Captain Jack Sparrow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
drinkupmehearties) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-10-27 08:20 pm
drinkupmehearties) wrote in thearena2015-10-27 08:20 pm
Entry tags:
as the wind fends off the waves
Who| Captain Jack Sparrow & OPEN (+ a prompt for Roland).
What| Jack discovers a familiar ship out at water.
Where| The water and the Black Pearl.
When| Sometime during Week 4.
Warnings/Notes| Will update if necessary.
The water is a welcome sight, as is the cool breeze that sweeps off it, and it doesn't take him long to spot the tall ship anchored far offshore. Having run into major trouble on the ship in the last Arena, Jack nearly dismisses it. Almost. But a second look, however, has his heart caught fast in his throat and his blood running cold. He'd recognize those sails anywhere.
The Pearl. His ship.
Moments later, he's in a small boat and paddling in the Pearl's direction. Most likely this is a foolish idea, most likely it's been set out as a trap of some kind, but the Pearl's presence is more dangerous and more enticing than any siren's song could ever be to him.
And damn it all, if there is any place he'd want to die, it'd be on that ship.
(A. Onboard.)
The first thing that Jack does after he's hauled himself up onto the ship is to scour the decks -- for other Tributes, for potential supplies, for any monstrous creatures the Gamemakers would've tried to hide in it. He finds that there's no cargo in the holds, no rum to be found, and his captain's cabin is noticeably barren of anything beyond the basics. Once he's sure that the ship is clear of threats, however, he's able to breathe easy and revel in the fact that his ship -- or, really, a damned good copy of it -- is here.
He spends what feels like ages on the upper deck of the Pearl, hand grazing across the rails, over the gloss of black paint (he realizes it's a fresh coat, that's not quite right), fingers curled around the ropes and rigging that tangle like a massive spiderweb up the length of the masts, palm feather-light over the spokes of the ship's wheel. He won't be able to sail it, of course; he has no crew, and the Gamemakers had practically hollowed out the ship until it'd become a mere ghost of itself. But he's content to stay.
At night, Jack shuts himself in the captain's cabin and sleeps light with a hand curled around his knife, swallowed down in the darkness. In the daytime, the pirate climbs the rigging to a higher perch and remains on lookout for anyone that thinks to cross over to his ship.
During one afternoon Jack has sprawled himself out on the main top -- the platform that sat snug around the main mast -- and is dozing, watching the clouds drift by, when the soft, tell-tale thud of a boat hitting the hull snaps his attention downward.
He shifts to peer over the edge of the platform, squinting, then calls out, "Oi, I'm armed!"
(B. Fishing.)
A few days in, his Sponsor-gifted supply of food runs low. He fashions a spear from rope, a stick, and the extra knife that he'd been given, and takes the small boat out to fish in the shallows near the shore, right as the sun hits its peak. He's learned to ignore the dragons that glide around in the sky much further off in the distance, not noticing that their flight patterns had become gradually more erratic and fervid.
He can be found not too far off the shore and waist deep in the water, spear in hand, focused on getting his next meal.
(C. Dragons! - Prompt for Roland.)
A small fire licks at the air on the shore, roasting his most recent catch as the water's waves hiss over the sand near him. He's gotten up from his perch near the fire, brow furrowed, shading his eyes to get a better look at the thickening smoke that curls up from somewhere off in the distance. Judging by location, it looks like the smoke is coming from the forest portion of the Arena -- possibly even near the mountains.
He doesn't even really have time to make a guess at what's happening over there; the leaves in the trees that line the beach shudder, ruffled by a sudden gust of wind that comes from massive wings, and then a heavy THUMP can be heard as the beast lands, skidding, in the sand. Jack startles, then stares, uncomprehending.
A dragon. It's a dragon. Shit.
The beast's scales are a deep royal blue, highlighted by stripes of yellow that trace lines along its jaw, down its long, snake-like neck that's craned to stare off over the trees. Then it swings its gaze around over to the fish cooking on a spit, to him, and a snarling rumble bubbles up in its throat. It bares its teeth.
Jack is frozen in place, unsure if running would spur the dragon into chasing him down. He slowly lifts his hand instead, fingers splayed, and grimaces. "... Nice ... beastie."
What| Jack discovers a familiar ship out at water.
Where| The water and the Black Pearl.
When| Sometime during Week 4.
Warnings/Notes| Will update if necessary.
The water is a welcome sight, as is the cool breeze that sweeps off it, and it doesn't take him long to spot the tall ship anchored far offshore. Having run into major trouble on the ship in the last Arena, Jack nearly dismisses it. Almost. But a second look, however, has his heart caught fast in his throat and his blood running cold. He'd recognize those sails anywhere.
The Pearl. His ship.
Moments later, he's in a small boat and paddling in the Pearl's direction. Most likely this is a foolish idea, most likely it's been set out as a trap of some kind, but the Pearl's presence is more dangerous and more enticing than any siren's song could ever be to him.
And damn it all, if there is any place he'd want to die, it'd be on that ship.
(A. Onboard.)
The first thing that Jack does after he's hauled himself up onto the ship is to scour the decks -- for other Tributes, for potential supplies, for any monstrous creatures the Gamemakers would've tried to hide in it. He finds that there's no cargo in the holds, no rum to be found, and his captain's cabin is noticeably barren of anything beyond the basics. Once he's sure that the ship is clear of threats, however, he's able to breathe easy and revel in the fact that his ship -- or, really, a damned good copy of it -- is here.
He spends what feels like ages on the upper deck of the Pearl, hand grazing across the rails, over the gloss of black paint (he realizes it's a fresh coat, that's not quite right), fingers curled around the ropes and rigging that tangle like a massive spiderweb up the length of the masts, palm feather-light over the spokes of the ship's wheel. He won't be able to sail it, of course; he has no crew, and the Gamemakers had practically hollowed out the ship until it'd become a mere ghost of itself. But he's content to stay.
At night, Jack shuts himself in the captain's cabin and sleeps light with a hand curled around his knife, swallowed down in the darkness. In the daytime, the pirate climbs the rigging to a higher perch and remains on lookout for anyone that thinks to cross over to his ship.
During one afternoon Jack has sprawled himself out on the main top -- the platform that sat snug around the main mast -- and is dozing, watching the clouds drift by, when the soft, tell-tale thud of a boat hitting the hull snaps his attention downward.
He shifts to peer over the edge of the platform, squinting, then calls out, "Oi, I'm armed!"
(B. Fishing.)
A few days in, his Sponsor-gifted supply of food runs low. He fashions a spear from rope, a stick, and the extra knife that he'd been given, and takes the small boat out to fish in the shallows near the shore, right as the sun hits its peak. He's learned to ignore the dragons that glide around in the sky much further off in the distance, not noticing that their flight patterns had become gradually more erratic and fervid.
He can be found not too far off the shore and waist deep in the water, spear in hand, focused on getting his next meal.
(C. Dragons! - Prompt for Roland.)
A small fire licks at the air on the shore, roasting his most recent catch as the water's waves hiss over the sand near him. He's gotten up from his perch near the fire, brow furrowed, shading his eyes to get a better look at the thickening smoke that curls up from somewhere off in the distance. Judging by location, it looks like the smoke is coming from the forest portion of the Arena -- possibly even near the mountains.
He doesn't even really have time to make a guess at what's happening over there; the leaves in the trees that line the beach shudder, ruffled by a sudden gust of wind that comes from massive wings, and then a heavy THUMP can be heard as the beast lands, skidding, in the sand. Jack startles, then stares, uncomprehending.
A dragon. It's a dragon. Shit.
The beast's scales are a deep royal blue, highlighted by stripes of yellow that trace lines along its jaw, down its long, snake-like neck that's craned to stare off over the trees. Then it swings its gaze around over to the fish cooking on a spit, to him, and a snarling rumble bubbles up in its throat. It bares its teeth.
Jack is frozen in place, unsure if running would spur the dragon into chasing him down. He slowly lifts his hand instead, fingers splayed, and grimaces. "... Nice ... beastie."
no subject
Well. Roland wanted a distraction. It's a distraction that works on Roland as well, and that's for the better - best not to find out how well he could keep his grip with half his mind focused on the way the ground looks all small and distant, stuck sorting through the treacherous storehouse of his memory to figure out what it is that sight reminds him of. The dragon's roar and its movement shakes him out from it. It's a good thing Jack is here.
Good for Roland, that is. Better for him than for the dragon, though maybe only by a little. Its pain sends its legs shaking along with the rest of it, although since it isn't focusing on him anymore the movement is down to a level that's manageable and Roland can lock his arms and legs tight around the leg in front of him and scoot up, occasionally prying his fingertips beneath large, sturdy scales for leverage.
Of course, then he reaches a problem area. Climbing over that hip without so much as a knife to stab through the creature to keep himself in place - he wouldn't try it.
Roland assesses the situation. Assesses his options. Doesn't think about it. A wing swings down to pump them all further upward and as it does Roland reaches out for it, finds the bone on the edge of that wing, small enough to be gripped by a human hand. His whole weight hangs from that one wing now, his feet dangling and his whole body dipped into this unimaginable expanse of open air and that would be the worst feeling he's ever had to endure, is the worst for almost a second. Until his weight on this one part of the dragon's body begins to have an effect. Until the dragon begins to tilt.
His hands begin to move feverishly, he tries as much as he can to swing himself in toward the dragon's body, but he may not be able to manage to move his weight close enough inward before the dragon's tilt begins to turn into a spiral. The other party on this particular journey with Roland may have to make his own arrangements.
no subject
He lifts his head and catches sight of Roland dangling off the dragon's wing, overburdening one side of the beast, causing it to dangerously angle in one direction. Cursing and cursing again, Jack doesn't have time to think of how foolish his next actions are -- of course he'd rather keep his head down and not put himself at risk, but he's certain that none of them would survive a crash if the dragon spins and can't pull up.
So instead Jack carefully, slowly, inches downwards, making sure each foothold and handhold is secure along the way. He does this until he's close enough to the dragon's wing -- the one opposite of Roland -- and reaches over to hook his hands around the wing's bone, where the scaled skin is stretched tight. And then he begins to move out along it.
The wide stretch of air gapes out below his feet, and it takes everything within his power not to look down. His stomach drops anyways, however, and his throat grows immediately dry, as he's unable to stop the thought that there's nothing to catch him if he happens to fall. And it's a very long ways down from where they are.
But it works. The weight on the dragon's wing becomes less one-sided, and the beast is able to mostly right its path in the air. All the while, Jack is thinking this has to be one of the worst things he's ever had to do.
no subject
He swings, does not think on the nightmares he is going to have about this later because he is, for the moment, living it, swings and gets a foothold and begins to inch toward the dragon's body. Stops.
He's had a thought. Or, more accurately for Roland, he's had a feeling. A notion. He casts his mind back, going briefly over what memory he has of the way the dragon'd moved in the air before he'd sent it spinning, the ways it'd shifted its body.
"Stay there! Jack, we can steer! Steer!" That, as the most important word, is repeated in case parts of the rest are stolen by the air rushing into them. Roland squints against it, ducks his head and hunches, and yells a little more. "Try! Lean forward!"
It steers with its tail too, maybe, but Roland knows the anatomy of birds and bats and most things which had flown in the skies of the world in his boyhood, and he can make a few guesses here. If they can figure out which parts of this beast they need to shift, if they could do it without dying, they may just be on to a good thing here.
Where's that good thing going to take them, should they master it? Gods only know. Roland doesn't care. Roland only knows that this is good, it is an advantage and he is going to take it. He leans back, pulling at his grip on the front-middle of this thing's wing, and tries to get a good look over to see what the Captain does. Perhaps more importantly, what the beast under them does in response.
no subject
Oh, Jack heard him. But by the shrill tone to his voice, barely carried over past the roar of the wind and the rush of blood in his ears, the pirate doesn't appear to keen on the idea. Each downward dip of wing sends his racing heart jumping into his throat, twists his gut into tighter knots, and he's more than certain that the sweat on his palms will make his grip so slippery that it'll soon send him hurtling to the ground. So shifting his grasp or position even the tiniest bit sounds like a terrible idea.
But they've come this far. And if they don't do something, anything, the dragon may well keep flying around until the both of them drop to their deaths.
If it were possible, Jack looks even more unhappy than he did before as he does what Roland suggested. He tightens his grip, leans forward, shifts his weight -- and then the dragon begins to angle in its path.
no subject
Roland tries to see what he can of the ground below but everything he can see is very small. He isn't used to the way things look from so high up as this, has never really encountered the effect before and, if he is lucky, never will again. Nonetheless, it means they'll have to simply pick a spot and hope it's a good one. "Down now! Not too far!"
He hooks his toes as much as he can over a protruding wingbone, hoping the other man has sense enough to do the same. Ideally, of course, they'd take this beast at a gentle angle all the way to the ground, but Roland does not really expect that. If it happens he'll be pleased, but things like this never really do go according to plan.