kirktastic | [We Interrupt Your Usual RP to Bring You... International Talk Like a Pirate Day!]

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you are a pirate!

[We Interrupt Your Usual RP to Bring You... International Talk Like a Pirate Day!]

It was morning on the Enterprise, and it came with the slow creaking of wood deck around him, swelling in the heat of the morning, the sound of waves against the sides of the ship. Definitely a damn good way to wake up.

Even better was waking up between two warm bodies, one pressed to either side of him. On one side was his cabin boy, a young buck with a foolish head but a pleasing face and tongue. On the other, his first mate, a smug, stoic, uptight, ridiculously intelligent bastard who he had finally talked into ...sharing his bed. At least in the physical sense. He'd won the argument that the captain's bed was the most comfortable place on the ship, but anything beyond that was met with a pointed look and a reach for the sword hilt.

It was a damn good life here on the Enterprise.

He was Captain James T. Kirk of the pirate ship Enterprise, the most feared name on the open seas. He ran his crew with a mixture of charm, command, and the point of his sword. He was a good swordsman, a better brawler, and decent with a flint lock.

[OOC: This will be the ONLY pirate thread everyone, no multiple posts on multiple journals! Post just in here for this! Today only!]

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Marlena awoke with a serious crick in her neck. She'd fallen asleep at her work again, and no part of her didn't ache. She inhaled deeply, smelling the salt air mixing with the tang of gunpowder. She stood, found the lid of the barrel she'd fallen asleep against, and closed it securely. It wouldn't do to have it spill with the rocking of the ship, and have all her hard work go to waste.

She staggered up to the deck on still-asleep legs, numb from being folded under her all night. She cursed aloud as the blood abruptly rushed back into the aching tissue, making her flesh prickle and twinge. She moved to the rail, steadying herself as her legs got used to being used again.

Sky and sea were a study in silver and lavender in light of the sunrise. There was powder enough for all the Farragut's cannons, and the air smelled of good fortune. It was going to be a damn good day.

Edited 2009-09-19 19:07 (UTC)

Captain Sam Kirk, with a machete in hand, wandered back into the tree line looking for fruit. It had been over a week since they had left their last port. His men were becoming restless, so they had mored the ship out in the cove and gone ashore to relearn what it felt like to have earth beneath their feet. There were no fruit trees on the beach, so he had unsheathed his knife and gone to explore, leaving his men on the beach napping and feasting.

At the bottom a valley he spotted a mango tree heavy with fruit. Sam made his way down, and as he approached it he saw a man laying limp at its base. Raising the machete to strike, he moved closer, but the man did not move. He grabbed the back of the man's shirt and rolled him over to lay on his back. The man was badly sunburned and beaten, but Sam was sure of who he was.

Well, I was going to post this in its own entry, but you said not to, so...

I drew a picture of pirate!Marlena. And then I discovered that my scanner doesn't work. I took a picture of it, but the flash washed it out and without the flash it's really dark, and...well, I tried to fix it a little with Photoshop but it didn't help much, I don't know how to fix things like this...also, the paper grain is really visible...

Click to embiggen.
(http://pics.livejournal.com/lt_moreau/pic/0000dy4f/)

That's what pirate!Lena wears. And if the pose and outfit look familiar, that's because they're shamefully and inaccurately copied from the Bloodsail Admiral draenei (http://pics.livejournal.com/l0stmyrel1g10n/pic/0003qgst.png). Also, you can probably see why I ended the legs where I did. I can't draw well without a reference, and Marlena certainly doesn't have hooves!

Edited 2009-09-19 05:05 (UTC)

Demora leaned against the railing. She had awoken early that morning, long before the sun had risen. She had taken that time to clean her gun and polish her sword. Always be prepared.

She smirked slightly when saw a large whale surface for air.

It won't last long, swimming near boats, she thought to herself.

The pirate ship Enterprise was a menace to civilized society. Ephram had vowed to capture its captain, arrest its crew, and see that justice was done for their pirating crimes.

If only he could find them. The ship was bloody difficult to track down.

McCoy's position as ship's surgeon afforded him a small cabin of his own that served as his office and bed, and it was here that they brought George Kirk to rest. Not that the other's knew enough of recognize George Kirk on sight, but if the man started talking, who knew what sort of plans and plots the greedy devils might concoct.

Besides, Bones needed time to work on cleaning the rest of George's injuries. One thing he'd learned out on the seas - dirty wounds killed more people than guns and swords, on any ship he'd served.

He looked over at his captain, eyes boring into their captive. "What happened to the rest of your ship?" Bones asked, curious if the rumors were true, what they'd heard about the Kelvin.

In the surgery of the Farragut, morning came early for Tina, the ship's makeshift medic ever since the real doctor had taken a canon ball to the gut. She awoke several hours before dawn, startled from her uneasy sleep by the gasping death rattle of Captain Garrovick.

Wounded days before during a skirmish with another vessel, Garrovick had at first seemed to be on the way to recovery. A lucky thing, since his first mate and most of the other senior hands aboard the Farragut had perished in the attack, and the ship needed a leader more than ever. But the site of his injury had begun to fester, and as he became feverish and weak, tensions on the ship rose.

As Tina closed the Captain's - former Captain's - eyes she thought of how she must announce to the crew that he was dead, and shuddered. The ship would be thrown into utter chaos as various members of the crew attempted to take command.

She only hoped that her skills with a surgeon's saw and a needle would help her if her sword arm was not enough to secure a position under the new captain - whoever that might be.

Edited 2009-09-19 06:41 (UTC)

Mornings usually followed a set plan with little deviation, regardless of whether his nightly quarters had now shifted from cold, damp, and uncomfortably close to unsavory characters to less cold, less damp, and only two unsavoury characters to deal with. He had learned to handle the captain, and the boy didn't tempt his suspicions in the least.

Spock pushed himself up from the mattress, pushing aside the covers to sit comfortably on the edge with still-cold floorboards beneath his feet. Lovely. He spared a moment to rub his hand over the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble scratch against his palm. No need, yet. If he were on solid ground (and had more leisure time than he currently possessed), he would not hesitate a moment longer to shave--but there were other things to attend to.

He dressed quietly and efficiently, not wanting to stir the captain who he suspected was already half-awake. The cravat he folded and tied was a leftover habit from his more respectable days, The black vest he buttoned over his shirt was lesser so: a mockery of the prim and proper naval ship attire, pressed and neat against his form though black with silver buttons and other small adornments. The high collar protected his neck from the ocean breeze, and the formality of his uniform kept a present reminder of his position on the ship.

However, he still had mannerisms that set him apart from the uncultured and vulgar crew, such as the rest of his morning routine. After pulling on his boots, Spock stepped outside the captain's cabin just long enough to assemble the necessary supplies for tea, and ordering the rest of breakfast from the galley.

Keeping a watchful eye out the window of the cabin to scan the open ocean, he poured some for himself in one of the remaining fine china tea cups that had thus far survived from the teapot of the same set. There were not many luxuries he could enjoy here, now, but he took what he could, no matter how many times Kirk rolled his eyes or destroyed one of his saucers.

One lump, no cream, just hot enough. The day started out well.

Pasha scrambled to and fro in her room, gathering many maps and equipment. All her short years of travelling had her well kitted out for wherever the Keptin would want to go next, but she still wanted a new map. Maybe she could whine enough about the conditions of Navigating to get another. It had been five years since she had made the decision (also known as being coerced at sword point) to become one of the Farragut’s crew, her quick mind and way with Navigating the stars had quickly made up for her lack of willingness and speech impediment.

Pulling her things into her arms she marched out onto the deck, wondering where the Keptin was. She had to discuss the next port of call, it had been a horrific battle for such a minor skirmish and they desperately needed supplies. She moved towards the Captain’s quarters, the largest quarters on the ship. She banged on the door and waited for his reply. ‘Strange. No answer’ Pasha thought to herself before resolving ‘He’s probably tucked up with two busty wenches and a flagon of Ale, damn old seadog.'

Edited 2009-09-19 07:32 (UTC)

Contrary to the general populous, he was not a pirate, but a merchant mariner. Which was to say, he plied a legal sea trade, and lived most of his life on the waters. Which was kind of funny, really. He got seasick for the first couple days, inevitably.

Regardless of this, second mate Montgomery Scott of the schooner Lady Grey out of Cardiff figured that this would be, likely, an uneventful voyage.

[[OOC: And because his mun adores the merchant mariners and gets to play with the sea briefly. Har! Parrrrrrrty on.]]

She had been Lady Christine, once, and it was hard, at times, to shake off old habits, old expectations. Sometimes she wished she could go back to that life; that life of leisure and comfort, servants to cater to her whims, nothing expected of her but that she act as a proper lady should. She was accomplished in French and the pianoforte; she was beautiful and charming and social graces came easily to her. Life would be so easy, she thought, so easy if she could just go back...

But it was impossible. That life was over. Lord Korby was dead, and while no one could honestly say that he hadn't deserved it, there were still consequences for a woman whose husband was found lifeless on the kitchen flagstones, a knife plunged into his throat at just the right spot to kill him instantly.

She'd studied anatomy, too.

Lady Christine had veiled her face and booked passage from the Federated States to the Isla del Risa, using her late husband's money. Once there she had abandoned both Korby's name and her own; she dared not risk being found.

And so Lady Christine became simply Buttercup; a foolish name, perhaps, but one that she held dear; a close family friend had bestowed the nickname upon her in her youth, after her yellow hair. She had not seen Nero since he had enlisted in the Queen's Navy, and did not expect to do so again.

For now, all she hoped for was to find a position on a ship sailing out of Isla del Risa: a ship whose crew did not ask too many questions, whose captain did not attempt to pry too deeply into the pasts of those under his command.

Captain Christopher Pike was what some termed a Gentleman Pirate. Not for any land or rank he'd possessed before he'd taken to the seas nigh on a quarter-century before, for assuredly, he'd had neither - no, the reasons were these. He never took more than he set out to. (Nor did he generally ever take less.) He spared lives when he could, but when his adversaries were left with no choice but death, they died with honor, as befit sailors. Pirates they all were, yes, but piracy and dignity, thievery and temperance, did not have to be mutually exclusive, and lawlessness was no excuse for foul behavior.

Following these self-appointed rules, though they'd tried the patience of many a crewman over the years, he had managed to become one of the longest-lived (though, alas for the life-span of a brigand and the cruel mercies of the sea, that wasn't saying much) and most widely known captains still sailing. Pike was the sort of pirate who might have been invited to tea in the Commodore's cabin, if such a wildly unlikely thing ever were to happen.

Granted, they wouldn't have let him go afterward, and he wouldn't have touched a morsel of food nor a draught of drink set in front of him (laced with hemlock, odds would be). But still.

[[OOC: I dunno where Cap'n Pike is. Anybody want him? XD You can just come up to him and set the scene if you please.]]

Harold Lee was miserable.

He had a place in his Captain's bed, something he was told often he should be thankful for. Some broken, longing part of him was grateful. The rest of him seethed, boiled over with quiet rage. Stolen from his earned place as ship's boy on a merchant vessel, he'd been kept for his rare appearance and little else. The Captain's service, or left for dead.

The Captain could be kind. He often was. That didn't change the fact of Harold's imprisonment. He was a pet; a plaything that looked exotic. An ornament with duties and a talented mouth.

Alone and powerless in his fury, Harold had just... waited. Built on his rage and grief. Sometimes he'd spirit food away into one of the lifeboats, only to get desperately frightened and frantically put it all back again. This was one of those days.

Well. Harold's breath caught in his chest as he looked out over the sea. Perhaps today would be different. It didn't make sense, he knew it, he knew it was a longshot that could cost him a fair bit of skin off his back. Or his life. But... sails. Grey sails, on the evening horizon. Harold had only a vague, blossoming hope and a lifeboat that he'd come to think of as somehow his own.

One small act of defiance later, and Harold was ready.

He waited for the first quiet moment and hooked the lifeboat in. Carefully, he slid a few more useful objects and food into it. Deep breath, and he set his jaw. Could he do it, this time?

Grey sails. Oh, yes. How could grey be so beautiful? As delicately as he could, he removed the covering and swung out the lifeboat.

He cut the falls, deftly swinging from one of them himself to land in the boat. As quickly as he could find his hands he shoved off with an oar, into the evening.

Captain Sam Kirk laid in bed and watched his ship's surgeon change. McCoy was hissing and spitting; something about George Kirk, but Sam was too preoccupied with watching him to take much notice of what he said.

The Enterprise was rapidly catching up on the smaller ship. He bit his lip and ran across deck to where there was a tube running down to the lower decks. "Six hands to cannons to prepare!" He called out, then went back to the rail.

They would force her to a halt or leave her dead in the water.

The schooner Lady Grey was being gained upon, and even her near renowned speed was not enough to shake off the Enterprise on her stern. That left her only one option: Abandon course, and run for her life.

It had started with an unlikely rescue (http://kirktastic.livejournal.com/23975.html?thread=947879#t947879). Before that, the Grey could have simply outrun the larger, heavier vessel. But that had lost them time, and ever after, the Enterprise had been breathing down her neck (http://kirktastic.livejournal.com/23975.html?thread=962983#t962983).

The newly employed and rescued Harold Lee was standing by with the starboard watch, under the second mate; the larboard watch under the first mate. And the captain, ever vigilant, waited to give the order.

There would be no bellowing until the final act of the tack. The Grey was going to go from her starboard to larboard tack, forcing the Enterprise to follow and give up her dead-on-the-wind advantage. This would leave the Grey's stern vulnerable to shot from the Enterprise's quickly loadable bow-chaser, though hopefully the fleet and nimble schooner would be out of range before she could man her main guns and fire a full volley. It would be close.

The watches stood ready and tense; no barking from the mates, nor the captain, so as not to have the orders drift and warn the Enterprise.

"Ready to off sheets and tacks," Lowe said, and it was passed once to Scott who repeated it to his crew. Mercifully, everyone had a great deal of practice in switching tacks; it would be a ballet. Maybe enough.

The entire crew tensed in anticipation.

And then it came from the quarterdeck: "The helm's a'lee!"

"Off tacks and sheets!" Scott and Lowe yelled in unison, and the sailors moved swiftly to obey, casting off lines.

The bow swung around hard, a nearly hair-pin turn for a vessel at sea, and everyone moved to their next lines, waiting and waiting to see if the Enterprise would fire her bow-chaser on the schooner.

"Foresail haul!" Scotty cried out, as his watch dragged the massive foresail, the main steering sail of a schooner, around against the forces of wind, driven by fear and determination.

"Mainsail haul!" Lowe followed, the main power driving sail of the vessel, as soon as the fore was brought around.

"LET GO and HAUL!" was the final order of the ballet, a breathless rush as the schooner picked up the wind, heeled hard to her starboard side and jumped over a swell. And then, she was running hard, picking up speed, waiting for the unnatural thunder... and so busy worrying about what was behind that they did not see what was ahead (http://kirktastic.livejournal.com/23975.html?thread=920999#t920999).

He didn't consider himself a pirate, because he wasn't one. The majority of his financial endeavours involved swindling them, dealing with them, maybe talking (down) to them, but otherwise he was an outsider to their vulgar profession, and would prefer to keep it that way.

This was the twelfth port city he had traversed since leaving Vulcan, though there wasn't much difference between them. Everything smelled faintly of salt, fish, and alcohol, walls and floors dirty and grimey, blood money being traded for useless goods and carnal pleasures. The entire atmosphere caught Spock between fascination and disgust, the former arising because of his upbringing among clean, rich courts and their respective dignitaries. Here, he could contrast the tastes between vintage wine and cheap rum, fine silk vests and raggedy woolen shirts, refined and royal language against the petty vernacular that grated against his ears.

One thing held constant: money, the quantity and the scarcity of it. And at the moment, his own pockets were too light. There was no plan he was adapting his finances to, so to say--it was a simple matter of he had nowhere else to go for the next six days and he only had money for another two nights at the inn on the west side of the harbour.

Option veh (): pickpocketting. Spock was better at this simple thievery than he would ever admit, but circumstances were not that dire.

Option dahkuh (): Odd jobs and/or actual employment at any one of the...fine establishments along the dock. He had his choice to be a waiter, labourer, ~~to talk to the madam of that brothel...~~, or to use some of his more noble skills in any of the shipping houses, accounting and what not. This did not promise a favourable or fast rate of return, however, and so Spock did not consider this for very long, either.

Which left option rehkuh (): gambling. It was a battle of holding one's emotions in check, of observing your half-drunk opponents, of knowing the numbers and how to make them work in your favour. He knew of a card house adjacent to a tavern, supposedly of high stakes and lucrative odds. His life was already risky enough without such games--but he had little choice.

A tiny boat containing six people roughly bumped its way on to the shore of Isla del Risa, muttering to herself and nose deep in what she assumed was a treasure map (The big black cross was a major giveaway) the newly ordained Captain of the Farragut scowled and glare up the beach.

Jumping out of the now still and moored boat, Pasha looked for the defining rock that would imply the entrance to some of the finest treasure in all of the world. She was looking for a rock shaped like a triangle. So where was the little bugger?

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on board the Kalon Kakon - George, Sam, and Bones

On the Farragut