JACK
Flora must have good eyes to spot The Ark at the very time of day she's born to sail. But then she's always had an eye for her, and Jack knows as much, so he doesn't try to hide behind the soft orange fringe of clouds or the dazzle of the last light. Instead he sails as he's always done - bold and unapologetic, and whilst he trusts that they aren't going to hit the Sugartide (because he's emphatically ordered as much to the fiery redhead at the ship's core), it certainly looks like they will.
The Captain's voice rings out above the others as they draw close enough to almost kiss the smaller vessel, Jack visible in the rigging rather than at the wheel where Murphy is looking impassive as ever (though his knuckles are a bit whiter than usual). The sails snap and the dark lacquer of the wood creaks, but they do not collide with Flora and the Sugartide. They glide abreast of her, galleon to sailboat, and it's with a combination of magic and skill that The Ark draws to a halt and a hover.
Jack's boots hit the deck as he drops from the rigging, the sound solid and yet unexpectedly light, and he straightens with the breeze tugging at the soft linen of his shirt, left half unbuttoned in the heat. He's chewing thoughtfully at the end of a sprig of peppermint bark as he approaches the rail, steps slow, hair half-lifted into an unruly top knot, the rest left sunbleached and loose around his shoulders.
Leaning against the rail, rings glinting (all but in the white space against one of his pinky fingers), he regards Flora with cold, kohl-lined eyes and an expectant raise of his brows. "Lemme guess," he rumbles, gesturing to the deck behind him. "Mine's bigger, an' you don't wanna be overheard."
The Captain's voice rings out above the others as they draw close enough to almost kiss the smaller vessel, Jack visible in the rigging rather than at the wheel where Murphy is looking impassive as ever (though his knuckles are a bit whiter than usual). The sails snap and the dark lacquer of the wood creaks, but they do not collide with Flora and the Sugartide. They glide abreast of her, galleon to sailboat, and it's with a combination of magic and skill that The Ark draws to a halt and a hover.
Jack's boots hit the deck as he drops from the rigging, the sound solid and yet unexpectedly light, and he straightens with the breeze tugging at the soft linen of his shirt, left half unbuttoned in the heat. He's chewing thoughtfully at the end of a sprig of peppermint bark as he approaches the rail, steps slow, hair half-lifted into an unruly top knot, the rest left sunbleached and loose around his shoulders.
Leaning against the rail, rings glinting (all but in the white space against one of his pinky fingers), he regards Flora with cold, kohl-lined eyes and an expectant raise of his brows. "Lemme guess," he rumbles, gesturing to the deck behind him. "Mine's bigger, an' you don't wanna be overheard."
we've gone way too fast for way too long
and we were never supposed to make it half this far
and we were never supposed to make it half this far
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
