Draft Log #3: During v. 2.0

[lucetimods]

Who: Everyone on the draft
What: Day 3-5
When: August 27th-August 29th
Where: ONCE MORE INTO THE-- ...BEACH
Summary: Like it says above. The draftees reach the beach.
Rating: V FOR VIOLENT BEHAVIOUR!!

Once again, That Handy Useful Information Link. Also a link to the previous draft log!

Comments

Any Day

[lists_to_port]

[Jack Sparrow has (surprisingly) reluctantly relinquished his commission as First Mate aboard Beckett's Mum. He has successfully led a hijacking mission and commandeered an airship, which he has christened the Elizabeth. And now he is captaining that airship as rearguard, defending the cargo vessel from behind.

The original hijacking crew are not, of course, obligated to stay aboard.

1) Perhaps your character is serving as relief crew on the ship, and is fighting Third Party attackers with her captain.

2) Your character might be one of many that Jack has requested to scour the captured Airship for any Third Party intelligence---maybe get some intel on who these Third Partiers are and why they want this cargo so badly.

3) STORM AT SEA: The airship is in peril. You're part of her crew. Are you panicking? Helping? Risking your life bravely for her crew or captain?

Aaaaand this storm is where the Elizabeth will be lost, sadly, just before reaching the beach. Her captain and crew will have to find a way back to the Cargo ship before they succumb to the sea and the monsters who dwell there. HAVE AT.]

day 3; /ಠ_ಠ

[slaying]

Buffy was already on the beach when she saw the airship catch fire. Her scythe was hard stuck in the shoulder of a dying Third Party soldier but when the blaze caught her eye, she snapped her head seawards. Forget the fight -- how's Jack? It gave her enemy a chance -- a second to grapple with the Slayer's grip and haul her hard upon the sand. "N-no..." She choked. She buried her knee in his gut and freed her blade. Hot blood hit the sand but Buffy wasn't watching it. She was watching that captured enemy ship and remembering the tiny burst of hope she had felt when she saw the cheeky makeshift flag it had flown once Jack had taken it.

She panted and scrambled to regain her footing in the soft, too-giving sand. Not again. Not another damned death in another stupid draft. She felt she ought to hit the waves and swim the whole goddamned length to get out there. Surely, he could be saved? But all that fire. All that wreckage. And all those Third Party foot soldiers creeping up like a ring around where the Slayer stood.

The initial spark of grief had distracted her long enough to allow an impromptu ambush and Buffy turned in a circle to see their faces and the whites of their eyes and the gleam of their steel. She'd made a big mistake, watching her pirate-captain fall instead of watching the treeline around her. But they had made an even bigger one. A Slayer was just another one of those creatures that fought even harder if cornered. Harder still if cornered and grieving.

The clash was long and primal and Buffy was more demon than woman. Tapping into that beast that the Shadow Men had forced into the First Slayer. In the end, Buffy came out the victor. She didn't feel it. Nothing felt triumphant about this.

Hours later -- out from the dark of the quiet, lulling night -- she trudged into the comandeered medical centre. She was hurt, certainly, but not beyond anything she couldn't handle. She just needed some bandages to encourage her own supernatural healing to get the job done quick and clean and fast. Then she could get back out there and exact a higher price for witnessing what she had to witness.

The price would never be high enough. Not after so much loss; still, the Slayer could try.

XD

[lists_to_port]

Hours later, and the cool of evening was a blessing to the man lying in the medical camp. He stirred and woke up after the sun went down, confused as to why he was lying in a white tent with forest smells and sounds filtering in. The last things Jack Sparrow could remember were flames and deafening noise and screaming.

The Elizabeth.

"Bugger," Jack mumbled. He tried to move and then realized that both arms, his chest, his head, and one of his legs were heavily bandaged. The tent smelled like medicine and disinfectant. There was a slow dripping IV hooked into his arm, supplying some sort of not-rum fluid to his body. There was no pain, mercifully; just an itch on the end of his nose that Jack Sparrow could not scratch.

[slaying]

Get the bandages and get gone. That's all she wanted. Find a quiet little corner and maybe a kind passer-by to help her wrap it around her ribs where the worst of the wound was and then let herself get better. She didn't dare seek out and ask McCoy directly; he might make her stay here, she thought. And she didn't want to be here. She wanted to be out and cracking skulls.

And that poor soul seemed covered in bandages, she thought. So Buffy crouched at the foot of Jack's bed -- Jack that she did not know was Jack -- and began pawing loudly through a small box of supplies. Gauze. Ointment. Little metal things to keep the bandages in place.

[lists_to_port]

"Mmmph." Someone was in the room. Someone was in the room who might have decently scratchy nails, and perhaps who could get him a glass of water. Jack groaned and managed a sleepy mumble.

"'Allo? You think you could scratch a man's nose, mate? I'm a bit incapacitorial at present."

[slaying]

And two green eyes shot a terrible glance from just an inch or two above the cot's bars. Her fingers fumbled with a whole roll of bandages and they spilled out, careening across the floor. Unraveling. An unsanitized mess.

Very carefully, she shut the lid on the first aid box. Very carefully, she stood and very carefully she walked around to the pirate's side. Buffy didn't speak. Instead, she reached out and gently itched the tip of his now rather unmistakable nose. And she smiled.

[lists_to_port]

"Thanks, lad. What day is it? How long've I been here? Where are we? Everyone survive?"

A string of mumbled questions, and they barely scratched the surface.

Who had pulled him free of the wreck? How bad were his injuries? They felt bad. They felt very, very bad, from the little he could feel.

"Doctor McCoy alright? He here?"

[slaying]

"...I don't think there's a single one of those questions than I can answer." She dropped to her knees at the side of the bed. "Oh, no. Wait. It's Saturday. And the whereness of here is still up for debate."

She stopped scratching his nose and instead laid her finger gently on its tip. Too concerned to touch any other part of him -- she didn't want to cause any more pain.

Except: "I ought to slap you, you know."

[lists_to_port]

"Buffy." That name broke from his lips with a kind of ragged relief. "There was nothing we could do to save her in the end." A lame excuse; Jack again tried to sit up and gave up once more.

"You alright?"

[slaying]

"I spent every fraction of a second up until you asked for your nose to be scratched thinking you were -- once again -- dead, Jack. Ask me again if I'm alright. I dare you."

But her own relief overcomes her indignation. Quieter: "Is there anything you need?"

[lists_to_port]

"Sorry. M' sorry, Annie, oh I'm sorry, love. I don't. Water?"

The fingers on his right hand were unscathed, and therefore unbandaged, and therefore twitching like mad.

[slaying]

She watched his twitching fingers with her own increasingly twitchy demeanor. Her inclination to go and take her payment in blood from the enemy was no less fearsome but, unlike before, Buffy no longer wanted to give in.

"Water. You'll have it. I'll just be...hey, two shakes of a lamb's tail. Or even faster. One and a half shakes."

She stood.

[lists_to_port]

"One shake," he bargained. "Please."

[slaying]

"Less than," she countered. And then she was gone -- carefully picking her way through the beds of the injured. She hated what the scene reminded her of. But Buffy pushed those memories out of her mind and sought out a great big supply barrel of clean -- if not terribly fresh -- water.

[lists_to_port]

Jack will take that opportunity to fall back asleep. Whatever medicine McCoy is giving him is making his mouth dry and making him feel utterly exhausted. Still, it is keeping the worst of the pain at bay, and if Jack even realized how badly he had been hurt, he'd be blessing the doctor every moment.

[slaying]

Eventually, she returned with a little tin mug brimming with water. She had drank the first portion herself -- stood over the barrel with a greediness in her drinking. But then she had filled it again and when she returned to find him out for the count, she tucked the mug neatly against the top right leg of the cot.

Surely, the lamb's shaking tail didn't count if his being asleep pushed the time limit.

Rather than murmuring a quiet re-greeting, Buffy set to work at her original task. The only reason she'd come here in the first place. She folded the hem of her shirt up high and began to spread salve on the thin gash.