#oftheranger

[thorst]

[tyrantinapetticoat-blog]

💌

Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT. [historical; unsent note]

The guards tell me that my trial is being brought forward; whence, I do not know. I find myself wondering how I got here, which step along the way led me down this path into this cell. I wonder had I not taken this road, if I would still have met you. 

Goodbye, Charles.

[blacksailsandredhair-blog]

™

“Look at me, I’m Charles fucking Vane. I think I’m this tough, dangerous man, but a little blonde with a ring full of fucking keys can turn me into a kitten with a bat of her pretty little eyelashes. I might be a good fucking captain, but I spend half my time arguing with my fucking quartermaster over almost everything so nothing ever gets done on time. Oh, and I like to wander around with my shirt off all the time just so everyone remembers who the alpha fucking male is on this fucking crew” 

[tyrantinapetticoat-blog]

♀️ //sorrynotsorry um let's say.. Nassau historic note sent by runner version

[in a messy scrawl delivered by a snivelling pirate waiting impatiently for the note to be read]

Charles,

I bribed this man with the promise you would provide reasonable recompense.

Captain Lowe has me locked up in a cottage on the southwest corner of the island. I know not his plans, but I do not think he will suffer me to remain whole.

You know I would not ask your help had I not the greatest need of it.

[ink smudges, a few crossed out words]

E.

[tyrantinapetticoat-blog]

✎

from xx | @oftheranger
// accepting!

Eleanor shifts on the fur-covered mattress, giving a small, almost inaudible sigh of content as she edges closer to the man, her hand sliding up his chest. The fire crackles warmly behind her, but she doesn’t stir further until she hears him murmur something against her hair. Her brow creases as she tries to work out his words; his deep voice sometimes made it hard to decipher, and she thinks perhaps the fog of sleep has addled her hearing somewhat. She can’t figure it out, though; there was a lilt to his words that she is certain she’s heard before, Spanish perhaps, but whatever he’d said, it certainly hadn’t been in a tongue she understood.

Her eyes flicker open, blinking in the dim light, and look up to see him gazing at her. “What? If you want to say something to me, doesn’t it make sense to say it in a language I understand?”

[fornassau]

"do you want to tell me the truth, this time ?"

{ for Flint or either canon or pirate Thomas, from your Morbid Curiosity meme}

Lord Hamilton scoffed, leaning up against one of the many shelves of his precious library so he could look at him in disbelief. They might have come from two completely different social classes, but boy did Captain Vane have some balls on him. After being captured and brought to England for a more brutal and public reprimand than anything comparable to the pirate trials in the Caribbean, Thomas only wanted to help him. If he hadn’t stepped in, hadn’t somehow convinced his overbearing father that this solution may possibly be the right one, Vane would have been dead already.

Naively, Thomas still saw a future for New Providence Island. He saw a future for Nassau that didn’t all end in horrifying murder. With both pirates and lords at each others throats, he was taking a big risk on Vane. He knew of his reputation. He knew of the absolute barbarisms the man had committed and yet he still had hope he could change. He thought circumstance had turned him into the crude and rough man he was today. If he was shown a little kindness, who knew what could possibly become of him?

For this little meeting of theirs, he knew he wouldn’t even have a chance in hell of being respected with his powdered wig on. He’d hoped without it, even if he was dressed in finery that he could be more approachable and seen more as something akin to a common man. The wig was sitting atop a faceless brass head on his desk. But the question he’d thrown at him was almost insulting.

“ I *am* telling you the truth, Captain Vane. “ And at least he showed respect enough to still call him a captain. “ If I could just show others that men such as yourself have the ability to change, I could save you from the gallows and god knows what else! Sure you could survive in a brig at sea, but can you survive the relentless torture that will come if they throw you into a dungeon somewhere? “ Now he was getting frantic, taking bolder steps toward him in his growing frustration. “ You walk out that door, and those men will drag you off. They will break you before they even think about hanging you! “

Now he was set in an absolute pout as he averted his gaze and hung his head, his voice slightly choked. “ I am trying to save you. “

[sicutcanis]

@oftheranger :

It wasn’t much of a gift, but Charles had never really bothered with birthdays before. Not knowing when his own was, the significance of the things had never really taken root in his mind. But it seemed like something that mattered to Jack, or had mattered once, and when the Ranger’s latest prize had turned out an only slightly water-damaged copy of ‘Hamlet,’ it seemed the kind of thing that might please his quartermaster, and it’d fit in his pocket easy enough besides.

Now wrapped in a rather sad and ancient piece of cloth, Vane shrugs as he passes the little package to his friend.

“Happy birthday.” It’s said gruffly and through a cloud of tobacco smoke, but one corner of his mouth pulls into a smirk nonetheless.

Jack Rackham has never been one for birthdays, truth be told. His father forgot more of them than he’d been sober enough to remember — and most of the day previous, in his youth, had been spent in the church for Christmas.         But this twenty-sixth day of December brought something unexpected. ( Besides the fact that he was unaware Charles even knew what the day meant to him ). The gift is pressed into his hands and Jack can only stare at it, stunned into silence. Fingers hover – hesitate to unwrap the cloth as sceptical gaze wanders up to meet that of his captain and best friend.        ❝ Chas, I – ❞   rare as it is, Jack Rackham finds himself without the words to express how much this means to him. Eyes fall back to the gift with a wide grin turned wider upon reading the title. He’s silent for a moment more until the quote comes to him,    ❝ Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you. ❞

[jackrxckham]

™

Send ™ and my muse will do a poor imitation of yours.  |  Queued Response

Instantly he throws himself down into a chair, raising his legs to prop his feet on a nearby table, hand held as though smoking a cigar. There’s a deliberate pause as he thinks about achieving Charles’ tone, dropping his voice as he speaks. “What the fuck you talking about, Jack?” There’s a vague attempt at mimicking the drag of the cigar, but its too flamboyant to ever resemble his captain. “Can’t you see I’m brooding about Eleanor?” He huffs then, drops his legs and rises to his feet, attempting to stand menacingly. “Fuck her. Let’s fight. Flint’s back on the island.”