distingue | welcome home // psl

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welcome home // psl

Pity the man who tells Captain Hook that one Captain Darling is back on the seas of Neverland.

It had mostly been to convenience and proximity rather than mercy that the solid iron tip of his hook had buried into bar top wood rather than the softer gut of the messenger himself, but the barman had known better than to stand very close in the first place, even with the counter-top set between them. Splinters came up when he'd wrenched the implement back out in sullen drag of iron through oak, sweeping back out into the port town and the dull of the evening with an agenda coming together in his mind, quite unstoppably. It was a far easier thing to know of Pan's comings and goes, with the shift of icy winter in favour of bright spring dawn and back again, but in this case, Hook could only rely on chance and rumour and it isn't as though he ever asked. Very much.

Time is difficult to track, in this place, but it doesn't take very long.

Staring down the sight of collapsing telescope, the click of brass on iron, the Queen Margaret is only so familiar a shape, anchor down in the cove and away from the shallows. It is possible that whoever is on watch could see that they, in turn, are being watched, but the Jolly Roger sits dark and quiet on the evening horizon, lamps snuffed and voices at whispers, as if they were lurking some fat merchant ship headed out to sea and not a fellow piracy vessels. The crew is a mixture of being on edge at their captain's strange, new priorities, or too dull to be on any sort of edge at all, but that is of no consequence. Punishments come in the form of whippings or the end of his hook. Being nervous and unsure is a state of normalcy.

Turning from the rail, he sets his sights on his bo'sun. "Let us welcome the good captain back to our waters."

They hear it first, over there, some few minutes later -- a thunderous clap of gunpowder and a spark of flame in the distance, before the cannon ball cuts through the air at a hiss, knifing through the rigging of the Queen Margaret, a wooden screech of stress as it snags through rigging and sails into tangles of mess, before it makes its impact on the other side, a rickety shingle in the outlawed port fairly exploding in pieces of brick and wood in unfortunate collateral damage.

To see in the direction it came from would be to see the Jolly Roger promptly sailing in their direction, ever distinctive flag raised aloft and the pale glow of lamps from its deck.

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As she skids on deck, the veil attached to her stolen top hat billowing at her back and her hair loose beneath it, Wendy's first thought is he ought thank all his heathen gods that wood was not my ship. Her orders follow in quick succession - boiling down to bring her around and answer the imprudent sod in kind - and she wastes little time as she makes them, loading her revolver on the move as she makes for the quarterdeck with a sure, irate stride.

She sights him with a spyglass, eyes narrowed, but it's less a question of who - of course it's him, and she thinks perhaps she'd have done well to have been prepared for something of the sort - than it is a question of precisely where. A moment later, she takes a very precise aim and fires, snatching the spyglass up again to be sure-

-he'll be needing a new hat.

It's only when he is trying to seek out her familiar shape on the decks of the Queen Margaret, quite convinced that his own greeting is more than enough to entice her into view, that she proves to have spotted him first.

He reels back when the sound of gunshot corresponds with the suddenness of his hat sheer torn off his head, abruptly lighter a few pounds of velvet and feather and lightly smoking where the bullet shot clean through. The snarl is not audible across the expanse of enclosed ocean-- but certainly gets a glance from a few of his scurrying crew who are wise enough to give him some distance-- but almost certainly seen through her spyglass.

He also sees her, then.

And grins, blackly.

The spray of water as one of her cannons marks some territory just shy of the Jolly Roger. Long Tom, the more favoured of their guns, has its abnormally long range, but they're getting closer all the while. His own rifle and returns a broader kind of fire, as if the desire to see her scurry is greater than causing injury and death.

Bastard son of a-

Rather than present an opportune target in return, Wendy tosses her own hat as she rises into the air to twist, agile and quick, out of his line of fire; wouldn't he so like to know what her happy thoughts might be? Of course, he'll find out over her cold, rotting corpse, but nevermind that.

"My dear captain!" Her voice rings out across the water, when they come near enough that she might be heard. "Had I known you desired to pay your respects, I might have been better prepared to receive you!"

Of course, she can still fly.

Hook moves swiftly in return, if still gravity-hindered, fairly shoving his own crewmen out the way so as best to reach the upper deck, hook laying grooves into the ladder until he spills out onto its busier surface. "On the contrary, you are well equipped, my dear!" he shouts right back across the way, even as he keeps rifle one-handedly trained upon her. "I only thought to take the liberty to welcome you back with a freshly sunken ship. How does that suit you?"

Of course, it might be all words. They wait his signal to unleash volleys of expensive ammunition, and when he hears the sound of Smee attempting to get his attention from the ladder, he can only growl--

"Not now, I am clearly busy."

The situation is swiftly becoming something of a stand-off, the Queen Margaret emerging from the cove to answer Hook's insults (to leave they'll need to pass, and Wendy does loathe being boxed in) and both crews prepared to fire at the merest twitch from master or mistress. It occurs to her, briefly, that it is a damned terrible shame she daren't go to the expense of stolen fairies kept in lamps outside of such specific circumstances. A ship that might take to the sky, well, that would be a terrible convenient thing now.

Not, she reminds herself, that she has any particular desire to be seen to flee him.

"I promise you, James, all damage done to my beautiful girl shall be coming out of your hide-" or his pocket, as she is - after all - quite the thief. As well he knows. "Do bear it in mind, when you take your aim." Her smile, tauntingly blithe, is audible in her voice and clear in her insouciant manner as she trails a hand over the second mast, still standing, rising high alongside it to look down on him.

"Club haul her, port side!" James is quick to snap at the nearest lackie with a pointing gesture of his hook, and the order is echoed down the length of his ship. A clang of iron and a heavy splash later, and the immense ship is swung on its axis when the dropped anchor hits the bottom. Those in the other can probably see it, the way the Jolly Roger suddenly noses in on the entry way in resistance to its full sails. The cannons nudge out of their hatches as jeering as the faces of Hook's crew, all bark and no bite.

At least right now. He holds his aim on her specifically, attention back on her. "Aye, it is a pretty vessel, and 'twould be a shame to cripple her! However, if you intend to sail this evening, then I'm afraid you'll have to ask my permission."

Laughter echoes through his crew, as required.

How wretchedly irritating of him. Wendy sighs, theatrical, as she begins to sink lower - not quite dropping back to the deck, not yet, but she is thinking very quickly on her feet and makes a minor show of paying little to no attention to the muzzle of the weapon he has pointed at her. He wouldn't really.

(She's almost certain.)

"All this for my company? How my heart does flutter."

His own motivation wasn't entirely a thing that Hook found himself looking over very closely between the blur of anger at the audacity of her unannounced return to his seas through to the what seemed to be very obvious course of action of confrontation. The desire for her company could well have been footnote enough to make him hesitate in aiming his resources in this direction, but now that he's here--

He paces along the railing of the starboard side, scraping iron along it as if desiring to sink it into something more forgiving than hard wood. His posture and movements all too aggressive, adrenalised.

"Well, you've so much explaining to do," he yells back at her, his voice rough but so used to bellowing orders that shouting a conversation is quite ordinary, "and that is hardly fault of mine. Why don't you join me on my deck, Darling, like old times, and we can negotiate the terms of this little stand off? Over a little wine and music, perchance."

"I suppose I might." The revolver is sheathed, then, but her fingers linger, thoughtfully, on the edge of her swordbelt. The smile that begins to form, now, is not one he ought trust and perhaps he'll find it familiar as she draws nearer, waving off Mr Evers' unspoken objection. (He does little more than step forward, on the bridge, but they've worked together for decades now and are well attuned.)

"Stay ready, gentlemen," she advises both crews, lifting higher as she crosses from one ship to the other to meet Hook at eye-level. She's shorter than he is, but not by a great deal; the heels of her boots bring her taller still and she is so rarely obliged to look up at anyone. "Why don't you fetch me a glass and I shall tell you my proposition?"

Hook takes a few steps back away from the railing in order to give ground as opposed in retreat, but there is, certainly, a flicker of surprise and suspicion when she seemingly takes him up on that offer. All the same. Deftly tossing the rifle towards the nearest crewmember, who sees it wise to catch the thing lest he reap retribution, Hook allows his hand to rest on the hilt of his cutlass as if for a place to simply put his hand.

"Smee. Have the lady taste the last selection of wine I personally pilfered from the captain's cabins of the last majestic vessel I laid waste to."

Because maybe he isn't prepared to straight up invite her into his quarters, and the sound of his bo'sun carrying out the errand reverberates through the deck's timber. The other motley crew of pirates around him form a distanced circle, although most keep their eyes careful on the other ship they're trapping.

A few barked orders from Mr Evers contains the unrest on the Queen Margaret; those who don't understand why their ordinarily ruthless captain didn't simply fire upon the Jolly Roger while Hook wasted time with chitter-chatter are newer, and will soon learn the shape of the truth that rumours almost tell.

Wendy is still smiling as she touches down on Hook's own deck just in time to select a wine with Smee, satisfied for the moment with having jostled a startled blink out of her estranged rival.

"How lovely it is to see you again," she murmurs to Smee, familiar - just her little reminder, that there are old times to be remembered here, even if this cannot truly be said to be just like. Of course she doesn't take her eyes off Hook to do it, but one should never turn their back upon a tiger.

Smee sort of just presses an awkward smile to her, shifting a look towards his captain who only glowers baleful at him until the bo'sun can hand off glass as instructed and back right off, clutching the wine bottle by its slender neck, the spiced rich red liquid within sloshing to a froth in ill treatment that goes unnoticed as James returns attention to her.

"And your proposal, lovely?" Hook asks, letting his voice cut through the tail end of her murmurings as efficiently as a drawn blade. He lets his eyes go wide in mocking interest, and it's more for show to his crew when he adds, "This should be good."

With a faint smile, unaffected, "I propose a dance."

Her free hand falls on the hilt of her sword, and if that doesn't make her meaning clear enough, she almost grins over the edge of her glass and adds, "To first blood. If I should have it, then you leave my pretty ship be and you take full obligation for the repairs that I will be needing. And if I don't- what terms does Captain Hook desire of me?"

Do tell, her expression says.

Edited 2011-09-10 08:30 (UTC)

There's the subtle shuffle of men prepared to make space, whether Hook affirms his consent to this arrangement or not. His expression is quite neutral save for the avidness of his stare, a flick of a glance spared to the hand on her hilt, before it's back up to her face. Silent, allowing the creak and groan of his own ship to underscore his thoughts, before he sticks out his sound hand towards the bo'sun.

The wine bottle is taken in favour of the glass that Smee had poured for him, briefly sloshed, and then swigged from in two long gulps -- less than gentlemanly, certainly, but he doesn't let any of it spill or get in his goatee. It's then pitched underhand and overboard.

"A pillaging," he says, his smile crooked. "I'll have your swag, your powder, your munitions. Call it tax, for your uninvited return to the Neverland seas. And of course, while my men transport my new property from your vessel to mine, we shall have a conversation." He draws his sword with a hiss of metal against leather, his hook raised just as readily. "Do these terms suit you, madam?"

Wendy's lips purse in a small moue, and she considers him for a moment, drawing her own slim blade and rolling her shoulders, preparatory. "I grant you the treasure, should you win, but I won't be left defenseless. And if you are to take all of my profits, then I will add one item from your ship of my choosing to my winnings. Do these terms suit you, James?"

The familiarity is almost mocking.

His blade comes to rest between them in readiness, tension slow but very sure to set in as he fairly ignores his surroundings in favour of her. His mouth twitches at mocking familiarity, but he manages to force it into a smile. "Half your powder, half your shot, and all your profits, Darling. Otherwise, payment for repairs, peace enough to leave the cove and--" And this next thing is so ambiguous that Hook has a hard time agreeing to it, but he is prepared to win, so what should it matter. "An item of your choosing from my ship. The deal is made at first blood.

"Have at thee!"

It had better be made, because Hook is swift to lunge forth, bulkier blade broad around in meticulous sweep, his posture good and aim true.

"So we are agreed!" as she twists back and parries, her grin across their swords full of teeth. Perhaps it's rather more like old times than she first imagined; he taught her this, once, but she's learned new tricks since their parting. Some things don't change and it's quickly evident that she treats this like as much of a game as she ever did - perhaps moreso. Her sorrows and her rages are better hidden, these days, replaced in the forefront by a mad whimsy that makes play out of clashing steel.

A storyteller knows the story best, after all, and so she thoroughly inhabits her role in it.

Edited 2011-09-10 09:46 (UTC)

And here, Hook fights with almost as much mad enthusiasm as he gives Peter Pan, no shortage of growls and snarls over the sounds of clashing steal, or the solid scrape of iron when his hook is used to parry a blow. His crew know much better to interfere when it comes to these sorts of fights, especially ones with terms -- it's a different sort of definition to when his opponent has even more teeth than Wendy's grin, and comes with a tickticktick.

Spying an opening, Hook steals that split second to lash out with his hook, which is known for not only drawing first blood, but quite a great deal of it.

In darting back out of range, Wendy moves with such haste that her boots skid on the quarterdeck - god take the rain lately - and her balance becomes something not of her control as she stumbles backward. The stairs are at her back and she lunges with one hand for the railing beside them, but less than a moment later her expression shifts and she doesn't fall but rather all but twirls into the air, her sword still pointed at him.

Not the most dignified thing she's ever done, she'll privately concede, but somehow worth it.

"Cheating," she shouts, laughing, as she swoops back in.

"Lucifer spare me!" is a growl of exasperation-- cheating indeed!-- going on the defense in fending off the attack of her slimmer sword, ever moving so as not to find himself cornered. The meeting of metal to metal is designed to be strong, to tire, the heels of his boots thudding hard the wood as if this really were a dance. If she learned off him, then--

She really ought to know all about good form.

He spins to avoid a blow, blade sweeping up to knock her's off at awkward angle. "More flying tricks, and I'll just have to call upon your unhappier thoughts, my dear," is wry threat.

"Do you wonder what propels me?" she inquires in a breathless taunt, pressing the advantage of - shall we say - higher ground to the best of her ability. "Perhaps next time we gamble, you'll have of me a secret- or have you had your fill?"

Her boots touch wood as she lunges.

"I can surely--"

...dodge, basically, sidestepping, and putting grounding distance between them as he blazes a look up at her. In the heat of battle, Hook is a little more transparent than what artful words and mock-negotiations and shouted taunts would otherwise suggest. He does hate it when they sodding well fly, it makes him feel so grounded. "I can surely guess. Did that wonderful husband of yours come back for you?"

A sword swipe. "No, I don't suppose so -- you wouldn't be here, now would you?"

Her eyes betray her - how dare he bring that up, that man, and here of all places, with an audience - but a moment later she dismisses Richard in two words, flippant and cruel in their callousness- "What husband?"

Evers, watching from the bridge of the Queen Margaret as Wendy strikes at Hook, begins to anticipate a very long week.

That earns laughter, dry and just as callous, before Hook pushes back on the offense as far as he flight allows. It's a good thing he has some several decades-- or more, who really knows, the way Neverland works-- practice at fighting those with this kind of advantage. It's a testament to his duties as a gentleman that he never goes for the pistol lashed to his hip, or something like that.

There's a scrape of flying sparks as his hook catches down the length of her blade, twisting in effort to disarm with his sword held high in preparation to come down.

Rather than being disarmed, she arches in the air to let her body move with the blade and use his own momentum against him in the process - her sword comes down and her with it, sliding forward to slice down along the outside of his side, his hip, clear through fabric. She wounds only to draw blood, though, and presses her luck no further than that.

"A glass of wine and a bit of sport," she says, musingly, as she rests at last upon steady feet, standing on his deck and well within his reach. "I could hardly have planned a better homecoming. How sweet you are to me, James."

She'll be doing no begging this evening.

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