JACK
It's one of those sweltering mornings in Torchline, one where the temperature has never dipped low enough overnight to cool the world off before the sun rises to simmer the region all over again. The sky is bright and endlessly blue, the docks fairly busy because, believe it or not, it's still the kindest part of the day. Hels call for scraps and for attention, cloud wyrms create patches of artificial shade from the wisps they produce, and Captain Jack Barclay has just ordered a popsicle.
To say that Jack looks worse for wear after the immediate couple of days following his return from Starfall is the sort of understatement that really doesn't need clarification. He stands beneath the little awning in the shade of the stall he's waiting at, sunglasses shading his eyes from the offensive light, shirt unbuttoned and threatening to hang off one shoulder. He's pulled his hair (too long for the season, far too fucking long) into a messy knot, the sunbleached locks still damp from where he'd dunked his head unceremoniously into a water barrel earlier. It had helped, marginally.
The popsicle will help more, though, and he grunts something that sounds close to gratitude as he accepts it from the bemused stall owner, turning to survey the lapping waters and too-cheerful weather with chagrin.
To say that Jack looks worse for wear after the immediate couple of days following his return from Starfall is the sort of understatement that really doesn't need clarification. He stands beneath the little awning in the shade of the stall he's waiting at, sunglasses shading his eyes from the offensive light, shirt unbuttoned and threatening to hang off one shoulder. He's pulled his hair (too long for the season, far too fucking long) into a messy knot, the sunbleached locks still damp from where he'd dunked his head unceremoniously into a water barrel earlier. It had helped, marginally.
The popsicle will help more, though, and he grunts something that sounds close to gratitude as he accepts it from the bemused stall owner, turning to survey the lapping waters and too-cheerful weather with chagrin.
sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
(what the fuck is it doing between your teeth?)
Code stolen from Queen Sky
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
