#rvrnd

[brightongalvan]

The Hundreds X Who Framed Roger Rabbit @thehundreds @hypebeast

[sperviera]

   @rvrnd​ sent:    why greatness? why is goodness not enough?   

   Mercer’s voice, uncharacteristically strained, sounds revealing.  It’s the first thing Jack notices. It doesn’t matter if it betrays a shallow faith, or a plainer dissatisfaction with the captain’s pressing demands;  he sees a crack, and he wants to get in.   “You christians.”   Jack fleers. He rips his compass from the priest’s hands, stares for a moment at the magnetic sway almost racing mad, and not without a flash of disappointment he flicks it closed. They are mid-course for a place out of reach, and for days the Captain has been restlessly studying the maps, the compass as useful as Mercer’s own splintered cross. Why greatness? It is a rather poignant question, if Jack Sparrow were in the mood to answer such a steep misunderstanding.  “Maybe greatness is not the point. Never said it was.” 

   Jack toys with him. Everyone can tell, and not all of his men are sharp enough to tell apart their Captain’s motives.  “But, my good friend, neither is— whatever it is that yer preachin’. That could hardly be farthest from the point. D’you want to know it, the point?” there’s a didactic emphasis in Jack’s slow, unruly laugh. He slumps back onto his chair. He’s toying.  “Eternal life.” Eternal freedom, he means, but does not bother specifying. “That’s a very good point. Not your version, I mean, my version. As we are pursuing it. Eternal life with flesh and bones attached.” Something glints in Sparrow’s eyes, amber-bright, enthusiastic. He runs his tongue over his upper lip, savoring that prospect, and just how transparent its appeal tastes.

   “How does that sound, tempting? Then please stop complaining, and stop talking my crew out of it. I’ve lost all my damn patience for mutinous scumbags.” 

[undepth]

@rvrnd / sc

It’s mostly Caldwell dawdling, prolonging the walk as if he’s avoiding his destination. He isn’t afraid of his home or his wife, but he certainly acts like he is. If the Reverend has anywhere he needs to get to urgently, he’d be wise to cut Jacob loose. Happenstance drew them together, and politeness chained them there. It’s difficult to offend him, either way, it’s just that he forgets how one holds polite conversation. Where does one begin!

‘I think I’d get nervous, speaking in front of all of those people. I suppose you’re used to it, by now?’

[undepth]

“ your hands are trembling. ” @jacob

‘So they are.’

As if he hadn't noticed; detached from his body as he so often is. There's very little point holding his hands steady (old attempts have taught him better), so he curls the left into a loose fist and rests it in his lap, out of sight.

There’s a moment where he may be entirely absent, something glassy washing over his irises and falling away with a few blinks, a little concentration. It seems to Caldwell like the beginnings of madness, so he swallows each symptom as they come to pass. 

‘I wouldn’t concern yourself, Reverend. It’ll pass, as all things do.’

[sperviera]

@rvrnd​ — sender tries to wake receiver.

  Jack Sparrow is not a violent man. He may sleep with a loaded flintlock wedged in the crook of his elbow, bent half-uncomfortably under his satined pillow, but that tells more about the RISK it should keep him from than his own penchant for firing it carelessly. He is not violent. But the chance of the hand brushing with slight concern the flat of his shoulder blade being a friend’s one can only be, in his mind half-asleep and rolling with troubled surface-dreams, slim to none. The touch feels wet. Slimy, even. Like cuttlefish. A weak wail escapes Jack, who struggles slightly, almost swimming. There’s muffled voices, but he cannot tell the words, cannot even tell the language. The ringing in his ears threatens to fold into deep-water silence, but he keep feeling that uncomfortable touch shifting into something more real, and his struggle increases. 

  It’s no use firing a soaked shot, Jack thinks. Water is solid, kind of weighty around him; and the touch is pulling him down to the creased seabed. It’s no use, and Jack Sparrow is not a violent man, but with the ungodly effort of a man come again from his own grave, he sits up and fires. There is no water, actually, save from his own sweat and the steady sound of the waves outside. There is no evil sea-lord’s heavy claim dragging him down, only reverend Mercer trying to wake him up. With uncharacteristic showiness he turns to glance at the steaming hole in the captain’s cabin cedar door, then back at Sparrow. 

  ‘ Commendable reflexes, for a priest. ’  Jack’s crooked simper betrays an apology.  ‘ May I help you,  Reverend ... Somethin’? ’

[lit701]

“hard to imagine such cruelty.”

twin peaks

   𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝚆𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝚃 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙵𝙻𝚈, an expression of controlled surprise, "Is it? I would have thought you well versed in such unfortunate human indulgences, given their frequency in your good work."

   Caroline moves about the chapel cordially, the flat heels of her oxfords ringing on the stone floor. It is a pretty little place, exactly the sort of church that she admires most—an intimate corner where one absconds to cross legs with God. She is somewhat stunning in it, dressed in a loose-fitted cream suit, all seersucker and silk, her dark hair lobbed fashionably short about her ears. The Reverend, of course, is all in black. The contrast seems marvelous to her, a brilliant little joke, though she has a sense that laughter is often a nervous thing for the man before her.

   To ease him, she smiles. Amiable and mild.

   "I confess that I often think of the parable of the walk to the Temple—when Jesus was hungry, and cursed the fig tree that had no fruit on its branches, even though it was not its season for harvest. Such stunning cruelty, when it was He who made the tree, and He who set the seasons."

   Clergymen usually like a little blasphemy, so long as it expresses an interest in showing them some reverence. Familiarity with the scripture is generally enough. He tolerates the implication of the story well, and, internally, Caroline applauds him for his pretty manners. Something of the apple in him, if not the fig itself. What a constant worry it must be, to worship what is so likely to devour or else condemn you as soon as it turns hungry. It is no wonder the poor man's nerves seem fraught, tender as they also appear to her. He lacks the constitution of a Catholic. The though is tickling to her, and Caroline smiles again—this time with her warm, honey-brown eyes, darkened to a richened edge. "As a child it made perfect sense to me, but then children are often cruel. I wonder that you do not think that God is often cruel as well, Reverend—or occasionally cruel, at the very least."

   She is at the particularly pleasing little lancet, head tilted back to allow her to look up at the modest Protestant glass without the shadowed brim of her hat complicating the view. She slips her hands into her pockets with an affected masculine grace and turns across her shoulder to him—a perfect balance of good-natured intelligence and appellate curiosity.  "To truly love a thing, we must love it whole, mustn't we?"

[mrxuqdo3]

@rvrnd

Drei had been walking around, for what seemed to be hours and hours. He was tired, hungry, lost, and most importantly confused. He stumbled with each step he took. He didn’t remember anything exactly, bout where he was or who he was... He didn’t understand what happened. After so many years trapped in a area where he had been left in hiding, he’s emerged. His body had taken form as a human to be as undetectable as possible for being a Journal but along that his mind hid the information along his body to keep him safe. He knew three things:

His name was Drei, 

He had two older brothers Zwei and Eins

He was in his 20s... or at least that’s how he looked.

After walking for at least a mile maybe 3 miles or so, he stumbled upon a church, of which he collapsed at the steps, his body was weak.. So hungry and so thirsty. 

“He...Help..” He called out, his voice was laced with a German accent. Whoever helped this boy was uncertain as he had passed out moments after saying that.

When next he awoke, he was inside and someone was standing over him. He appeared to be in a study of sorts at least he knew that. 

“Vere am I, Vo are you,,, Do,,, Do you haffe any food or Vader?” The journal asked, out of desperation, anxiety, hunger... Anything really.