Call me Out

[dammitmasa]

Faded characters are currently inactive. Please do not call them out!

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code by cawaii
- Refer to the list above for an active muse. -
- To call them out, put their name in the subject line. -
- Prose or commentspam are fine! -
- Start with a scenario or give a prompt for one you'd like to see.

Preferences:
- I don't play for shipping, fluff, or smut. If it arrives naturally, I'll play it. But not as a starting point.
- In universe, AUs, crossovers, post-game, or other situations are cool.
- I will play prose or brackets, but definitely prefer prose.

Comments

[whitby]

"Certainly not. I've met the man -- once. And he looked nothing like you. Not that I'm complaining."

One could trust a Slayer to flirt with a belly wound. Who could blame her? He was rugged, able, and had a way, it seemed, of dodging her questions which only egged her onwards. "Let me lead by example, then. Robin Whitby," she touched her chest with a thumb to indicate herself. "Captain of the late Neptune's Lady. Rather keen not to be her late Captain in turn."

[pirateblood]

The name meant little to him, but then, he'd tried not to lead the life of a sailor. He had been content as a blacksmith. So the reputation of sailors and pirates were beyond him. He hadn't even heard of Jack Sparrow until they had met. Something which the pirate had never forgiven him for. But for all her flirting, he was too good natured to flirt back.

"Will Turner. Latest captain of the Flying Dutchman. And curious, as well. Not many survive a meeting with Davy Jones. Not unless they're among this crew. It's a shame you don't intend to be around long enough to tell me about it."

[whitby]

"Nearly didn't."

Survive. She had, in fact, lost an arm to his precious little kraken. But here she sat, two-armed once again. Even her face darkened at the reminder of what foul magicks had been required just to regain an arm. Not her arm, really. But an arm. And so, please excuse her for not reaching out to offer a handshake.

"Will Turner. What a plain name for such an extraordinary man. For you must be anything but ordinary to have succeeded dear old Jonesy."

[pirateblood]

"I used to be a blacksmith." It was a plain named for a man with a plain career. "But I didn't go looking to take this job, if you're wondering."

There was, of course, a story. Any story that involved Davy Jones was to be an exciting one. But his eyes were on her wound. There was a lot of blood and he was surprised she was not dead already.

[whitby]

"I am wondering--"

But her voice trailed off, for he was eyeing her twice-clothed stomach and she was not half-curious herself about how the site of the wound was faring. Without another word, and despite the submarine chill, she shed her jacket and brazenly hauled the hem of her homespun shirt a good third of the way up her torso. On one side, the skin was torn and gnarled. Bloody, too, but things seemed to have coagulated. The skin had knit together, if not neatly. But...

"The innards are all a mess. Punctured pieces and scrambled guts. The cut is fine, but the damage has been done. You may yet be lucky, Captain Turner, and gain me for yourself before the night is through. I, of course, hope otherwise."

Her smile was rueful.

[pirateblood]

Will's smile matched hers. It was not cruel or malicious, but he could now see the game she was playing. He recalled the way she had thrown off his father like he'd been nothing at all. Will knew it took a remarkable man to be captain to pirates, but it took an even more extraordinary woman to manage the same thing. But she might be something more than even that. She should be dead. If not by this wound than by her encounter with his predecessor.

"I've not been the captain for long, but you're the first hold out I've ever had." He tilted his head, regarding her eyes instead. "You gave me your name, but you still haven't told me who you are."

[whitby]

She leaned back, letting her smile drop and instead feigning ennui as she tossed an arm over her head and scratched at her ear. Don't let them see you sweat.

"You want to hear my life story, is it? You who only comes at life's end?" It hadn't been his question. Hadn't hardly been near it. "I was born in a pretty house and was given pretty things and sang pretty songs but pretty doesn't count for shite when you're called."

Such an emphasis on that word. Called. At first, she'd kept wearing her pretty dresses all through her training. The lessons. The books. The lectures on vampires and demons and other beasts. But then she'd suffered a second calling, the one she speaks of now: "Blacksmith you may have been, but you must have heard it. The ocean's siren call -- tempting you away."

[pirateblood]

Called. An odd but not unfamiliar term. Many on the sea claimed to have been called to it. But he feels that there's more to it than that. After all, she made it sound almost involuntary.

"I was called. But only by pirates. There was a woman, some cursed gold, and a series of strange events. I would have stayed a blacksmith. Happily."

This wasn't the life he chose.

[whitby]

"Stayed? Aye -- staying is one thing. But the real question is...would you go back to it? Knowing what you know? Having done all you've done?"

And she gestured roundly at this grand dame of a ship.

[pirateblood]

He didn't even have to think about it. There was no comparison between this life and the one he'd left behind. The one he had lost.

"In a heartbeat."

[whitby]

Her gaze narrowed. A hitch caught her breath -- some rattle of pain under her ribs -- but she ignored it to focus on him. A boastful man was nothing but common on the seas. A boring man, eager to go back to what he once knew? Rare. Rare enough cause confusion.

But she knew the legend, so her response was a simple one: "A heartbeat, eh?"

The Dutchman's Captain and his heart. Oh, she definitely did know it. But not from sailing nor from pirating. She knew it from one of those humid days, strapped into a pretty lace-edged dress and sitting before a pile of books. Her Watcher had the best stories of supernatural dealings on the ocean. She decided, later, that he must have sailed in his youth.

[pirateblood]

"A heartbeat," he repeated. One that was owned by a woman who waited. But her waiting days had soon passed and he did not know where she buried it. It was perhaps better not knowing, but at the same time, it came with the knowledge he would be on this path forever.

It was no wonder Davy Jones turned so hideous in the end. Even when the promise was kept, there was little happiness to be found to watch the woman you love grow older by the decade and each time, look lonelier. Sadder. Emptier.

"But it's too late for that."

[whitby]

"Oh. Joy. A fatalist."

Once again insouciant. Her eyes rolled and she dropped her shirt back into place with a wrinkle of her nose. Only now was she beginning to fear death. What will her reign be remembered by? Stolen booty and a lost arm. Dark magic and hardly enough Slaying to be counted a success.

"If I am likely to die, must it be in the company of someone so dour? It's never too late for anything, my dear Will." She emphasized the familiarity. A tentative attempt to get a rise from him. Anything but what he was currently giving her.

[pirateblood]

"Says the dying woman." There was little pity to be had here. If she chose to die, he would not hold her hand as she passed away. That wasn't why he was here.

"But you're close to proving yourself wrong on that count."

[whitby]

She tilted her head back against the mast -- closed her eyes. "Tell me. Have you ever jumped and slid down the twenty-seven waterfalls of Damajagua? Naked?" A pause; she did not look to him for his answer. "I have. No life can be counted wasted after that, no matter how short."

And hers was going to be very short indeed if she died tonight. Though she hardly believed her own words. She would feel very wasted if this was the end.

[pirateblood]

"I dueled two men on a spinning water wheel, careening down an island into the ocean. But the waterfalls sounds far more exciting."

And he counted himself envious of the stories he heard, because they were things he could not do. He'd not yet decided where he would spend his next day ashore, because for once, he had nowhere to go to. But he doubted it would be spent careening down any waterfalls in any manner of dress.

[whitby]

"And pray-tell, Captain Turner, were you naked?"

She doubted it, of course. But it seemed to be the proper sort of escalation.

[pirateblood]

"If you're going to die, Miss Whitby, then I'll leave it to your imagination decide."

[whitby]

She held up a finger. Her humour was sporting, but she was clearly growing weaker.

"Captain, sir. Captain Whitby. My girl's a wreck, but I'll keep my title if I am so certainly doomed in your eyes. Now -- let me close mine. Have myself a little rest, and dream up your duel." A chuckled pause. "Your sword, I suppose, was quite impressive?"

[pirateblood]

He would not play into her innuendo. However: "Crafted by the finest blacksmith I know." Himself. "Much more impressive than what was held by the others."

[whitby]

Whitby allowed his puritanical diversion with nothing more than a pout. Oh, how you spoil what fun she had left. Maybe had left. Blast, but if she was going to die she wished the world would just get on with it.

"Tell me won. Even if you did not. Lie to me, if you must."

[pirateblood]

"Defeated them both. They were both put out by it, since they'd been doing that sort of thing longer than I had."

And one of them was dead. And Jack Sparrow... well, he'd never ferried the man to another life. A man like that, he could only assume he was still out there, somewhere.

[whitby]

"Here's a tip to you from me, mate. Experience ain't worth tits on a bull if you don't have that...je ne sais quoi. That spark. That -- calling."

[pirateblood]

Will chuckled, genuinely at that. "I think Jack would have called it a difference of priorities. I spent a lot of time practicing." In reflection, he realized it was perhaps an excessive amount of practicing.

[whitby]

And, like Jack, she parlayed such admitted inexperience into another kind of ignorance: "Ah. I see how it is. You hone one sword before the other. How tragic."