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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.
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.
no subject
A fresh puff of smoke puts up a hazy, intangible wall between them, his eyes flickering bright blue behind it, and a huffing exhale disperses the cloud to reach drifting tendrils in her direction. "And I do believe you are stepping out the bounds of our arrangement in what you may or may not have. Take care that I do not see fit to revoke our conditions, my lady."
Never mind the dagger.
no subject
"The heart is like an ocean of its own, James, it can't be stolen. You gave it to me fair and square in your own words."
...so there.
no subject
"Get out," James near snarls in sudden snap of renewed anger, hook swiping the air in imperious gesture, ash spilling on his sleeve as smoldering embers litter the ground, the doubled pipe neglected in his whole hand. "Leave, now, with your winnings, before I start investigating the worth of hearts with the cold of my iron hook! I'll run ye through for your presumptions, believe you me!"
Not that his eyes have begun their telling glow of red, but there is a certain measure of promise in his voice.
no subject
"Oh, my darling, I missed you too-!"
And then she was in the air.
no subject
Yes, this is familiar.
"What worth of a woman or pirate without loyalty! Without good form!" This echoes through his cabin and then back out onto the deck, standing framed in the door way with his hook come to wedge against the edge and focus only for the skies. "Just fly, fly away, ye..." And his words run out around then, seething where he stands and slightly wild, before his eyes grow a little distant in philosophical realisation.
And a little narration. Much to the bewildered stares of his crew. "She misses Hook. Ah. What sense this day now makes, what worth. Raise anchor! We set sail!"
And with a metallic scrape of wood, the cabin door slams shut once more.