#captbarbossa

@captbarbossa

The Scottish Lowlands: a place both foreign and home to the woman. Clarice closed her eyes and inhaled the chilled air that smelt of long grass and musk that lingered off the moors that littered the vast landscape. When she opened her eyes she could see the village in the distance that she once called her own. The woman never thought she would return but when she got word her brothers had wished to return home and help their fellow clans, Clarice knew she had to stop by. So many years had passed she wondered if they would recognize their younger half sibling.

“Hector,” the Scotswoman called out, looking over her shoulder and watching him follow the path behind her. “The village is just’ o’er the hill.” Her eyes followed him until he caught up, a smirk upon her marred features. She turned to face him, bringing her form close to his before straightening out his jacket and belts. “Are yeh certain ta be meetin’ my family?” A pause followed by a small sigh. “Well…what is left o’ it. Meh bràthairs.”

Another pause before her smile returned. “Yeh are goin’ ta love em’ or despise em’, mo ghràdh. No’thin in between.” At that she let out a rather hearty laugh before hooking her arm with his, starting their journey to the village that had grown quite a bit since she was there last. As they walked up and into the town, Clarice was giving short stories of her childhood; where she fell out of a tree trying to scare her brothers, where she learned to use a bow and arrow with her uncle, the spot where a boy named Cal tried to kiss her and she broke his jaw and three ribs. Her stories stopped short when a horse and carriage came down the path, causing the redhead to quickly get off the trail and put Hector between the horse and her as it passed.

 “Dinnae trust those creatures…”

 Once it was gone she continued on the path with her lover en tow, both of them taking in the village before them. Well, there were certainly more pubs this time around. “Aw, there,” she pointed to an old tavern with plenty of noise emitting from it. “Always found em’ in there. It is a start.” Clarice did well to ignore the looks the two pirates were receiving from the locals; pirates weren’t often seen in Drumfries, considering they had to sail up the River Nith. However, she did catch sight of a few elders who were eyeing her, trying to figure out if that was the young Newhart girl they had seen so many years ago. 

The younger woman could already feel Hector’s apprehension and it only amused her. She chuckled when they reached the entrance, hearing a lively crowd inside. Clarice stopped Hector, bringing her lips to his in a kiss, whispering a small thank you for not wearing the wig and the British hat. “Yeh know how Scots feel aboot ta British.”

 When the two entered it felt misplaced. A thought of a domestic life came to her mind, making her wonder what her life would have been like if her father had not become a sailor and her mother had not died. Would she follow in her mother’s footsteps? Stay at home, take care of the kids, and care for her husband? She did not care for such a thought. Emerald eyes scanned the patrons but did not see the familiar faces of her brothers. She proceeded to find the bartender, asking him if he knew the two men. His ears perked and he was suddenly intrigued with the redhead speaking Gaelic to him. Clarice chuckled and gave a nod when he asked if they were kin. The bartender rounded the counter rather quickly and brought her into a solid hug. Clarice cleared her throat and gave the man light tap on his back; she wasn’t much of a hugger with strangers.

“We’ve heard stories of yeh, lass! Go en su’prise em in ta back!”

  With Hector behind her she made her way to the back room, slowly entering in without knocking. Her eyes brightened when she caught sight of the two heads facing her; backs turned to the two pirates.

 “Look at those two ugly blokes, takin’ up all the finest Scotch.”

The two men slowly turned around to see who would dare come in on their private card game only to insult them. It took a moment but the first one stood up quickly and shouted a childhood nickname she had not heard in decades.

“Lang may yer lum reek! Our wee sister!”

It was then the other rose with some difficulty, standing a good 6’7” and 255 of pure stocky muscle. Pure unintelligible Gaelic came from his mouth as he rushed on over to the slender pirate. Her 5’11” stature appeared small compared to her twin brothers. More Gaelic gibberish was being spewed as he easily picked up his sister, giving her a tight squeeze.

 “Seamus! Dinnae break me, lad!” She laughed as he put her down; apologizing while running a large hand through messy red locks that matched hers in color. The other twin laughed and gave her a big hug too before taking a step back to size her up. “I suppose yeh grew a few inches, wee sis.” Clarice merely shook her head with a smirk. “The scars,” he motioned to her face, “Yeh tryin’ ta look like Da?”

“Thank ye, Sean.” She ignored the other statement. “I see yeh grew out n’ not up.” The three laughed together for some time before Seamus slowly noticed a man standing behind his sister, looking entirely out of place and nothing like a Scotsman.

“Cò an duine grànda seo?” The bulkier of the twins remarked with a sneer upon his face.

“Now, now Seamus…dinnae use ugly words ta describe a man.” Both brothers glowered past her, staring at Hector with intent to maim. Clarice put a hand on each of their rather sturdy chests, preventing them from taking a step further. “Mo bhràithrean… this be Captain Hector Barbossa.”

“A…friend?” Sean questioned with some confusion.

“Yes…but also my husband. Mo ghaol.” Clarice then took a step away from her brothers and moved to the side. Seamus went off in Gaelic, asking her when the hell did she get married and why would she marry a man like…this? Clarice had to listen hard before shutting him up with a hand in the air.

“Sean…Seamus… the weddin’ was simple. Yeh know I would hae invited both ye’ if I was able.” She then went into Gaelic so Hector could not understand what she was saying. Once she was done she looked to her lover and gave an apologetic smirk accompanied with a small head nod.

“Hector, my brothers Sean and Seamus. As yeh can see, Seamus is missin’ an eye. That is how yeh can tell the two apart.”

Weathered yet elegant fingers tapped lightly against the worn wooden railing as emerald hues looked off into the distance, noting how bright the sun reflected off the calm waters of the Caribbean Sea this morning. A brow arched high when she heard the familiar gait approaching her. Instinctively her lips curled into a small smile to the welcomed noise but she remained with her back to her lover.

make margarethe suffer! | accepting.

          Margarethe was trying. She was trying very hard, but that man -- he tested her at every turn. She would never survive this damn voyage if she kept losing her temper -- arguing with Barbossa, shoving him away every time he got near, on more than one memorable occasion throwing his own apples at him -- and she knew it. So she tried. She did her best to be acquiescent, to be (if she dared) charming. Hadn’t softening men towards herself been one of her great skills? Why not use it on him? But at every turn, he found some new way to enrage her, some new insinuation or insult, and it was going to push her past the outermost limits of her sanity, she just knew it.

          A deep pull of a breath in. She could endure this, she thought, as he made an irritating production of showing her around the cabin. Let him play the host, make mockery of courtesy with his captive, at least he could --

          “-- and me berth,” he was saying. “Perhaps, this evenin’, Lady Tremaine, you’d care to join me there--” and Margarethe felt the snap as her control broke. He had done it again.

captbarbossa​

How it was that the fog did nothing to alleviate the heat, Ozias could not say and did not care to. The sun had disappeared behind a dense cover of off-white but the heat remained. It clung to him with a sticky determination, sweat saturating his clothes, valuable moisture leaving his body that a man in his position could not afford to be losing. Not in a frail little lifeboat with the ship and crew he’d called home and fellows in burning pieces two days behind him and what little water he’d had already gone. 

He lay in the belly of the little vessel, feeling a crab scuttle over the toe of his boot. The poor castaway resisted the urge to kick it away, having opted to remain very still, and wait.

There was little hope of rescue, the oars of the boat had been lost, and the thirst would soon drive him mad before killing him. Ozias held no false fancies about his situation. He was going to die, and he was waiting for it. The romantic in him always thought that perhaps he’d have a few words or thoughts before the time of his death. A lament on friends lost, or an addmitance of his sins before he gave himself up to the Lord’s judgement. But he found that he could not muster the effort for much more than the occasional grimace, the sensation of his head splitting and his throat being grazed with rocks was quite enough to keep him there, as quiet as a lamb. 

               ❝     Oh no, mon ami, I do not mean to be rude. But you see,                          I am on a bit of a tight schedule and would like to depart                        as soon as possible. If it is silver you require, or perhaps                        another metal you prefer-- perhaps new ship sails, from                        the looks of things-- this I can provide.  It is as they say,                        money makes the world go 'round.     ❞  

          It would be a brief trip back to Paris to check on the dearest woman,           Gabriella. She who had raised him, had encouraged to flea to Paris           with his beloved Nicki, and she who he had made into his very first           fledgling to save from a fate of sickness and poor health-- death,           inevitable.