Categories > Movies > Pirates of the Caribbean > Acquaintances at the Faithful Bride
Author's Note: My first Pirates of the Caribbean story. Pre-Dead Man's Chest, Post-Curse of the Black Pearl. Rating will go up as chapters progress. Yes, there will be a sex scene, but if you know me then you know it's always in good taste. Keep your eyes on the horizon for another upcoming POTC fanfic from me. It'll be Norrington-centric and romance categorized. And angsty, because it's Norrington post-Curse. Edit: This story has been released, and is called The Promise of Redemption. Check it out, if you like.
Also, I'll probably be posting a post-Dead Man's Chest story sometime in the near future, though it'll be a one-shot.
Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are golden and always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean, nor its respective characters, settings, etc. The original characters depicted in this story are my property, however. This applies to all current and upcoming chapters.
*
Tortuga.
The Pirate Port.
One of the only remaining places where you could get shot for brushing against the wrong person, where everything reeked a bit of piss and bile, and where no woman could walk the streets without five men badgering and bartering her for her "hospitable company".
The filthiest cesspool of human life I'd ever come across.
I loved it.
So, it is here I sat in the most respectable pub on the entire island: the Faithful Bride. A bit ironic, seeing as how few women living in this area of Tortuga were brides, and even fewer of them were faithful. With that in mind, I grinned and took in my surroundings.
The sweet aroma of rum, whiskey, rye, and any other beverage you could think of - aside from water - felt intoxicating. One could taste the humidity in the air, carrying with it tinges of dust, dirt, and most likely blood. Here, the men were pirates and cads, the women were barmaids and flirts, and you were lucky if you made it out without a single bullet wound. Here, the walls were alive with the sound of music, debauchery, and drunken idiocy.
If you could spend an hour in the Faithful Bride and leave with the ability to walk in a straight line, you were considered a god among men. Or in some cases, a goddess among whores. But I digress.
It is not by some terrible misfortune that I actually took up residence in Tortuga. No, I'm afraid that life was a fool and a drunkard's. My crew, or rather the crew I was a part of, had been sailing for days with neither food nor drink, when we spied Tortuga just off the starboard side. I had never pictured it could look like quite like it did in that moment: like an oasis.
Ironic to think a ruddy spot of land off the right side of a ship surrounded by sea water could look anything like paradise. But lo and behold, there I was, drinking my fill and enjoying every bleeding moment.
Now, it's a fair trial in this port to give a bloke five seconds to either run away or apologize before you beat the living shit out of him. I suppose, on that note, not a hell of a lotta gents get their share of fair trials. Nonetheless, I consider myself a tolerant woman, so I didn't go straight to kicking the ass of the man who put his muddy arm over my shoulders.
He was a portly man, with a scruffy beard and bedraggled hair flying every which way. His clothes were tattered and damp, thickly coated in dirt, blood, and various stains. The standard for a place like this.
"You cum'ere offen?" He slurred his words, and looked at me in a manner I could only assume was meant to be suggestive.
"Often enough. Now I'd suggest gettin' your bloody hands off me," I replied, my tone as calm and cool as the sea itself. Well, the sea on a good day.
The man gave me a skeptical look, eyes widening and pupils dilating, I assume trying to work through his drunken confusion. He sighed, more like a groan and sending little droplets of saliva to get stuck in that forest of a beard.
"S'just as well, I dun like 'em brazen," he muttered, removing his arm and wandering off into some group of fellow drunks. I didn't waste my time being offended; I got confronted with that a lot at various ports and pubs. No use starting a bar fight when I've already had three drinks.
I know who's sleepin' with the pigs tonight, I couldn't help but think.
"Another glass of rum!" I yelled to the barman, not bothering with pleases or thank yous. Those were best saved for formal occasions, such as bartering for your life at the blade tip of an enemy captain. Not that that'd be anything I would ever be caught dead or alive doing.
The barman slammed my drink down, the crimson colored liquid spilling over the sides and forming a nice ring around the glass. I tossed him a coin and took another sip, knowing at least three groggy men were eyeing me, waiting for me to pass out drunk. They really ought to know by now that even prostitutes know how to hold their liquor. I was certainly no prostitute, but I'd picked up quite an immunity while sailing with various crews all these years.
That last ruddy crew was the bottom of the gun barrel. Not much use in a stitch, I'd come to find out. Tripping over their bootstraps trying to tie down a sail and too busy running around like frightened mice to fire a cannon with any accuracy. An inexperienced lot with a fitting captain, unable to govern a pack of pigs. No matter, I'd find passage with a crew here and continue my pirating until the next time I'd return to Tortuga seeking employment.
"Hello, love," I heard a voice beside me say. Less slurred than the other men here, and somewhat of a dark but playful tinge to it. I turned, expecting to see the next podgy man attempting to lure me to the "pleasures" of bed with him. Instead, my hazel eyes met rather the unlikely sight.
He was not overweight, nor old and wrinkled, nor missing any eyes or ears, and certainly not missing a tongue. I could tell, for his mouth was set in a devilish grin, that he was missing a few teeth, though at least he had the aesthetic decency to have them filled with gold. His eyes were dark and smoky, intense but delightfully mad all at once. His hair was indeed bedraggled, but half kempt in the sense that it was kept in dark brown dreadlocks under a red bandana and worn hat, and accented with strings of beads. Although I was sure I'd never made his acquaintance before, he had unmistakable features that I was positive I'd seen on the wanted posters of most islands and ports I'd visited and/or pirated.
Despite his odd rascally handsomeness, I could tell he only had one assumption in mind. "Sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I'm not interested." Well, perhaps I was a little.
"Liar," he replied, all smugness and smile.
"Pirate," I grinned back, using the immortal comeback.
"English," was his response.
"What?"
"I can tell by your accent that you're English, darling. Perhaps a maiden plucked from her homeland by barbaric pirates? Oh, and the horror, but in the dead of night you escaped your prison using a butter knife you'd stolen at dinner, and sure as the sea you climbed into a longboat and rowed all your merry way to the first port in sight. Oh, but you must be frightened, love. Have no fear, for I can easily guard you against the horrors that are Tortuga." I watched him make up this elaborate story, not noticing as his arm somehow snaked its way behind me and before I knew it, his ring adorned hand was on my shoulder, squeezing lightly.
"That story is, in fact, one hundred percent accurate except for a few minor details. I was not plucked, I did not use a butter knife, and I am neither your darling, nor your love. Oh, and I think this belongs to you," I grinned, peeling his hand off of me and returning it to him.
The pirate blinked a few times, steadying himself on his bar stool. "I take it I shall not be bedding you tonight then?"
"My services are for hire, but I'm afraid they do not include the practices of a common tart."
"Oh? And what services are those, pray tell?" He leaned in closer, still lusting.
I leaned in towards him, lowering my voice suggestively. "Well..." I plucked the bottle of rum from his hand and poured some into my empty glass, taking a swig. "My services include sailing, looting, pillaging, plundering, raiding, fighting, shooting, drinking, participating in great battles at sea and/or land, pirating and otherwise committing great and terrible crimes that will secure me a nice, comfortable spot in Hell." I held up the bottle. "Rum?"
He took it back, confused at first, then grinning. "So I take it you don't cook or sew, love?"
I grinned back and took a drink. "Not even upon pain of death."
His smile widened, showcasing a few more golden teeth and becoming even more devilish than before as his eyes danced. "Then you sound like my kinda girl."
"The brothels are down the street."
"Oh, trust me, I know where they are, darling. Very well, in fact. But I thought I might employ you under different circumstances, savvy?" He took a long drink of rum, concentrating his eyes on mine.
"What's the name of your ship?" I asked.
He leaned in, brushing his lips dangerously close to my ear, his breath low. Despite my better judgment, I could feel goose bumps along my neck and barely stopped myself from shivering. He whispered with intent, "The Black Pearl."
Also, I'll probably be posting a post-Dead Man's Chest story sometime in the near future, though it'll be a one-shot.
Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are golden and always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean, nor its respective characters, settings, etc. The original characters depicted in this story are my property, however. This applies to all current and upcoming chapters.
*
Tortuga.
The Pirate Port.
One of the only remaining places where you could get shot for brushing against the wrong person, where everything reeked a bit of piss and bile, and where no woman could walk the streets without five men badgering and bartering her for her "hospitable company".
The filthiest cesspool of human life I'd ever come across.
I loved it.
So, it is here I sat in the most respectable pub on the entire island: the Faithful Bride. A bit ironic, seeing as how few women living in this area of Tortuga were brides, and even fewer of them were faithful. With that in mind, I grinned and took in my surroundings.
The sweet aroma of rum, whiskey, rye, and any other beverage you could think of - aside from water - felt intoxicating. One could taste the humidity in the air, carrying with it tinges of dust, dirt, and most likely blood. Here, the men were pirates and cads, the women were barmaids and flirts, and you were lucky if you made it out without a single bullet wound. Here, the walls were alive with the sound of music, debauchery, and drunken idiocy.
If you could spend an hour in the Faithful Bride and leave with the ability to walk in a straight line, you were considered a god among men. Or in some cases, a goddess among whores. But I digress.
It is not by some terrible misfortune that I actually took up residence in Tortuga. No, I'm afraid that life was a fool and a drunkard's. My crew, or rather the crew I was a part of, had been sailing for days with neither food nor drink, when we spied Tortuga just off the starboard side. I had never pictured it could look like quite like it did in that moment: like an oasis.
Ironic to think a ruddy spot of land off the right side of a ship surrounded by sea water could look anything like paradise. But lo and behold, there I was, drinking my fill and enjoying every bleeding moment.
Now, it's a fair trial in this port to give a bloke five seconds to either run away or apologize before you beat the living shit out of him. I suppose, on that note, not a hell of a lotta gents get their share of fair trials. Nonetheless, I consider myself a tolerant woman, so I didn't go straight to kicking the ass of the man who put his muddy arm over my shoulders.
He was a portly man, with a scruffy beard and bedraggled hair flying every which way. His clothes were tattered and damp, thickly coated in dirt, blood, and various stains. The standard for a place like this.
"You cum'ere offen?" He slurred his words, and looked at me in a manner I could only assume was meant to be suggestive.
"Often enough. Now I'd suggest gettin' your bloody hands off me," I replied, my tone as calm and cool as the sea itself. Well, the sea on a good day.
The man gave me a skeptical look, eyes widening and pupils dilating, I assume trying to work through his drunken confusion. He sighed, more like a groan and sending little droplets of saliva to get stuck in that forest of a beard.
"S'just as well, I dun like 'em brazen," he muttered, removing his arm and wandering off into some group of fellow drunks. I didn't waste my time being offended; I got confronted with that a lot at various ports and pubs. No use starting a bar fight when I've already had three drinks.
I know who's sleepin' with the pigs tonight, I couldn't help but think.
"Another glass of rum!" I yelled to the barman, not bothering with pleases or thank yous. Those were best saved for formal occasions, such as bartering for your life at the blade tip of an enemy captain. Not that that'd be anything I would ever be caught dead or alive doing.
The barman slammed my drink down, the crimson colored liquid spilling over the sides and forming a nice ring around the glass. I tossed him a coin and took another sip, knowing at least three groggy men were eyeing me, waiting for me to pass out drunk. They really ought to know by now that even prostitutes know how to hold their liquor. I was certainly no prostitute, but I'd picked up quite an immunity while sailing with various crews all these years.
That last ruddy crew was the bottom of the gun barrel. Not much use in a stitch, I'd come to find out. Tripping over their bootstraps trying to tie down a sail and too busy running around like frightened mice to fire a cannon with any accuracy. An inexperienced lot with a fitting captain, unable to govern a pack of pigs. No matter, I'd find passage with a crew here and continue my pirating until the next time I'd return to Tortuga seeking employment.
"Hello, love," I heard a voice beside me say. Less slurred than the other men here, and somewhat of a dark but playful tinge to it. I turned, expecting to see the next podgy man attempting to lure me to the "pleasures" of bed with him. Instead, my hazel eyes met rather the unlikely sight.
He was not overweight, nor old and wrinkled, nor missing any eyes or ears, and certainly not missing a tongue. I could tell, for his mouth was set in a devilish grin, that he was missing a few teeth, though at least he had the aesthetic decency to have them filled with gold. His eyes were dark and smoky, intense but delightfully mad all at once. His hair was indeed bedraggled, but half kempt in the sense that it was kept in dark brown dreadlocks under a red bandana and worn hat, and accented with strings of beads. Although I was sure I'd never made his acquaintance before, he had unmistakable features that I was positive I'd seen on the wanted posters of most islands and ports I'd visited and/or pirated.
Despite his odd rascally handsomeness, I could tell he only had one assumption in mind. "Sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I'm not interested." Well, perhaps I was a little.
"Liar," he replied, all smugness and smile.
"Pirate," I grinned back, using the immortal comeback.
"English," was his response.
"What?"
"I can tell by your accent that you're English, darling. Perhaps a maiden plucked from her homeland by barbaric pirates? Oh, and the horror, but in the dead of night you escaped your prison using a butter knife you'd stolen at dinner, and sure as the sea you climbed into a longboat and rowed all your merry way to the first port in sight. Oh, but you must be frightened, love. Have no fear, for I can easily guard you against the horrors that are Tortuga." I watched him make up this elaborate story, not noticing as his arm somehow snaked its way behind me and before I knew it, his ring adorned hand was on my shoulder, squeezing lightly.
"That story is, in fact, one hundred percent accurate except for a few minor details. I was not plucked, I did not use a butter knife, and I am neither your darling, nor your love. Oh, and I think this belongs to you," I grinned, peeling his hand off of me and returning it to him.
The pirate blinked a few times, steadying himself on his bar stool. "I take it I shall not be bedding you tonight then?"
"My services are for hire, but I'm afraid they do not include the practices of a common tart."
"Oh? And what services are those, pray tell?" He leaned in closer, still lusting.
I leaned in towards him, lowering my voice suggestively. "Well..." I plucked the bottle of rum from his hand and poured some into my empty glass, taking a swig. "My services include sailing, looting, pillaging, plundering, raiding, fighting, shooting, drinking, participating in great battles at sea and/or land, pirating and otherwise committing great and terrible crimes that will secure me a nice, comfortable spot in Hell." I held up the bottle. "Rum?"
He took it back, confused at first, then grinning. "So I take it you don't cook or sew, love?"
I grinned back and took a drink. "Not even upon pain of death."
His smile widened, showcasing a few more golden teeth and becoming even more devilish than before as his eyes danced. "Then you sound like my kinda girl."
"The brothels are down the street."
"Oh, trust me, I know where they are, darling. Very well, in fact. But I thought I might employ you under different circumstances, savvy?" He took a long drink of rum, concentrating his eyes on mine.
"What's the name of your ship?" I asked.
He leaned in, brushing his lips dangerously close to my ear, his breath low. Despite my better judgment, I could feel goose bumps along my neck and barely stopped myself from shivering. He whispered with intent, "The Black Pearl."
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