JACK
Jack will never say it, but there's something quite freeing about knowing you've only got a limited time with which to do and go wherever the hell you please, before prudence dictates staying in one place for the indefinite future. And with The Ark more agile than she's ever been, the captain is taking full advantage of the flying aspect of his ship, and so whim and a good, northbound gale has taken him back up towards the Greatwood.
The forest doesn't hold the best memories for him, its true, between the murder and all the void shit, but it's still new enough that it bears checking out further, especially when it comes to business opportunities. He's sure that the fae can't all be antiquated, mischievous little souls - there's got to be some real corruption in there somewhere, and if it exists, Jack will find it and shake hands with it.
What that looks like right now, though, is the captain seated in the shade of a two storey tavern overlooking the gentle ebb and flow of the river flowing beside it, a drink before him and a bit of parchment in his hands. Upon said parchment he's written a PoEm, if one can call it that - a single line to a static little shit that equates to:
Vox. I don't know if you know how, but I would highly recommend you go fuck yourself.
Folding the paper in crisp lines and angles, before long, Jack has crafted himself a little paper aeroplane to bear his missive. Giving it a jaunty tail twist and a flick with one finger, he lets it fly lazily away across the river where it lands gently in the current, ready to be swept out to sea.
The forest doesn't hold the best memories for him, its true, between the murder and all the void shit, but it's still new enough that it bears checking out further, especially when it comes to business opportunities. He's sure that the fae can't all be antiquated, mischievous little souls - there's got to be some real corruption in there somewhere, and if it exists, Jack will find it and shake hands with it.
What that looks like right now, though, is the captain seated in the shade of a two storey tavern overlooking the gentle ebb and flow of the river flowing beside it, a drink before him and a bit of parchment in his hands. Upon said parchment he's written a PoEm, if one can call it that - a single line to a static little shit that equates to:
Vox. I don't know if you know how, but I would highly recommend you go fuck yourself.
Folding the paper in crisp lines and angles, before long, Jack has crafted himself a little paper aeroplane to bear his missive. Giving it a jaunty tail twist and a flick with one finger, he lets it fly lazily away across the river where it lands gently in the current, ready to be swept out to sea.
it's not your fault that you're always wrong
the weak ones are there to justify the strong
the weak ones are there to justify the strong
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
