Strange. He would never have thought that the pirate would had the capacity to be so ... cautious. So reluctant to embark on what amounted to 'fun'. That he could be such a wet blanket.
"What manner of wager would it be if your would not be inconvenienced by the loss in question?"
The admiral does not allow too much mockery to pass his lips, however. It is in his best interest for the terms to be altered as well.
"A friendly one, and not one what would require me to skewer you. This hat, sir, is out of bounds. Always. Now! What say you that we play a game instead. Buffy and I played it, once: 'truth or dare,' she called it."
He can see well enough what is happening here. Norrington had agreed to come out on the premise that he would choose the wager himself - a mechanism intended to prevent the pirate from cheating. Now Jack was fast turning the tables on him. The admiral proceeded with deep suspicion.
"Simple. On your turn, I ask you, 'Truth or dare, James? Choose!' and you go ahead and pick one. If you choose 'truth,' you must answer a question truthfully. If you choose 'dare,' you must take on whatever dare I offer you. When my turn arrives, the same happens, though you're the one asking the questions."
"Very well. I will require two pints of some ale or other. One moment."
And with that he stands, nodding his head just slightly, and departs. The bar is close enough and the establishment quiet enough that he returns within the minute, a pint of beer in each hand, filled to the very brim. He sets the two glasses down - curiously, both in front of himself.
"You will need to lie your hands down flat on the table."
Jack hesitates for only a moment. What if this is a ruse and the admiral is planning to chop off his hands at the wrist?
No, no--they've come too far through too many things for that. He was Norrington's first mate, even if it was for a short time. Slowly the pirate settles his palms on the table.
"Now comes the dare - or challenge, perhaps, but it is a simple one. I dare you to drink both of these pints without spilling so much as a drop."
Simple indeed, yet even as he speaks the admiral picks one of the pint-glasses up and sets it on the back of the pirate's right hand. It balances there precariously enough as it is. The bones, the veins, the bumps, the slight motions that a person's hand makes moment by moment without his knowing. All of these factors serve to angle the glass alarmingly in one direction, and then the other. Before the pirate can so much as clarify Norrington's challenge, he has set the second glass down on the pirate's left hand. Heavy, cold, they each wobble uncertainly. Norrington takes his seat once more. He crosses his arms, and he watches.
"You're not joking, are you." Jack lifts one palm, trying to keep that wrist steady. The glass wobbles and threatens to spill, and he sets it back down again.
"Bugger. Need some sort of strawlike apparatus, don't I."
"Hmph." The pirate accepts the challenge, he just has to see how best to go about it. Perhaps bringing Muhammad to the mountain is the best option. He leans down and slurps ale from one of the pints, making a supreme effort to keep his hands still.
This appears to be working - at first. Certainly the level of the glass diminishes, but there comes a point at which no amount of inhaling will bring the liquor to the lips. This point comes all too soon. The pirate has bought himself some sloshing space, yes, but the weight of the glasses has been reduced but barely.
Jack stares at the other man, then down at the pints again. He brings his hands together, attempting to make the tops of the pints touch so that they stand less a chance of falling.
It doesn't work. He steadies the glasses again and thinks it over.
Norrington grins broadly, taking another sip of his whiskey. This is a game that he has seen played on the shifting tables of a ship at sea - a joke played on new deck hands. He has no advice. He has never seen it won.
My choice of wager.
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"What manner of wager would it be if your would not be inconvenienced by the loss in question?"
The admiral does not allow too much mockery to pass his lips, however. It is in his best interest for the terms to be altered as well.
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"Explain the rules. In detail."
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And with that he stands, nodding his head just slightly, and departs. The bar is close enough and the establishment quiet enough that he returns within the minute, a pint of beer in each hand, filled to the very brim. He sets the two glasses down - curiously, both in front of himself.
"You will need to lie your hands down flat on the table."
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No, no--they've come too far through too many things for that. He was Norrington's first mate, even if it was for a short time. Slowly the pirate settles his palms on the table.
"Right. Done. What now?"
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Simple indeed, yet even as he speaks the admiral picks one of the pint-glasses up and sets it on the back of the pirate's right hand. It balances there precariously enough as it is. The bones, the veins, the bumps, the slight motions that a person's hand makes moment by moment without his knowing. All of these factors serve to angle the glass alarmingly in one direction, and then the other. Before the pirate can so much as clarify Norrington's challenge, he has set the second glass down on the pirate's left hand. Heavy, cold, they each wobble uncertainly. Norrington takes his seat once more. He crosses his arms, and he watches.
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"Bugger. Need some sort of strawlike apparatus, don't I."
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But Norrington will not be fetching it for you. He has drawn his whiskey into his hand, and he takes a draw of it.
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It doesn't work. He steadies the glasses again and thinks it over.
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Norrington grins broadly, taking another sip of his whiskey. This is a game that he has seen played on the shifting tables of a ship at sea - a joke played on new deck hands. He has no advice. He has never seen it won.
"Consider the lily."
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