Another Night -- The Spanish Main; Tortuga [Closed]
Norrington didn't know whether today was Tuesday or Wednesday or perhaps Saturday.
Several weeks must have passed, but had those weeks already stretched into months by now?
Tortuga made a man lose track of more than just time. It didn't take long for each day to begin bleeding into the next until it was impossible to determine exactly how many had passed, and the only way to distinguish yesterday from today was the rising and setting sun and the knowledge that night was there to separate tedious hours of daylight. After a while, caring about that or anything, really, ceased.
He made his way through the town, his gait only slightly unsteady, walking past the colourful chaos that never seemed to disappear from the streets. Laughter, shouting, shrieks filled the air - the usual disorderly chorus of voices that was the music here each night. Tortuga remained the same, a haven (though cesspool was a more fitting description) for scum of the worst sort, even though other ports had fallen victim to the shadows that suddenly came ashore and extinguished all life in the places they chose to damn with their arrival.
Perhaps the quality (or rather, lack thereof) of the souls here repelled the creatures.
Doubtful, of course. He didn't think that they were able to discriminate in such a manner. From what he had seen, these purported monsters seemed to act on basic instinct rather than strategy. It was likely that Tortuga and its denizens had managed to escape the same fate as other towns purely by chance thus far.
Perhaps it was only a matter of time.
The tavern was busy, especially at this hour. Norrington let himself fall into a chair at an empty table. He drained the bottle he had been carrying of the remainder of the vile amber liquid it contained before setting it on top of the table and nudging a coin over to the barmaid that had appeared. She took it eagerly and left, but returned moments later and presented him with another bottle as well as a lingering gaze. The latter went ignored.
Scum of the worst sort... Until recently, he hadn't counted among those ranks.
A year ago, even half a year ago, he would not have imagined that he would ever be sitting in one corner of a squalid, noisy, ill-lit tavern, here of all places, surrounded by the sort of people he had always despised for their ways - scoundrels, criminals, cutthroats, pirates - as they drank and brawled and had their way with the whores and carried on with their revelry.
But then, a year ago, he wasn't the same man. And that extended to more than just his appearance. It was no incredible feat to uphold honour and strive to act nobly when one already held the necessary instruments as well as personal security in his grasp. Did that mean he had become that which he had previously sought to eradicate from the world?
No amount of rum could burn away the taste of failure, but it wasn't his intention to stay here and wallow in his guilt and shame, let alone join the 'other side'.
A fight had broken out on one side of the room. It took mere minutes for it to erupt into a full-blown brawl. That was nothing new; the regulars here seemed to jump at every opportunity to raise their cutlasses and throw bottles and chairs and anything else within reach.
Once upon a time, he wouldn't have stood for such uncivilized behaviour. Now, bottle in hand, Norrington simply stood from his seat. A shoe narrowly missed his head, almost knocking his tricorne from it, as he turned, leaving his table to weave through the mass of scuffling bodies and out of the building.
Several weeks must have passed, but had those weeks already stretched into months by now?
Tortuga made a man lose track of more than just time. It didn't take long for each day to begin bleeding into the next until it was impossible to determine exactly how many had passed, and the only way to distinguish yesterday from today was the rising and setting sun and the knowledge that night was there to separate tedious hours of daylight. After a while, caring about that or anything, really, ceased.
He made his way through the town, his gait only slightly unsteady, walking past the colourful chaos that never seemed to disappear from the streets. Laughter, shouting, shrieks filled the air - the usual disorderly chorus of voices that was the music here each night. Tortuga remained the same, a haven (though cesspool was a more fitting description) for scum of the worst sort, even though other ports had fallen victim to the shadows that suddenly came ashore and extinguished all life in the places they chose to damn with their arrival.
Perhaps the quality (or rather, lack thereof) of the souls here repelled the creatures.
Doubtful, of course. He didn't think that they were able to discriminate in such a manner. From what he had seen, these purported monsters seemed to act on basic instinct rather than strategy. It was likely that Tortuga and its denizens had managed to escape the same fate as other towns purely by chance thus far.
Perhaps it was only a matter of time.
The tavern was busy, especially at this hour. Norrington let himself fall into a chair at an empty table. He drained the bottle he had been carrying of the remainder of the vile amber liquid it contained before setting it on top of the table and nudging a coin over to the barmaid that had appeared. She took it eagerly and left, but returned moments later and presented him with another bottle as well as a lingering gaze. The latter went ignored.
Scum of the worst sort... Until recently, he hadn't counted among those ranks.
A year ago, even half a year ago, he would not have imagined that he would ever be sitting in one corner of a squalid, noisy, ill-lit tavern, here of all places, surrounded by the sort of people he had always despised for their ways - scoundrels, criminals, cutthroats, pirates - as they drank and brawled and had their way with the whores and carried on with their revelry.
But then, a year ago, he wasn't the same man. And that extended to more than just his appearance. It was no incredible feat to uphold honour and strive to act nobly when one already held the necessary instruments as well as personal security in his grasp. Did that mean he had become that which he had previously sought to eradicate from the world?
No amount of rum could burn away the taste of failure, but it wasn't his intention to stay here and wallow in his guilt and shame, let alone join the 'other side'.
A fight had broken out on one side of the room. It took mere minutes for it to erupt into a full-blown brawl. That was nothing new; the regulars here seemed to jump at every opportunity to raise their cutlasses and throw bottles and chairs and anything else within reach.
Once upon a time, he wouldn't have stood for such uncivilized behaviour. Now, bottle in hand, Norrington simply stood from his seat. A shoe narrowly missed his head, almost knocking his tricorne from it, as he turned, leaving his table to weave through the mass of scuffling bodies and out of the building.