruises rolled across the sky, threatening a storm festooned above the east. a great, sun – tanned slab of muscle, tattoo, and knives glared at him from the adjacent jetty, surely thinking that jack was staring at him rather than the foreboding sky. rackham held his gaze and put his sunglasses on with a flick of insouciance before turning his brown eyes front.
heading into town, the two made their way to the rendezvous point with a mysterious caller who was looking to hire their ferrying service, taking less – than – savory cargo from one depository to the other. the meeting wasn’t to convene until long after the sun went down, but jack was eager to sit down at an inn somewhere and eat something that he didn’t have to pick maggots or rat shit out of, and hoped that charles was of the same mind.
“do you know where to find this man? from what i know of him, he’s a lizard looking fuck, but it seems like this place is crawling with people that fit that description uncannily,” he said to charles, who was looking as leonine as ever in the shadows of the sunset.
Port Royal had a bite to it that Charles held little fondness for. Her fortifications were becoming frightfully admirable, and the noose of England throttled the freedom from her more and more with every passing day. While it was not necessarily dangerous to conduct one’s business here, if England’s interests became more focused in this region it was of little doubt where at least one of her fleets would anchor itself.
When that day came, business in Port Royal would become quite a deal more difficult, and the risk of it would either make the profit increase tremendously, or would force it to take place elsewhere until this area, like so many before it, became too dry for any free man to drift in, let alone conduct himself in the avenues of services rendered.
Yet again Charles found himself grimly grateful for the legitimizing papers – even if it did mean a port to answer to, it was a free port in it’s own way, and one not even England would fuck with. It made striding beneath the growing shadows of an English-dominated fort a little less daunting, all things considered.
Jack’s voice drew his gaze away from the shadows, and distracted him from tracking the movements of the redcoats. The man’s irritable manner caused a twitch in Charles’ lips that might have indicated a smile had almost occured on reflex before being subdued. Leave it to Jack to dismiss the ominous sense of foreboding with his saucy observations.
“Lizards ain’t done nothing to deserve being thrown in with this lot,” He pointed out in spite of the seriousness of the situation, “Though I imagine I get your point.” He did – he no more liked this than Jack did, admittedly. “We’re meant to meet up at the Broken Spear, though from what I hear the only thing decent there is the ale.” The food, apparently, was better meant for pigs than people. “Figure we might as well wait somewhere with better fare, in the meanwhile.”
Which would explain why they weren’t heading down toward the Spear, but rather up farther from the docks, toward some of the better establishments. “Unless you had something else in mind.”
A slight grunt is the only indication of exertion on Charles’ end as he is scrambled upon, though his arm does shift to form a supporting crook for the other to sit upon once they’d finished their arduous journey up his side. It was as much to support them as it was to make the sudden weight on his left a tad more manageable.
“You’re in an interesting mood,” He observed, not appearing too bothered by the sudden adornments he had acquired in the form of a human barnacle and the soft petals of a flower in his hair. “What’s the occasion then?”
Flint had never wanted so badly to be fucking hit before. He’d done his fair share of seeking violence in the past- but that had been about his rage, and the need to inflict it on something, the need to fight and win and keep going. This–this was nothing like that. This was striking at a lion’s teeth in the hopes that it might maul him for sport, and raging when it found him unworthy of the effort.
At Vane’s suggestion, Flint spat, voice cracking: “Fuck you.” He was bristling, uncharacteristically still despite how prepared to lunge he had looked only moments before Vane had spoken- the very idea of seeing Thomas again, of Thomas seeing him like this, was enough to freeze him to the spot. “I don’t fucking want him here.”
The lie was plain as day. It could not have been more clear that Flint would have given anything–burned Nassau to the ground, anything–to have Thomas here. Rather- to have Thomas want to be here.
But not like this. And maybe that was justification for it, really, on top of everything else- maybe Flint’s utter inability to function without him was only proof that Thomas deserved more than this. Some shell of a monster that had long since ceased to be a person at all.
He felt his eyes sting, and struck out like an angered cat at a bowl on the table beside him- it clattered into the opposite wall and smashed while Flint retreated further into the room. He tried, and only halfway succeeded, to keep his breathing in check. At least he wasn’t in tears, yet.
If Vane had any fucking sense, he’d leave after this and stop coming back, because it was clear to Flint that he was never going to recover from this. Any progress that was made could be set back by the slightest thing, to the point where it felt fucking useless to keep pretending there was any path forward. Vane had to give up eventually; Silver, too, once it became clear that Flint was simply no longer worth the time.
“Can’t be fixed with a fight.” Flint’s voice was barely audible. He seemed to be talking to the room, rather than to Vane, all the fight drained from him. “But you wouldn’t fucking understand that, would you.”
Flint’s voice sometimes did things that made Vane wonder if maybe he’d been struck in the throat a few times himself, jumping around like a boy’s did. For all that though, it seemed he had struck a chord – the fight in Flint turned defensive immediately, and rather than facing a man ready to strike it was more like an animal that recognized itself as cornered enough to need puffing up in the hopes the predator would back down, rethink itself in the face of something so big.
Just like that animal though, there was nothing behind this but posturing and loud noise. It was empty bullshit meant to distract from the desperate truth – he was falling apart, and Hamilton’s refusal to be part of it was very much the reason why. The threat of him was too close to home – he was the thing Flint could not face, and the power in that might have been intoxicating in the right hands.
As it was, Vane kept himself out of reach and simply observed again, determining if this was something he could mitigate down or if he ought to send someone else up here to talk Flint out of his latest downward spiral. He wondered how the man didn’t get exhausted by this, but kept it to himself – which proved wise, considering he almost missed the statement that came after a bowl had been shattered against the wall.
“Bold of you to assume I understand any of this shit,” He pointed out flatly. Nevermind this in particular – the whole situation was a bit over his head in a lot of respects. He understood the gist of it, sure – he wasn’t stupid. What escaped him, mostly, was the intensity of all these emotional motivations. He had his own intentions, his own aims and goals in life – and he was dedicated to them, certainly – but they weren’t there because of one person.
He’d put his hopes in someone before – that much was true. Trying to apply that to this though, it didn’t translate. He had always known he was being used – and in turn, he had been aware of the benefits in allowing himself to be used. So long as those benefits outweighed the inconveniences, there had been very little he would not do in order to ensure that person’s success – but he’d backed the wrong dog in that fight, and when he realized it – when he had finally accepted that he had put himself behind a losing venture, he had been able to pull back and move forward. Able, in fact, to put that dog in it’s place and remind it who was boss. Love had never been a factor – and it was an element he had no idea how to contend with.
Resting his hands on the back of a chair, he leaned into it and eyed Flint thoughtfully. If he could just get up there was so much he could fucking do – but how to make a dog fight when it was convinced its legs were broken?
“I don’t get what being out here does for you – out of sight, falling to pieces – it just makes you look weak. Nobody gives a shit about broken men. We all got our shit – Hamilton included – so what makes yours so damn important that he should come to you? If your problem is that he doesn’t want you – maybe give him something to want. Make yourself indispensable – or get over it.”
“Oh? Makes sense.” His hand drops from where he’s been nursing a bloody nose, leaning forward to spit out the remainder that had made it’s way down his throat. He takes a minute to collect himself, pinching the bridge of his nose again before turning back to the other. He seems to pause, as though taking stock of Charles for the first time, marrying the image of him to the words spoken over ale and tavern rumour.
The rough features, handsome and worn, the faint air of calm before the storm, all things that more or less matched his imagination. Yet there’s something almost magnetic about Charles Vane that he hadn’t taken into account.
Interesting.
“So, question.” His tone has dropped, syllables slurred but still detectable, he knows how to steer the conversation towards secretive well enough. “Which do you like better? Iguanas, or, gold?” He raises an eyebrow, demeanor nothing but curious. There’s motive to his innocence, though, and Patrick coughs again, another subtle reminder that he’s injured and is more than happy to keep breathing thank you.
There was very little by way of sympathy from Charles as the man dealt with his bloody nose. The decisions that had lead to that damage were not his problem and frankly he had no reason to be interested.
Though some part of him understood it was customary to ask pointless shit like are you alright or what happened the answer to both of those things were obvious and the stories that they might prompt did not interest him in the slightest. So when he found himself confronted by the other man’s gaze, he didn’t offer anything in return – customary or otherwise.
Apparently, this man could read him about as well as Flint – which was to say, not in the slightest. “I have a better question.” Leaning forward, Charles dipped the fiery end of his cheroot into the dirt, snuffing out the burning tobacco without ever taking his eyes of the other. “Who are you that I should care enough to answer your stupid fucking questions?”
For all he knew, this was some new partner of Elenor’s. He looked soft and posh enough to be exactly the sort of idiot she’d twist around into serving Nassau’s interests in cleaner markets, so it wouldn’t do to fuck with him just yet. Not until his value had been determined, at any rate.
Charles was not unused to compliments on his physique, particularly from those who wanted to ply from him some coin while getting the benefit of enjoying it personally – but it wasn’t usually the eyes people went for in those cases. His eyes had been described to him a few times – but not as beautiful.
“What do you want.” Whatever the man was selling, he was starting with one fuck of an odd pitch.
There was neither announcement nor acknowledgement of the other’s arrival or intentions, beyond a shift to make room for a second body on the narrow bed. His arm raised mutely, accepting and inviting as he continued to mark things down with his other hand, book balanced precariously against his propped up thigh.
He should have done this earlier, when there was more light than the flickering sway of the lantern overhead – but there had been better and frankly, more interesting business to attend to then, and he knew where all the numbers went either way. It made sense to pen it down while it was still fresh, but with Rackham ashore dealing with negotiations it had been his focus to keep the men in line.
This place wasn’t anything like Nassau, and if he ended up losing half his fucking crew because they started acting like it, he was not going to be keen on finding replacements here – he had one man on this crew from this place and while it had been one of the better investments ever made for the Ranger outside of Rackham and Bonny themselves, he highly doubted he could afford any more Lamarans short of becoming one himself.
Although, if Rackham had his way – chances were that might end up being the course.
Ocean Archive 