Once upon a very long time ago, a pirate with a magical compass found his way to another land and won the affections of fair Idunn. She knew he was a wanderer of both foot and heart but she saw enough in him worth preserving that she gave him what he had always sought, the means to immortality. In time, he was given one other gift borne of Asgard, not nearly so great as his first gift, but important to him nonetheless. His beloved vessel, the Black Pearl was granted the enchantments given to the ships of the gods, able to leave the confines of his one world and join the stars.
Captain Jack Sparrow escaped the advancement of his civilisation and survived. With carefully selected crew, including his first mate who was the one man for whom he had succeeded in retrieving one more apple, he sought wonders in the universe. There came a day where he discovered his precious compass was not only a means to finding what he desired, but that it could be used to predict certain events. Provided that was what he desired.
The idea of something precious being lost forever, a fate that was all too frequent in the history of the Caribbean, spurred him to seek out the most dangerous of places. Across the years, he visited worlds on the verge of destruction. There he collected things; sometimes rescued people if he had the Pearl. At other times he travelled alone in a silly little space dinghy or whatever vessel he had got his hands on. Sometimes he met people who wanted him to deliver messages or items, people who did not want to leave their world or could not but wanted something of them to survive. That was how he became, among everything else he was, a postman.
It was also how he discovered he was not the only one hopping between apocalypses. Only, she wasn’t doing it in the same order.
Ferethon. The village was going to be devoured by a great monster in about an hour. Jack had no idea what it would look like or where it would come from, but his doodles and compass checks had told him that much. He had stolen in and collected what he could. On a hill outside of the village he had found a campfire, embers still warm. He couldn’t see anyone about and so had rekindled the flames for himself to have a meal.
One bite of freshly cooked kekka meat was enough to distract him. The knife rested at his throat out of nowhere.
@dontcallmeloki
