Are you worth your weight in gold? [active]
Character(s): Jack! Open to anyone~
Content: Jack arrives in a city with a name that means Passion. How can he pass that up?
Setting: Vanaheim gate area
Time: Afternoon, week 35
Warnings: None for now.
“Just to be clear!” a particular pirate captain states loudly, “whatever this is, it is not my fault, Mr. G -” he swung around, a finger poised in the air, ready to point, but there was no Gibbs to point at and Captain Jack Sparrow frowns. He drops his hand to his side, peering suspiciously around him, but there was nowhere for the stout pirate to hide behind. His eyes dart to the gates, curiosity waring with his sensibilities, but then, what was he supposed to do? Spit and spin in circles or some other strange ritual of Gibbs' in order to get him out of whatever situation dumped itself over him?
Because this was not his fault. He was on a beach! With his Pearl-in-a-bottle in hand (which to his greatest of great displeasures, he was currently lacking). There was very little Jack could have done to trigger this delusion -
Ah. No, he knew exactly what this was! He was lacking rum. It was making him delirious, hallucinations sprouting out from the sand that clearly must still be under his feet; or, under his back if he had fallen unconscious from the sheer lack of rum. He pats himself down, trying to uncover a flask, but to his irritation he was also lacking in that department.
Instead, his hand runs over his compass, and with a grin he slips it into his palm and flips it open. Rum! He wanted rum!
The needle spins in countless circles. Jack's earlier frown returns, deepening immensely. He shakes at the compass, but the needle doesn't settle. “Rotten -”
Cold washes as panic sinks in. “No, no, no.” He closes the compass and bolts to the desk by the gate. “Lass, darlin' lass, please tell ol' Jack that this quaint little place isn't the Locker!” Because the last time his compass was this erratic -
She tilts her head at him. “This is Paixao.”
“Pai -” he starts, then stops, mouthing the word over and over several times, changing the pronunciation, until it sinks in fully. It only made him look more confused, and he says, quietly, “Passion?”
“Your name, sir?”
He's still deep in thought, an elbow on the counter top, his hand drawing up to tap fingers beneath his lip, that he mumbles without his normal inflection, “Captain Jack Sparrow.”
“Here you go, sir.”
She hands him the journal. He just stares at it, bewildered, but he was never one to deny something that was free and so he takes it, brushing a finger over the surface.
“Passion, aye?” he says again. The grin returns, and he flashes her his teeth. “Who could pass up a city with that kind of name?” And he swaggers inside - right into a snowbank, causing him to trip, and sink into several feet of snow.
“MmmMMPH!”
Content: Jack arrives in a city with a name that means Passion. How can he pass that up?
Setting: Vanaheim gate area
Time: Afternoon, week 35
Warnings: None for now.
“Just to be clear!” a particular pirate captain states loudly, “whatever this is, it is not my fault, Mr. G -” he swung around, a finger poised in the air, ready to point, but there was no Gibbs to point at and Captain Jack Sparrow frowns. He drops his hand to his side, peering suspiciously around him, but there was nowhere for the stout pirate to hide behind. His eyes dart to the gates, curiosity waring with his sensibilities, but then, what was he supposed to do? Spit and spin in circles or some other strange ritual of Gibbs' in order to get him out of whatever situation dumped itself over him?
Because this was not his fault. He was on a beach! With his Pearl-in-a-bottle in hand (which to his greatest of great displeasures, he was currently lacking). There was very little Jack could have done to trigger this delusion -
Ah. No, he knew exactly what this was! He was lacking rum. It was making him delirious, hallucinations sprouting out from the sand that clearly must still be under his feet; or, under his back if he had fallen unconscious from the sheer lack of rum. He pats himself down, trying to uncover a flask, but to his irritation he was also lacking in that department.
Instead, his hand runs over his compass, and with a grin he slips it into his palm and flips it open. Rum! He wanted rum!
The needle spins in countless circles. Jack's earlier frown returns, deepening immensely. He shakes at the compass, but the needle doesn't settle. “Rotten -”
Cold washes as panic sinks in. “No, no, no.” He closes the compass and bolts to the desk by the gate. “Lass, darlin' lass, please tell ol' Jack that this quaint little place isn't the Locker!” Because the last time his compass was this erratic -
She tilts her head at him. “This is Paixao.”
“Pai -” he starts, then stops, mouthing the word over and over several times, changing the pronunciation, until it sinks in fully. It only made him look more confused, and he says, quietly, “Passion?”
“Your name, sir?”
He's still deep in thought, an elbow on the counter top, his hand drawing up to tap fingers beneath his lip, that he mumbles without his normal inflection, “Captain Jack Sparrow.”
“Here you go, sir.”
She hands him the journal. He just stares at it, bewildered, but he was never one to deny something that was free and so he takes it, brushing a finger over the surface.
“Passion, aye?” he says again. The grin returns, and he flashes her his teeth. “Who could pass up a city with that kind of name?” And he swaggers inside - right into a snowbank, causing him to trip, and sink into several feet of snow.
“MmmMMPH!”