(cf) August - Tumblr Posts

Anne blinks in surprise, only to startle even herself with another unexpected half-laugh, half-cough. It was at least as jarring as it was embarrassing, prompting Anne to set aside the better part of her skepticism. Whatever this poor bastard did or didn’t do, they were in like straits together—and four hands are better than two. She pushes her way up to her feet, dusting offer her trousers.

Anne Bonny is a tall woman—both by her private definition and by the accepted public one. At just over six feet tall, Anne is usually more even-handed in her dealings, handling everyone with caution and disdain (and deciding against it for the sake of survival, never you doubt). Even with her shirt on and no hat covering her wild red hair, she actually looks quite a lot like the wood cutting on her wanted posters, though she’s often argued that without a pistol she could be almost any other “lady pirate” on these seas. Eyes as colorless and as biting as pale sea glass shards twinkle with new interest when Anne looks over again, intent on studying all she can in him in the short silence that follows his questions and her standing.

❝ Anne, ❞ she replies. Honorifics don’t interest her anymore, not really—except for Captain, sometimes. (Somehow always her downfall.) She’d rather not go through all the sordid business of her surname. ❝ Those fuckers…owe me money, mind,, ❞ she pants, squinting around the cellblock. There should be guards, other prisoners—shouldn’t there? What in the fuck has she just got involved with?

❝ What in the fuck have I just got involved with? Or are ye going t’plead innocence? I en’t sinless, but I en’t who they were after there. ❞ Of that much. Anne was certain: her own scuffle had started shortly after his, when a cry of hunters! hunters! went up at the tavern just as he went down. She would know. Her sucker punch came after she tripped one of the four surprised assailants, sending her flying back to hit her head and miss the rest of the fight.

plot hook: our muses wake up locked up together. anne proposes a daring escape.

open to: anyone with a pirate-friendly verse

suggested for: a fellow pirate, a thief, a ne’er do well, someone caught in a tavern fight, a turncoat, a friend of anne’s (but open to others!)

Anne is slow to return to consciousness; she feels sick, achey. Her head is spinning, her nose throbs, she can’t breathe right—and then she remembers a fist flying at her face. And she half-laughs, half-coughs herself all the way back into the waking world. Her top lip and nostrils are crusted over with blood, and she’s a nasty cut and a swollen eye, but she’ll live.

Her split lip bleeds anew when as she smiles at that though. She’ll live, alright. As for the dim fucker who sucker punched her, she’ll make no promises.

It’s only then that movement in the other cell catches her eye. Anne cranes her neck, trying to get a good look.

“Those fuckers get ye, too?”

Pirates are dogs. They’re pack animals who growl and snarl and snap. They’re vicious, even ruthless, and highly territorial. Pirates are dogs, and Anne Bonny’s the worst bitch of the bunch, and this man isn’t one she owes loyalty to—but she’s a pack animal. And even if he worked as a lettered turncoat (a fact she’s ignorant to, at least for the time being), he’s one of the pack now.

And even if he wasn’t, what pirate worth their salt walks away from a fight they’ve been pulled into? Anne doesn’t consider for even a moment that August really means to send her free to go to the gallows like a puppy on a leash.

❝ Walkin free don’t do us no good without a firearm, ❞ she says distractedly, clearing thinking out loud as she scans the holding cells. ❝ Prefer swords myself honestly, but firearms do better crowd control, and I don’ imagine yer Holecraft travels alone. Not based on what he sent t’the tavern. ❞

Damn. There isn’t even a trunk to indicate where Anne’s armaments might by found, never mind August’s. (She grimaces a bit at that, too; she’s doesn’t refer to most by their Christian name and doesn’t like the familiarity it immediately suggests.) Her signature coat and hat have been taken, as has her flintlock, her saber, her pocketknife, her boot-knife, and her—oh. No, that’s still present. Anne grins and runs her tongue along her bottom lip, pulling just past the hem of her trousers to produce a porcelain-handled jackknife. It’s been more for fashion than for form since before the day she picked it up, dull and thin, more useless than a butter knife for the stabbing, slicing, slashing, and piercing of things. But there are functions hereto unconsidered at which it might serve.

Anne slips around to the gate of her cell, carefully working the blade into the crevice. Aye, it’ll fit—but lockpocking is a two-tool job. opposite.

❝ I can get us out, ❞ she announces, looking up from her task, ❝ if ye can find us another tool. The rest a’ the plan can wait ‘til we’re sprung. ❞

Anne blinks in surprise, only to startle even herself with another unexpected half-laugh, half-cough. It was at least as jarring as it was embarrassing, prompting Anne to set aside the better part of her skepticism. Whatever this poor bastard did or didn’t do, they were in like straits together—and four hands are better than two. She pushes her way up to her feet, dusting offer her trousers.

Anne Bonny is a tall woman—both by her private definition and by the accepted public one. At just over six feet tall, Anne is usually more even-handed in her dealings, handling everyone with caution and disdain (and deciding against it for the sake of survival, never you doubt). Even with her shirt on and no hat covering her wild red hair, she actually looks quite a lot like the wood cutting on her wanted posters, though she’s often argued that without a pistol she could be almost any other “lady pirate” on these seas. Eyes as colorless and as biting as pale sea glass shards twinkle with new interest when Anne looks over again, intent on studying all she can in him in the short silence that follows his questions and her standing.

❝ Anne, ❞ she replies. Honorifics don’t interest her anymore, not really—except for Captain, sometimes. (Somehow always her downfall.) She’d rather not go through all the sordid business of her surname. ❝ Those fuckers…owe me money, mind,, ❞ she pants, squinting around the cellblock. There should be guards, other prisoners—shouldn’t there? What in the fuck has she just got involved with?

❝ What in the fuck have I just got involved with? Or are ye going t’plead innocence? I en’t sinless, but I en’t who they were after there. ❞ Of that much. Anne was certain: her own scuffle had started shortly after his, when a cry of hunters! hunters! went up at the tavern just as he went down. She would know. Her sucker punch came after she tripped one of the four surprised assailants, sending her flying back to hit her head and miss the rest of the fight.