Author's Note - I'm back! Summertime is here and that means essays and assignments aren't! My buddy who received 'The Sting of the Yellow Dart' as a birthday present really enjoyed it, and because it was fun to write a pirate fanfic, I'm back at it. Reading 'The Sting of the Yellow Dart' isn't necessary to read this one, though I am proud of it.
But here's the first (and very short) chapter! Enjoy and remember that we all appreciate reviews!
Chapter One
It was early morning, and William Turner was brushing his hair. He was taking the time to do it because it takes an awful lot of work to keep up a thick and luxurious mane like that, especially when one lives next to the sea with its wind and salt and sun.
The breeze that blew in from the open window was tentative and cool and Will was glad of this - not because it hinted at a day of mild weather as opposed to scorching heat, but because a gentle air did little to disturb his careful handiwork. He carefully bound his hair into his trademark ponytail and leaned out onto the window's ledge. The morning was dawning clear and cloudless over the water. The docks within view of the blacksmith's shop were not yet crowded, but as the hours wore on they would certainly fill. For the time being, Port Royale was quiet and calm. Peaceful and relaxed.
Irrepressibly drab and awful.
Will turned back into his smithy with a stretch. There was work to be done today, and plenty of it. In another life perhaps, this would have bothered him and he would have scurried to have it finished. But over the months and years he slowly discovered, and without surprise, that he no longer needed to be defined by his trade. He no longer needed to fall behind the rhythmic pound of his hammer. He no longer needed to work until his muscles shrieked in order to feel as though his life was meaningful. There were more sides to life - sides that were glittering and bejeweled, or sides that blew and snapped in the wind, or sides that were washed with the groan of timber and the smell of salt.
For the second time in his life, Will Turner wanted nothing more than to play pirate.
Captain Melanie Cash did not appreciate the fact that the morning was dawning as early and as bright as it was. As is the nature of the sun's first beams, Melanie Cash woke to find herself blinded by light that had found its way through an impossibly small slit in the rough curtains of the inn room to poke her through her eyelids. She caught herself before she groaned, and fell into her old habit of straining to remember where she was before she opened her eyes.
It was a useful habit, considering the circumstances. She remembered visiting an old friend at the downstairs bar the night before, and being introduced to friends upon friends of that friend. She remembered alcohol - ah, was there ever a more two-faced comrade than that golden and liquid jackal? - and remembered fumbling with the keys to the room where she currently was. With an effort, she could recall snapping the room's curtains closed with a giggle, but not before the rays of the moon had lighted on polished ebony skin pulled taut over broad shoulders and a smooth chest.
Ah. That would certainly explain the arm that was draped over her.
Careful not to change the sound of her breathing from the gentle rise and fall of sound sleep, Melanie opened her eyes and slowly turned her head. Sprawled across the tangled sheets was ... was ...
Blimey. What was this one's name?
The man who stood watching her was eating his breakfast noisily, but Dana Flint did not pay him any mind. She knew the rules well enough. Seven paces. Stop and turn. Then fire.
One. Her stride was unhurried and her boots resounded sharply on the stone of the alleyway.
Two. The muscles in her arms and shoulders were feeling well stretched and ready. They would not disappoint her.
Three. She rolled her neck slightly to work out any remaining morning-cricks.
Four. Though her hair was tucked under her leather cap, she quietly blew stray strands from her vision with a puff of air.
Five. She blinked her eyes one - twice - hard. It would not do to have the weight of the early hour tugging her eyelids down.
Six. She balled her hands into fists and squeezed before allowing her fingers to relax. Both trigger fingers were keen to be used.
Seven and halt. She took a breath, then whirled around with her pistols in hand.
There was a loud crack as both guns were fired, and out of two glass bottles perched on a low wall a short distance away, one exploded into brown shards. The other, brushed by the blast of the passing bullet, merely wobbled.
"Oi! You miss - " The man surely would have finished his apt observation had the gun maker not emptied her remaining shots into his large belly. His expression of surprise accompanied him on the way down as he crumpled, his messy breakfast forgotten.
Dana snickered, and the bottle fell over.
Jack Sparrow was starting to wake up. And though he would surely yell angrily and unintelligibly at this author for failing to put the term 'captain' before his name, he was in no real shape to yell anything at anyone at the present time. Recalling his name in the first place may have proven to be a tad difficult, considering the hour.
He groaned loudly, and freed an arm so that he could wipe his hand across his mouth. His head was pounding, and so he clawed blindly around for a moment in order to find his hat and place it over his face.
Bloody sunshine.
Jack licked his lips, and winced at the taste that it returned. Oh, alcohol. Was there ever a more two-faced comrade than that golden and liquid jackal? He paused. "Bloody morning," he muttered. "I can't even think up an original metaphor at this hour."
He tried to recall what he had been celebrating with such fervor the night before, but all that his sluggish memory could return to him were slightly smudged images of mugs clapping together and of colored skirts spiraling on a raised stage. Had it been a shipmate's birthday? Had someone returned to port?
Ah. Now he remembered.
It had been a Wednesday.
Slowly and painfully, Jack sat up and pushed his hat back to rest properly on his head. As was revealed to him when several patrons stepped over him to pass inside, he was sitting outside the Cliffs of Insanity hostel in Tortuga. He gave a small, gold-tipped smile. Well, that certainly made easing his headache easier.
He lurched into the hostel and hailed the wench at the bar.
Another author's note - Do excuse me while I kick whoever invented indenting on my computer.