wooden ships & iron men

this is the time of our great undoing, this is the time that I'll come running: straight to you. for i am captured, straight to you. main | backstory | anecdotes | moodboards | explicit | interactions | art | misc

[theagesofsail]

Because he looked at me as if I was more alive than I last remembered.

[theagesofsail]

They pull the rug from each other's feet like a challenge that neither were ready to back away from; Jack can't help but wonder what brought them to this point, where an undercurrent of curiosity burns within them more than the aftertaste of whiskey and wine. ''you ask too many questions still.''

A siren's song, an innocuous smile; the eye of many storms to come if Jack allows himself to act on mere ambiguities with this brown-eyed beauty of man a with secrets hidden within secrets even as he smiles. Determined but not talkative then, Jack notes. Talkative had been a soft-set little preference because he had wanted at least one truth out of many, and he doesn't miss how the barman is giving more information up than the customer for once. Loose-lipped and drunk on the possibility of hot, heavy sex is not what’s happening here, no matter how much come-hither-sailor-eyes the other is serving here,  But it's the wine. It has to be. Because Jack runs an inquisitive thumb over the fingers that are so determined to stay intertwined with his; and doesn't tear away even in the absence of answers he insists on having. Instead he meanders out of his work station—hands still connected even as distance is put between their bodies, like young lovers ready for the next fiddled tune—and guides the rogue from his chair. ''I'm owed a name at least. And your story beyond these seas; whichever comes first. '' He measures the rogue with a level gaze, and walks so they can leave the drunken heat of the tavern behind them together, ‘‘Lead and I’ll follow for now.’‘ Something about this man makes Jack want to weather against the danger of uncertain waters just to feel the high of his potential survival, once he’s crashed and burned.

[theagesofsail]

To be honest, Gabriel had not been certain he would get this far.

At least not this fast.

To be honest, he was not sure himself what ends he had been meaning to chase when he'd initiated this little game with the barman--Jack, he corrects himself. That was his name. He mentally rolls it in his tongue again and again--Jack, Jack, Jack--and decides that the name, though he can't say for sure why, fitted its owner.

Bold. Gabriel surmises it briefly, concisely.

A boldness that in part arouses that relevant part of him, and in another a curiosity that makes him wonder why Jack suddenly decides to cut their little game short. He dangles the prize in front of him, perhaps a test to see if Gabriel was easy.

Uncomplicated. Quick.

He cannot say for sure what makes him go the other direction only on this particular night, where he usually would take what was freely offered, and he could relish the experience for what it was and he and Jack could go their separate ways and go about the next pursuit of killing time.

He smiles up at Jack--fondly, this he knows, in that way that crinkles the corners of his eyes and softens his eyes into a melancholic brown. He catches Jack's hand in his again, twining their fingers this time despite the rather difficult angle what with the bar between them.

"Will you come with me?"

[the-sea-my-soul-deactivated2025]

Pirate Aesthetic ☠🖤

[theagesofsail]

This is a quiet poem about regret.

[theagesofsail]

Gabriel navigates through the press of bodies, the tavern smelling strongly of mildew and sweat and the touch of tangy ocean salt-breeze that virtually cloys to everything in this area. He feels several hands against his torso and eyes behind his back–offers, he knows this. Normally Gabriel would indulge, but not tonight.

Instead he saunters to the long table by the tavern owner’s bar, with its narrow table-top surface and high, backless chairs that let strangers know he was unwilling to welcome advances, to know to leave a man alone hunched over himself, alone with his drink and his mind. The length of it, taking on an L-shape to match the way the room corners, while the bartender stands behind, polishing a glass in his hand.

A bit too old to be just an errand boy, a bit too young to be the owner, Gabriel decides, eyes immediately gravitating towards the man–it was difficult not to, in his defense. For one, he wasn’t covered in sweat and grime unlike half (himself included) of the patrons at this establishment. He wore a crisp white shirt underneath his brown apron, the sleeves precariously rolled over the forearms for ease of work. Shoulders broad, chest wide, arms undeniably powerful–a young stallion, pleasing to the eye but Gabriel knows he was the stark ideal for throwing out troublemakers, which likely had no shortage of considering the place and the business. And then his face– strong jaw, sharp like rocks, an aquiline nose– hair like wheat in the summer, eyes brilliant and blue–the only spots of color in the otherwise dim and drab interior of the tavern. Gabriel fixates on those eyes– wondering idly at the back of his mind how the color reminds him of the twilight sun over deep ocean waters when the tides were particularly kind to sailors– and the way they dart from the work in front of him to the space around him, scrutinizing, searching–looking for the tell-tale signs of a commotion, but discreet.

Gabriel notes  he taut line of his shoulders and the rigid curve of his back, and of course the concealed weapons–just barely-there and only because Gabriel always knows to look for these things first.

Fine man, he thinks. A switch flips in Gabriel’s mind–a bad habit of his, really, a slave to his whims and fancies especially when he was trying to forget something. Right now, he would provoke a reaction–what it is he wanted, he isn’t quite sure yet–out of this man, he would do something with this evening, have something to think about as he sets sail the very next morning in search of new pursuits.

He straightens his shoulders, his back, flexes out the cricks in his neck as the young bartender moves to attend to his needs.

“What would you like to have tonight?” The bartender asks coolly, his face expression neutral and his lips pulled thinly, evidently wanting nothing more than to close for the night. He puts away the glass and the washcloth and leans his forearms over the table to better speak to Gabriel amidst the commotion around them. Gabriel in turn presses forward, resting his chin on his hand and cocking his head to the side ever so slightly. Tonight he would push his luck–or lack thereof–however far the feeling in his gut would take him. He pulls one corner of his mouth into a smile, meeting the barman’s cold blue gaze, finding himself scrutinized–but he persists nonetheless.

“Can I have you?”

[theagesofsail]

The mulled wine from earlier still warmed some parts of his bloodstream and blurred the edges of Jack’s vision—not enough to hinder his work no matter how morose the night, but it did its job. He can still taste the hint of blood orange to keep himself grounded in the present as the townsfolk danced their worries away, the slight buzz making up for the numbness he cannot nurse with grit and military practice alone.

The suggestive flirt didn’t surprise as much who it came from. The customer he noticed earlier had been braving forth the sea of people, lost in thought in a way that detached him from the world around him. In fairness, Jack pays attention now and can see just why the crowds watched the rogue like a peeled piece of fruit just ready to be devoured: there’s a fierce independence to his strut as if the winds followed his coat tails wherever he willed, his body hard and thick from a life that demanded constant athleticism. Even with clothes in disarray, he’s managed to make best of the asymmetry, directing gazes to his best assets that make quite an impression; weather-bitten or not, this man had no qualms about his scarred countenance and knew that in his dark-haired, unapologetic glory that he was a looker by all means.

A man with presence no matter where he goes, Jack concludes, almost impressed with how the seaman seemed to insist on a theatrical flair no one can deny even while ensuring practicality in his garments. And Jack sees a harness that hinted more about an occupation he can determine with trained eyes, well. The navy was merely a means to an end he found no good in serving indiscriminately. 

Yet in the depths of warm eyes that could’ve reflected the most beautiful sunsets in the world at the edge of high seas, he wants the last bit of that detachment gone to unravel the man’s entirety.

Jack hardly moves from his position, simply crosses his arms and regards the other with neutral interest. “Depends. I only fuck very determined and talkative strangers.”

It doesn’t take the prettiest face to take Jack to bed; all of that meant little to nothing in a tavern where facades and woe intermingled under the guise of celebration, and the alcohol made certain that not all of them were burdened to remember him in the morning after. He reveled in their secrets and agonies instead, held so intimately close to their chests that they break from the confessions that spill in the throes of passion.

It’s not something he recommends, to chase down raw hurt laced with ale and whatever that was important to these people. But addicts don’t choose their poison, and this man’s hurts were good enough to eat like the rest of him. 

“What’s your story?’‘    

[theagesofsail]

Gabriel laughs, downing the rest of his whiskey, savoring the scorching line of heat the liquid left as it made its way down his stomach, mixing in pleasantly with the warmth pooling and gently swirling down in his gut that only had everything to do with the company he currently finds himself in.

He laughs again, more mellowed out now. He hadn’t made up any presuppositions about the barman and how he would take to Gabriel’s shameless forwardness–he likes to be surprised–and surprised he was. Bold and unyielding–just the way he likes them. Gabriel finds himself growing fond of those blue eyes by the minute with the way he cannot help himself from waxing poetic about the way the irises shown, even from under the faint glow of candlelight. The barman catches his gaze–now his eyes remind him of the sea just before a storm, with its swirling, barely-there turbulent blues that forebode of tidal waves just farther out into the coast, if one were to get close enough.

In another stroke of boldness Gabriel takes the barman’s hand, just the slightest touch enough to tell him that they are worker’s hands–rough, calloused, warm. When he feels no resistance, he indulges himself and rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth over the back of the man’s hand just before he brings it up to his lips to kiss it and lets go, slowly, just respectfully enough. Gabriel smiles again as he looks up, carefully decoding the expression on the younger man’s face and finding himself quite uncertain about his conclusion. He decides that the absence of blood in his mouth is already a favorable sign.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

[theagesofsail]

''... Jack.'' A name that's bold and simple enough to hold onto during quiet nights, as insomniacs found company in the moon and stars. His mother had meant it more as a tease than anything—because how romantic can a name like Jack be—but it was her endeared attempt at encouraging his esoteric childhood hobbies, so he's never minded the forgettable simplicity of it all.  He almost wonders why the memory of her grandeur resurfaced as he processes the feeling of warm lips on his skin, belatedly; the brown eyes that watched him were almost... dreamy, made soft by the warm ambiance of their surroundings. It's a rare determination in its own right to be exposed to so many atrocities in their broken world, and still manage to have a gaze that burns at all its little wonders. All-encompassing, like the furthest point of a horizon where the ocean waters were sun-kissed and gentle as it lures in new blood, every day. Dangerous, so dangerous—Jack's heart races, a slave to the siren song of the high seas that calls out to every fiber of his being—something about this man is poisoned honey that he wants to be doused in like a fool in need.

By the time either of them remembers to breathe, Jack had gripped onto the other's retreating hand and pulled, his focus unwavering as the glass falls over and spills what little is left of the whiskey. By then, he had all but forgotten about the raucous laughter and drunken slurs in the tavern, not even concerned about the damnable wooden-counter between their bodies. Instead he's hyper-aware of every curious little detail: the wear and tear of the man's front lapels as he feels the fabric, knuckles grazing against bits of chest hair—the grime and salt on tan skin, so close he can kiss it—and his eyes, oh, the rogue's life-drunk eyes that stirs something hot and heady within Jack as he's watched. "You ask more than you answer, sailor. That won't do.''  

He directs the hand within his own grip, encourages those scarred and surefire fingers to loosen the strings to the front of Jack's white shirt. The implication is clear, fast-paced and conclusive in its entirety, ''Will you be more talkative elsewhere?'' He wants to drink down every last bit of that vivacity. 

[theglowpt2-deactivated20200101]

cottagecore is over lighthousecore is IN

[theglowpt2-deactivated20200101]

sea shanties

maddening isolation

cold and wet

haunted(?)

gas lamps

sturdy boots

homoeroticism

a giant squid is there

[theagesofsail]

[theagesofsail]

Gabriel navigates through the press of bodies, the tavern smelling strongly of mildew and sweat and the touch of tangy ocean salt-breeze that virtually cloys to everything in this area. He feels several hands against his torso and eyes behind his back–offers, he knows this. Normally Gabriel would indulge, but not tonight.

Instead he saunters to the long table by the tavern owner’s bar, with its narrow table-top surface and high, backless chairs that let strangers know he was unwilling to welcome advances, to know to leave a man alone hunched over himself, alone with his drink and his mind. The length of it, taking on an L-shape to match the way the room corners, while the bartender stands behind, polishing a glass in his hand.

A bit too old to be just an errand boy, a bit too young to be the owner, Gabriel decides, eyes immediately gravitating towards the man–it was difficult not to, in his defense. For one, he wasn’t covered in sweat and grime unlike half (himself included) of the patrons at this establishment. He wore a crisp white shirt underneath his brown apron, the sleeves precariously rolled over the forearms for ease of work. Shoulders broad, chest wide, arms undeniably powerful–a young stallion, pleasing to the eye but Gabriel knows he was the stark ideal for throwing out troublemakers, which likely had no shortage of considering the place and the business. And then his face– strong jaw, sharp like rocks, an aquiline nose– hair like wheat in the summer, eyes brilliant and blue–the only spots of color in the otherwise dim and drab interior of the tavern. Gabriel fixates on those eyes– wondering idly at the back of his mind how the color reminds him of the twilight sun over deep ocean waters when the tides were particularly kind to sailors– and the way they dart from the work in front of him to the space around him, scrutinizing, searching–looking for the tell-tale signs of a commotion, but discreet.

Gabriel notes  he taut line of his shoulders and the rigid curve of his back, and of course the concealed weapons–just barely-there and only because Gabriel always knows to look for these things first.

Fine man, he thinks. A switch flips in Gabriel’s mind–a bad habit of his, really, a slave to his whims and fancies especially when he was trying to forget something. Right now, he would provoke a reaction–what it is he wanted, he isn’t quite sure yet–out of this man, he would do something with this evening, have something to think about as he sets sail the very next morning in search of new pursuits.

He straightens his shoulders, his back, flexes out the cricks in his neck as the young bartender moves to attend to his needs.

“What would you like to have tonight?” The bartender asks coolly, his face expression neutral and his lips pulled thinly, evidently wanting nothing more than to close for the night. He puts away the glass and the washcloth and leans his forearms over the table to better speak to Gabriel amidst the commotion around them. Gabriel in turn presses forward, resting his chin on his hand and cocking his head to the side ever so slightly. Tonight he would push his luck–or lack thereof–however far the feeling in his gut would take him. He pulls one corner of his mouth into a smile, meeting the barman’s cold blue gaze, finding himself scrutinized–but he persists nonetheless.

“Can I have you?”

[theagesofsail]

The mulled wine from earlier still warmed some parts of his bloodstream and blurred the edges of Jack’s vision—not enough to hinder his work no matter how morose the night, but it did its job. He can still taste the hint of blood orange to keep himself grounded in the present as the townsfolk danced their worries away, the slight buzz making up for the numbness he cannot nurse with grit and military practice alone.

The suggestive flirt didn’t surprise as much who it came from. The customer he noticed earlier had been braving forth the sea of people, lost in thought in a way that detached him from the world around him. In fairness, Jack pays attention now and can see just why the crowds watched the rogue like a peeled piece of fruit just ready to be devoured: there’s a fierce independence to his strut as if the winds followed his coat tails wherever he willed, his body hard and thick from a life that demanded constant athleticism. Even with clothes in disarray, he’s managed to make best of the asymmetry, directing gazes to his best assets that make quite an impression; weather-bitten or not, this man had no qualms about his scarred countenance and knew that in his dark-haired, unapologetic glory that he was a looker by all means.

A man with presence no matter where he goes, Jack concludes, almost impressed with how the seaman seemed to insist on a theatrical flair no one can deny even while ensuring practicality in his garments. And Jack sees a harness that hinted more about an occupation he can determine with trained eyes, well. The navy was merely a means to an end he found no good in serving indiscriminately. 

Yet in the depths of warm eyes that could’ve reflected the most beautiful sunsets in the world at the edge of high seas, he wants the last bit of that detachment gone to unravel the man’s entirety.

Jack hardly moves from his position, simply crosses his arms and regards the other with neutral interest. “Depends. I only fuck very determined and talkative strangers.”

It doesn’t take the prettiest face to take Jack to bed; all of that meant little to nothing in a tavern where facades and woe intermingled under the guise of celebration, and the alcohol made certain that not all of them were burdened to remember him in the morning after. He reveled in their secrets and agonies instead, held so intimately close to their chests that they break from the confessions that spill in the throes of passion.

It’s not something he recommends, to chase down raw hurt laced with ale and whatever that was important to these people. But addicts don’t choose their poison, and this man’s hurts were good enough to eat like the rest of him. 

“What’s your story?’‘    

[theagesofsail]

Gabriel laughs, downing the rest of his whiskey, savoring the scorching line of heat the liquid left as it made its way down his stomach, mixing in pleasantly with the warmth pooling and gently swirling down in his gut that only had everything to do with the company he currently finds himself in.

He laughs again, more mellowed out now. He hadn’t made up any presuppositions about the barman and how he would take to Gabriel’s shameless forwardness--he likes to be surprised--and surprised he was. Bold and unyielding--just the way he likes them. Gabriel finds himself growing fond of those blue eyes by the minute with the way he cannot help himself from waxing poetic about the way the irises shown, even from under the faint glow of candlelight. The barman catches his gaze--now his eyes remind him of the sea just before a storm, with its swirling, barely-there turbulent blues that forebode of tidal waves just farther out into the coast, if one were to get close enough.

In another stroke of boldness Gabriel takes the barman’s hand, just the slightest touch enough to tell him that they are worker’s hands--rough, calloused, warm. When he feels no resistance, he indulges himself and rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth over the back of the man’s hand just before he brings it up to his lips to kiss it and lets go, slowly, just respectfully enough. Gabriel smiles again as he looks up, carefully decoding the expression on the younger man’s face and finding himself quite uncertain about his conclusion. He decides that the absence of blood in his mouth is already a favorable sign.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

[theagesofsail]

Gabriel navigates through the press of bodies, the tavern smelling strongly of mildew and sweat and the touch of tangy ocean salt-breeze that virtually cloys to everything in this area. He feels several hands against his torso and eyes behind his back–offers, he knows this. Normally Gabriel would indulge, but not tonight.

Instead he saunters to the long table by the tavern owner’s bar, with its narrow table-top surface and high, backless chairs that let strangers know he was unwilling to welcome advances, to know to leave a man alone hunched over himself, alone with his drink and his mind. The length of it, taking on an L-shape to match the way the room corners, while the bartender stands behind, polishing a glass in his hand.

A bit too old to be just an errand boy, a bit too young to be the owner, Gabriel decides, eyes immediately gravitating towards the man–it was difficult not to, in his defense. For one, he wasn’t covered in sweat and grime unlike half (himself included) of the patrons at this establishment. He wore a crisp white shirt underneath his brown apron, the sleeves precariously rolled over the forearms for ease of work. Shoulders broad, chest wide, arms undeniably powerful–a young stallion, pleasing to the eye but Gabriel knows he was the stark ideal for throwing out troublemakers, which likely had no shortage of considering the place and the business. And then his face– strong jaw, sharp like rocks, an aquiline nose– hair like wheat in the summer, eyes brilliant and blue–the only spots of color in the otherwise dim and drab interior of the tavern. Gabriel fixates on those eyes– wondering idly at the back of his mind how the color reminds him of the twilight sun over deep ocean waters when the tides were particularly kind to sailors– and the way they dart from the work in front of him to the space around him, scrutinizing, searching–looking for the tell-tale signs of a commotion, but discreet.

Gabriel notes  he taut line of his shoulders and the rigid curve of his back, and of course the concealed weapons–just barely-there and only because Gabriel always knows to look for these things first.

Fine man, he thinks. A switch flips in Gabriel’s mind–a bad habit of his, really, a slave to his whims and fancies especially when he was trying to forget something. Right now, he would provoke a reaction–what it is he wanted, he isn’t quite sure yet–out of this man, he would do something with this evening, have something to think about as he sets sail the very next morning in search of new pursuits.

He straightens his shoulders, his back, flexes out the cricks in his neck as the young bartender moves to attend to his needs.

“What would you like to have tonight?” The bartender asks coolly, his face expression neutral and his lips pulled thinly, evidently wanting nothing more than to close for the night. He puts away the glass and the washcloth and leans his forearms over the table to better speak to Gabriel amidst the commotion around them. Gabriel in turn presses forward, resting his chin on his hand and cocking his head to the side ever so slightly. Tonight he would push his luck–or lack thereof–however far the feeling in his gut would take him. He pulls one corner of his mouth into a smile, meeting the barman’s cold blue gaze, finding himself scrutinized–but he persists nonetheless.

“Can I have you?”

[theagesofsail]

The mulled wine from earlier still warmed some parts of his bloodstream and blurred the edges of Jack's vision—not enough to hinder his work no matter how morose the night, but it did its job. He can still taste the hint of blood orange to keep himself grounded in the present as the townsfolk danced their worries away, the slight buzz making up for the numbness he cannot nurse with grit and military practice alone.

The suggestive flirt didn't surprise as much who it came from. The customer he noticed earlier had been braving forth the sea of people, lost in thought in a way that detached him from the world around him. In fairness, Jack pays attention now and can see just why the crowds watched the rogue like a peeled piece of fruit just ready to be devoured: there's a fierce independence to his strut as if the winds followed his coat tails wherever he willed, his body hard and thick from a life that demanded constant athleticism. Even with clothes in disarray, he's managed to make best of the asymmetry, directing gazes to his best assets that make quite an impression; weather-bitten or not, this man had no qualms about his scarred countenance and knew that in his dark-haired, unapologetic glory that he was a looker by all means.

A man with presence no matter where he goes, Jack concludes, almost impressed with how the seaman seemed to insist on a theatrical flair no one can deny even while ensuring practicality in his garments. And Jack sees a harness that hinted more about an occupation he can determine with trained eyes, well. The navy was merely a means to an end he found no good in serving indiscriminately. 

Yet in the depths of warm eyes that could've reflected the most beautiful sunsets in the world at the edge of high seas, he wants the last bit of that detachment gone to unravel the man's entirety.

Jack hardly moves from his position, simply crosses his arms and regards the other with neutral interest. ''Depends. I only fuck very determined and talkative strangers.''

It doesn't take the prettiest face to take Jack to bed; all of that meant little to nothing in a tavern where facades and woe intermingled under the guise of celebration, and the alcohol made certain that not all of them were burdened to remember him in the morning after. He reveled in their secrets and agonies instead, held so intimately close to their chests that they break from the confessions that spill in the throes of passion.

It's not something he recommends, to chase down raw hurt laced with ale and whatever that was important to these people. But addicts don't choose their poison, and this man's hurts were good enough to eat like the rest of him. 

“What’s your story?’‘    

[theagesofsail]

Gabriel navigates through the press of bodies, the tavern smelling strongly of mildew and sweat and the touch of tangy ocean salt-breeze that virtually cloys to everything in this area. He feels several hands against his torso and eyes behind his back–offers, he knows this. Normally Gabriel would indulge, but not tonight.

Instead he saunters to the long table by the tavern owner’s bar, with its narrow table-top surface and high, backless chairs that let strangers know he was unwilling to welcome advances, to know to leave a man alone hunched over himself, alone with his drink and his mind. The length of it, taking on an L-shape to match the way the room corners, while the bartender stands behind, polishing a glass in his hand.

A bit too old to be just an errand boy, a bit too young to be the owner, Gabriel decides, eyes immediately gravitating towards the man--it was difficult not to, in his defense. For one, he wasn’t covered in sweat and grime unlike half (himself included) of the patrons at this establishment. He wore a crisp white shirt underneath his brown apron, the sleeves precariously rolled over the forearms for ease of work. Shoulders broad, chest wide, arms undeniably powerful--a young stallion, pleasing to the eye but Gabriel knows he was the stark ideal for throwing out troublemakers, which likely had no shortage of considering the place and the business. And then his face-- strong jaw, sharp like rocks, an aquiline nose-- hair like wheat in the summer, eyes brilliant and blue--the only spots of color in the otherwise dim and drab interior of the tavern. Gabriel fixates on those eyes-- wondering idly at the back of his mind how the color reminds him of the twilight sun over deep ocean waters when the tides were particularly kind to sailors-- and the way they dart from the work in front of him to the space around him, scrutinizing, searching--looking for the tell-tale signs of a commotion, but discreet.

Gabriel notes  he taut line of his shoulders and the rigid curve of his back, and of course the concealed weapons–just barely-there and only because Gabriel always knows to look for these things first.

Fine man, he thinks. A switch flips in Gabriel’s mind–a bad habit of his, really, a slave to his whims and fancies especially when he was trying to forget something. Right now, he would provoke a reaction–what it is he wanted, he isn’t quite sure yet–out of this man, he would do something with this evening, have something to think about as he sets sail the very next morning in search of new pursuits.

He straightens his shoulders, his back, flexes out the cricks in his neck as the young bartender moves to attend to his needs.

“What would you like to have tonight?” The bartender asks coolly, his face expression neutral and his lips pulled thinly, evidently wanting nothing more than to close for the night. He puts away the glass and the washcloth and leans his forearms over the table to better speak to Gabriel amidst the commotion around them. Gabriel in turn presses forward, resting his chin on his hand and cocking his head to the side ever so slightly. Tonight he would push his luck--or lack thereof--however far the feeling in his gut would take him. He pulls one corner of his mouth into a smile, meeting the barman’s cold blue gaze, finding himself scrutinized--but he persists nonetheless.

“Can I have you?”

[theagesofsail]

Through gospel and vivid memory.

The tavern announces a full-house with loud and boisterous song, and Jack weaves past the crowds with the ease of someone who’s far too familiar with the waltz of drunks. He mentally notes down the faces and accents that stuck out from the norm: The singsong quip of merchants that were comparable to the hollow chime of coin, the harpist that strummed with more vigour than sense after ale, some castaways who were so far gone in the haze of intoxication, all of which were so persuasive than illustrative in speech that Jack’s interest simply melted away.

He would’ve spared more patience on a better day; link their stories to the maps beyond town and maybe even appreciate how they each sold a fantasy. Storytellers use lies to tell the truth after all, and their account of events used to matter in his younger years. He figured that maybe if he stayed long enough in places like these, where customers were loose-lipped and drunk enough to divulge just parts of their world, he’d have listened to enough answers to match at least one to his many questions. Perhaps it would help him remember bits and parts of a hometown that used to be golden and safe through the verbal recollections of others; those who have seen it in passing, too, that can help him find a truth if not the whole truth.

Except he cannot remember without pain that he finds no solidarity in feeling, not with this crowd.

Jack joins dark-haired Braig behind the wooden counter to lapse into the bartending duties he will no doubt retire from eventually, and forces a bitter pill in reminder that he’s found an answer to visualise life beyond the shallow waves around their town, now, in the navy he had so little love for. That it was enough for now to move forward more relentlessly than ever in spite of everything.

So when he sees it in someone else’s eyes that day, the little crack of pain that breaks the veneers people hold so close and dear in a world so vast and cold, he wipes a glass and reminds himself not to project onto a stranger so finely groomed. 

Jack asks, casual in professionalism even in an atmosphere that did not require it. “What’ll you have?’‘ 

[theagesofsail]

Gabriel navigates through the press of bodies, the tavern smelling strongly of mildew and sweat and the touch of tangy ocean salt-breeze that virtually cloys to everything in this area. He feels several hands against his torso and eyes behind his back--offers, he knows this. Normally Gabriel would indulge, but not tonight. 

Instead he saunters to the long table by the tavern owner’s bar, with its narrow table-top surface and high, backless chairs that let strangers know he was unwilling to welcome advances, to know to leave a man alone hunched over himself, alone with his drink and his mind. Gabriel has had enough such moments to have what he likes to call his “regular seat” over at this port--tonight, a man sits next to it. While it may be polite to choose one of the other many seats along the table, Gabriel likes old comforts, no matter how seemingly inconsequential.

An unfamiliar figure, he notices immediately. For one, he wasn’t covered in sweat and grime unlike half (himself included) of the patrons at this establishment--going well with his immaculate clothes--smooth and no frays to be found along the edges, pressed neatly, dyed in what Gabriel knows from his own trade were more expensive colors of import--fancy, but not enough to draw too much attention to himself. But the air of nobility permeates his cadence, nonetheless. Too good to mingle with the rest of the filth in this shithole, aren’t you? Not a very common sight over on this side of the bay, but folks know better than to ask.

A civil servant, he guesses--ranked, most likely-- judging from the size of him (good, hefty) and the taut line of his shoulders and the rigid curve of his back, and of course the concealed weapons--just barely-there and only because Gabriel always knows to look for these things first.

The man says nothing as Gabriel seats himself, only his fine blond hair visible at a respectably quick glance as he sits hunched over the tabletop, staring at nothing and absentmindedly swirling the almost-empty glass in his hand. Then he lifts his head, gesturing to the bartender for a refill, and Gabriel sees.

Fine man, he thinks. Powerful, firm jaw and aquiline nose. Strong brows, eyes blue in the way the twilight sun hits the ocean when the sky was particularly clear and the tides at ease.

A switch flips in Gabriel’s mind--a bad habit of his, really, a slave to his whims and fancies especially when he was trying to forget something. Right now, he would provoke a reaction--what it is he wanted, he isn’t quite sure yet--out of this man, he would do something with this evening, have something to think about as he sets sail the very next morning in search of new pursuits.

He straightens his shoulders, his back, flexes out the cricks in his neck and coolly lifts the glass (set in front of him by the bartender, who knew Gabriel well enough than to ask any more what the man wanted) to his lips, drains the liquid and sets the glass on the counter. He hunches over, lowering his head to the level of the man next to him.

“Buy your next drink?”

[theagesofsail]

Through gospel, song and vivid memory.

The tavern announces a full-house with loud and boisterous song, and Jack weaves past the crowds with the ease of someone who's far too familiar with the waltz of drunks. He mentally notes down the faces and accents that stuck out from the norm: The singsong quip of merchants that were comparable to the hollow chime of coin, the harpist that strummed with more vigour than sense after ale, some castaways who were so far gone in the haze of intoxication, all of which were so persuasive than illustrative in speech that Jack's interest simply melted away.

He would've spared more patience on a better day, link their stories to the maps beyond town and maybe even appreciate how they each sold a fantasy. Storytellers use lies to tell the truth after all, and their account of events used to matter in his younger years. He figured that maybe if he stayed long enough in places like these, where customers were loose-lipped and drunk enough to divulge just parts of their world, he'd have listened to enough answers to match at least one to his many questions. Perhaps it would help him remember bits and parts of a hometown that used to be golden and safe through the verbal recollections of others; those who have seen it in passing, too, that can help him find a truth if not the whole truth.

Except he cannot remember without pain that he finds no solidarity in feeling, not with this crowd.

Jack joins dark-haired Braig behind the wooden counter to lapse into the bartending duties he will no doubt retire from eventually, and forces a bitter pill in reminder that he’s found an answer to visualise life beyond the shallow waves around their town, now, in the navy he had so little love for. That it was enough for now to move forward more relentlessly than ever in spite of everything.

So when he sees it in someone else's eyes that day, the little crack of loss that breaks the veneers people hold so close and dear in a world so vast and cold, he wipes a glass and reminds himself not to project onto a stranger so finely groomed. 

Jack asks, casual in professionalism even in an atmosphere that did not require it. ''What'll you have?'' 

[theagesofsail]

Salt, sand and iron.

A tremor moves down Gabriel's hands, left over right and right over left and again and again as fresh water runs through his palms, his fingers--the water running a faded, crystalline red until it is clear again and Gabriel is certain that the sharp stench of seasalt and something faintly metallic no longer clings to his hands.

He shakes the excess water off then inspects his hands--familiar in all their rough edges, the scars and the bruising on the knuckles--but he doesn't quite shake off the feeling of being in someone else's body. Gabriel notices the red underneath his fingernails don't quite come off.

Carefully and methodically he slips each ring back into designated fingers--his mother's ruby ring onto his left pinky, the sterling silver owl skull onto his left forefinger, and then a simple iron band on the forefinger of his right.

Routine. It's what grounds him, he reminds himself.

The latest raid had cost him more than the calculated risk he took--loot enough to cover the wages he'd promised his men, but not nearly enough to make up for the body count.

Briggs. Anderson. Starling. Hooper. Smith. Gates. Santos. Cruz. Linderman. Haner.

Gabriel remembers. He remembers everyone that comes, and everyone that goes. He recounts their names in his head, recalls their faces. All good men, lost.

Gabriel breathes out a deep sigh and gathers his wits about him. He would say prayers for these men--even if his words were to fall to nothing but the dark and harsh waves of the ocean. He would say prayers for these men.

He inspects himself in the mirror--splashes his face with water and sweeps his hair back towards his nape. Presentable, he deems. He would say his prayers--but perhaps, later, in the quiet and in the dark, when his own demons have been silenced and drowned in drink. He straightens his back and strays off to look for a pint.

[theagesofsail]

Burnt ink and uncharted territory.

The night is sharp with salt carried by the ocean's breeze as the stars align, and a lone man drags a stick through the sand with thoughtful focus, occasionally sipping at a chalice of warm, mulled wine. It's easy for time to slip away like this when Jack Morrison's alone by the beach, drawing line after line until his mind stops on a geographical problem long enough for the waves to come and take it all away. The natural timer was by no means perfect considering the ocean's random intervals and temperamental design; but he challenges himself anyway, pushing his limits in a way that the navy would not ask of him in a world that needed more soldiers than scholars.

It's the reminder is what snaps him out of it: he'll be a soldier boy like everyone else once his training is complete, even if his hands were calloused by more ink than gunpowder-rage, his heart once set for something beyond the wars that spread across the seven seas. That dream died young in the fire containing all the parchment and maps in his father's study, where the man had stood so steady and still in the face of knowledge lost. Jack remembers the smell of burnt ink and tears, being inconsolable but receiving no true consolation anyway until home was reduced to charred wood and an unmarked grave.

Maybe the lack of answers did something to him, stirred a rebellion that he carried all the way to his military enlistment. At any rate, gunpowder is far more manageable when chased with wine.

He heads for the tavern for what should be his last few refills, closes the broken compass that served more nostalgia than use in his latest problem etched in sand, and lets the ocean take that away too.

[theagesofsail]