Anne Cant Keep Eye Contact When He Goes Off Andcompliments Her? (Thats A Compliment, Right? When Someone

Anne can’t keep eye contact when he goes off and…compliments her? (That’s a compliment, right? When someone says nice shit about you?) She doesn’t feel worthy of it, his protestations aside. But she won’t argue with someone who has something nice to say about her for a change, even if they’re wrong. And she’s sure he’s wrong.

Hearing that Gale—somehow so…morally vanilla as to boggle the mind—had been part of a gambling ring, even a small one, is surprising. Anne doesn’t hide her surprise, nor her interest. She hadn’t gone to any official academy, schooled at home and in the law firm offices, but that hasn’t stopped her from running a racket or two in her own youth. Nothing as enterprising as a homework pool, of course: most of it was petty swindling and a little hustling, usually for pocket change she didn’t need. Usually honestly just for the thrill of it.

But there’s no time to inquire further into the homework pool because he’s doing more disarming shit. After her confession of boiled potatoes and coffee as the only staples she knows how to cook she’d been removed by the others from the cooking duty roster, meaning she was ready to be waved away when it came time for Gale to go cook. She’s hardly “good company,” even with her hackles down, but Gale is smiling and offering her a chore. She’s felt so fucking useless about camp, offering to mend things, wash them, prep them, anything to prove she can earn her keep outside of a fight—but up until now, she’d been turned away. Not because help wasn’t needed but because they remained wary of one another. Despite the standouts in trust like Gale, the rule of the party was still one of distrust and deceit.

Was a lucky game of chess all it really took to be seen as…well. If not trustworthy, then at least useful?

It’s a good damn thing Gale is only asking for a hand and not offering her one up. She would have actually accepted the gesture in the fog of her confusion, and then where would her pride and independence be? (Unscathed except in her opinion, probably.)

“…aye,” Anne says faintly, still stunned. Realizing she sounds like an idiot, she quickly clears her throat and tries again, assertive and louder for it. “Aye, sir.” She cringes when the title slips out, born from years of obedience at sea. She’ll be paying for that one later, even if only in the ways she’ll beat herself up for it. A stupid misstep like that could cost her what little reputation she has among these people.

Hoping to distract from the moment, Anne hauls herself to her feet. “Best not t’leave me alone at the pot, though. John used t’say if there’s a way t’burn water, I’d be the one t’figure it out.” He definitely hadn’t meant it as a joke, despite his laughter.

“What’s on the menu?”

It isn’t until Gale goes a bit pink in the cheeks that Anne realizes she’s won. The gambit taught by her father—the only gambit she knows in chess, truth be told—is a seemingly dirty trick. The only person Anne knew who could stop it was the same one who’d taught it to her, after all; she hadn’t realized she was playing it, unconscious as it was, until she’d accidentally accused the wizard of bottoming for her.

Well. There are worse idiot comments to make. The ghost of a smile haunts Anne’s lips when she’s called clever. She isn’t often accused of it, though she certainly thinks it’s true.

“Pa played, when Ma was still ‘round. He tried t’teach us both at the same time, but neither of us really had the head for it. I only ever learnt the one strategy; more luck than anything else in that win, I’m ‘fraid.” After all, if Gale had played more aggressively and set her on the back foot, it would’ve been all over. “Prefer card games myself. Easier to learn, I think, and definitely easier t’teach.”

Few were the women brave enough to brave these waters; fewer still were the women hard enough to brave them as outlaws. A marvel ashore and at sea, Anne was used to be gawked at. She was used to being used worse, too, but that is truly neither here nor there. A woman in the world of men, she was used to having to be three times the pirate for half the recognition; never in a million years would Anne have thought herself interesting to a god/dess, but here she was.

Given the choice, she would sooner have lived the rest of her life landlocked than risk this kind of attention. The stories are nothing if not clear about what happens when humanity and the preternatural collide.

It goes about as well as the howling wind and crashing waves of the storm go with the ship. That is to say: poorly. The ship is battered to and fro against increasingly large waves. Eventually water flies in over the railing, slapping them in the face, slicking the deck of the ship further. Whether for this or for something else, Anne eventually goes sailing over the railing of the deck herself, disappearing into the water with hardly a sound.

Anne closes her eyes against the sting of the salt water and waits for her life to flash past her eyes; it doesn’t. She waits for her lungs to cramp up and demand she try sucking in the water: they don’t. She waits to sink deeper into the water, or to start to rise in it: she doesn’t. One minute she’s awake. She closes her eyes to await her watery death. And then she opens them with a start and a gasp that starts her coughing, sopping wet and weak in the arms, cradled from behind by someone she doesn’t know but also doesn’t question: too many things are out of place. The sky is blue and cloudless, the sun cheery and bright. The water is neither dark nor churning, but calm and clear; the sand below is white, the beach pristine, the storm…nowhere in sight. Nor rhetorical ship. Only soft white beach and distant green hills.

There’s no doubt of what’s going on here in Anne’s mind. She’s dead. This is…some waiting place for drowned souls. A bank of the river Styx, a purgatory resembling paradise but never quite reaching it—right? It makes sense.

So she’s all the more surprised when she turns her head and speaks to the owner of the arms around her and her voice comes out weak and rough, burned by saltwater she doesn’t remember swallowing.

“M—may’s well drown me here. ‘M bound for Hell whether I would or no. In-between don’t server me.”

It never failed to amuse Amphitrite that humans tried so hard to conquer the sea. They voyaged out in their little boats and fought the waves to explore new lands, trade goods, or plunder the depths for the bounties it offered. She watched them sometimes, amused as a child might be observing ants going about their tiny little lives, but rarely did she take interest in individuals. If a single human on a ship disrespected her realm, she might drown the lot of them. Likewise, if a handful of humans in a fleet of ships pleased her enough, she might give them favourable conditions on their journey and see them safely to their destinations, or given them the edge in a battle with her waves.

All this to say her relationship with humans was ephemeral at the best of times, and often steered by her mood. So to focus on one human was certainly not something she was known to do, especially when said human did nothing to draw her attention other than exist. And yet, that's the situation the goddess finds herself in.

Pirates were often fun to observe, full of superstition and often holding respect for the seas they prowled, but they were always men. Most humans on the sea were men, but pirates especially, so to find a woman pirate... Well, Amphitrite had been quite interested. She'd watched this unusual mortal for some time, never really inteferering, but checking in from time-to-time to see how she fared among her rough male counterparts. The answer was; fairly well, or as well as a woman could do amongst the morally dubious ship of pirates. She considered once or twice on making contact, but she remained distant and impartial, just observing, never inteferering. Until, of course, the woman had ended up overboard with several others as a storm raged above.

The queen of the seas should've left her to her fate, but that interest - that draw - finally made her act directly. Enveloping the woman's body in her embrace, Amphitrite spirited her away from the churning waters to safety - an uninhabited island humans had yet to plunder and claim like they did all other land masses they discovered.

It's there in the shallows, holding the human from behind against her mermaidic form, that she commands the water to leave the woman's lungs, drawing it from her throat to allow her to suck in air once more.

"Breathe."

@neverhangd

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟐𝟐𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟕𝟐𝟏, 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐲. 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭

𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙽𝚈 𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙳!

independent / slightly selective

s/low activity

history & headcanon based

captained by ren

21+ only, please

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The problem with me is that I really like recycling plot ideas. Usually because I like the plots I suggest, and I wanna play them out in a bunch of different ways with a bunch of different outcomes. Like canon characters, they’re different every time and so rich to explore!

Anne wouldn’t, doesn’t, disagree. She owes Elizabeth her life, although not for the wound’s sake. At least not in her opinion. Were it not for Elizabeth, she’d never have managed the jailbreak, let alone have taken the ship she now steered. The problem Elizabeth faced was that Anne simply did not care. When Elizabeth grabs the wheel Anne came only sigh, giving up and leaning most of her weight against it. That was another count she was right about: Anne needed rest, and a doctor, badly. If it were (almost) any other port in the world, Anne would have conceded. She wouldn’t be having this argument in the first place! She’d have just set the damned course! But Port Royale will only ever mean her end.

She opened her mouth to lecture Elizabeth about why she couldn’t sail there—to explain the situation with her bounty, with Jack, with everything tied up in it and how her next visit to that port may very well be the thing to damn them all—when she keeps going. Anne chokes on her disbelieving laugh. Gold? Opium? Ridiculous on their own, given Anne’s interests in piracy, but added to the idea that anyone could vouch for her and have the courts save her life? It’s at least as funny as it is insulting.

“Christ alive!, I’d’ve thought even Jack’s whore knew better than that!” It slips about unbidden. She sounds, looks, incredulous. “Don’t you have any idea who I am? I signed my life away at age nineteen. Afore that, even, when I were still a wain. I’m Anne fuckin’ Bonny.”

Anne grunts and leaves the mooring, about to head for the helm when Elizabeth shoots ice directly into her veins using just two words: Port Royale. Wouldn’t that just fucking figure? The cellmate turned partner in crime, helping her pull a legger, isn’t just English but fucking English. And an idiot to boot. Who in the acquaintance of Jack would ever willingly sail to Port Royale, of all places? Anne resumes her walk—it’s a limo, really—back to the helm, setting them on a course that wouldn’t lead straight to the gallows. Port Royale can catch the fucking plague for all she cares; their heading is New Providence. She says none of this, guiding them out to sea without a fuss. It’s more important they leave this place, anyway, than that they agree on where they make landfall.

Anne relaxes into her duties long before Elizabeth does; it’s well evident that they aren’t being chased, or canon fire would have marked their departure. When they’re out of canon shot Anne breathes easier. Well. Except for where she’s been run through on one side. The wind is strong and in their favor; it won’t be more than a day or two on the water before they reach Anne’s destination, by her own reckoning. Chances are good they’ll meet another crew with her same heading before the coast is even in sight—but whether that’s a good thing or a bad one can only be determined when it happens.

Anne waits until Elizabeth’s done fussing to say her piece, ignoring everything the other woman’s had to say since “Port Royale.” Since they’re taking care of the dire needs first, this comes before wound care.

“We’re headed for New Providence,” Anne announces, deadpan. Had Elizabeth suggested any other port it would have been hers—but the port named is one of only two Anne’s sworn to never dock in again. “I don’t know what kind of pirate ye are, are ye think ye are, but I en’t fuckin’ consigning myself t’death for ye. ‘Will’ can fucking well wait: it’s only a bit further from Providence t’the gallows, I’m sure he’ll survive.”

Who or whatever Will is, he isn’t worth dying for—not for Anne, at least. Port Royale is the bloodiest port in these waters, with its rotten, godforsaken docks soaked through with the blood of pirates hanged there; New Providence, on the other hand, is the capital port of that most dangerous of new ventures, the Republic of Pirates. Anne’s wanted poster hangs in both cities, one in pride and one in infamy. Notorious pirates tend to fare better in one of these ports than in the other, though smuggling ships, privateers, and even some fledgling company sail from one to the other still.

“I can find a ship’s doctor in port and you can find passage to hell for yerself.” On Anne’s tongue, it’s less insult and more barefaced truth, setting aside her vanity and letting Elizabeth see the exhaustion naked on her face. She’d been in that jail for weeks before Elizabeth arrived and made escape possible. She simply won’t give up her freedom again so soon.

“We can fight about it, but let’s call a spade a spade, aye? I paid attention when I were sailed into that port, a’cause I knew it’d be on me t’figure out where in the fuck I’d been landed. I figured it out the next morning, in that jail cell, and been plottin’ a route back out t’open sea ever since. Gotta get there ‘fore ye can get t’either of those ports, and I’m willing t’bet you came up the other way—from the opposite coast. Meanin’ ye don’t know which way’s t’sea and which way’s gonna trap ye in the bay here. Means I gotta be the one navigatin’ either way, so it can be agreed that we’re for Providence or ye can feel deceived when we get there. Choice is yers.”

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟐𝟐𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟕𝟐𝟏, 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐲. 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭

𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙽𝚈 𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙳!

independent / slightly selective s/low activity history & headcanon based captained by ren 21+ only, please

template by CALISOURCES