Fanfic on My Own Fic(tion)
Nov. 8th, 2012 01:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustStarted entering and organizing the "Trap-Weed" prequel notes I took over WFC, finally. The result, thus far:
“Found somethin' for ye below-decks, Cap'n,” the bo'sun told him, with a wink. And thus, with little warning, Solomon Rusk's last great set of troubles began.
“Something” soon proved a man in rags, enchained, with a possessed saint's face and a cough that racked him stem to stern, shaking him like a high wind. He attempted to rise as Rusk pushed the door to, barely making his feet before falling back again, panting slightly. This creature's feverish eyes were the same shade as silver pennies bleached almost to pale green by tarnish; they so well caught the light, Rusk all but thought he might be able to see himself mirrored in them, if he only moved closer—and wanted to suddenly, the impulse deep-set, like a bone in the throat.
“You put me at a...disadvantage, sir,” the man managed, after two attempts at speech, both equal-exhausting. To which Rusk replied: “You'd seem to've done that yourself, already, given where I find ye.” Continuing, as the man arched a fine-cut brow. “We've searched this whole brig for cargo and found nothing, thus far, t' warrant our investment. Would you be its full extent, in terms of interest?”
“Having not seen the rest of this ship since they...brought me aboard, I...couldn't possibly say.”
“Well. And what am I t'do with you, exactly, if y'are?”
The man snorted, setting himself off once more. Then snapped back nonetheless, far too haughtily for any ordinary prisoner: “As you please, I'm sure! I obviously can't prevent it.”
A bit too sharp to count as showing proper respect, though since Rusk could only assume the poor bastard was in pain, he forgave it. Yet here the Captain felt his own eyebrows hike, fast as sparks striking from cold flint, and peered closer, suddenly aware how that shadow the man was trying to hide beneath his close-held blanket was, in fact, the rim of a collar—cold iron over puffed scar, with portions of it adhering yet to the sadly tormented skin below.
The man did not seem to notice; he was deep-engaged in trying not to cough again, pale face flush-blotched with sudden, indignitous scarlet. But he looked up against nonetheless, when Rusk told him: “You interest me, 'sir'.”
“I...do not mean to,” the man replied, apparently regaining some sense of caution, too late by far.
“No more you do, I'm certain, and yet—maybe I ain't wasted me men's time s'much after all in playing out this lark, now I recognize yer true nature. For any prize that comes wi' a man-witch already netted in its hold is one well worth the taking, in my estimation.”
Obviously quick-touched by Rusk's implication, the man perhaps wished to say more—opened his prim mouth to, at least, baring teeth like a cat, a harbinger of equal-sharp words to come. But even as passion undid his better judgement, sheer sickness overtook the rest; those pale eyes rolled up and he fell forwards, into Rusk's arms.
Frail, and slim, and steely. He smelled ill after his captivity, but Rusk wondered what lay under that. His cabin had a tub, liberated from some Moghul vessel and sold in the market-place on Veritay Island, back near where his kin had slave-holdings; to fill it with hot water would take more effort than simply sluicing the man with a bucket of brine, but it wasn't as though Rusk had so much to do he could entirely discard the notion of entertainment.
So: "Bo'sun," he called back, through the open door. "Them as takes the articles may come along; kill the rest. And make ready t' cast off sharpish, in good time, that the Bitch not get restless."
"Yes, Cap'n."
With that, Rusk hoisted his newest possession, and left--a bad choice, as it turned out, but he wasn't to know. Nor would that knowledge have stopped him, anyhow.
For we must do as our natures dictate, seeing we cannot do otherwise, he would think, later. And conjure up the bitter memory of a smile on lost lips, so ghostly now, he barely remembered what such an expression should feel like.
“Found somethin' for ye below-decks, Cap'n,” the bo'sun told him, with a wink. And thus, with little warning, Solomon Rusk's last great set of troubles began.
“Something” soon proved a man in rags, enchained, with a possessed saint's face and a cough that racked him stem to stern, shaking him like a high wind. He attempted to rise as Rusk pushed the door to, barely making his feet before falling back again, panting slightly. This creature's feverish eyes were the same shade as silver pennies bleached almost to pale green by tarnish; they so well caught the light, Rusk all but thought he might be able to see himself mirrored in them, if he only moved closer—and wanted to suddenly, the impulse deep-set, like a bone in the throat.
“You put me at a...disadvantage, sir,” the man managed, after two attempts at speech, both equal-exhausting. To which Rusk replied: “You'd seem to've done that yourself, already, given where I find ye.” Continuing, as the man arched a fine-cut brow. “We've searched this whole brig for cargo and found nothing, thus far, t' warrant our investment. Would you be its full extent, in terms of interest?”
“Having not seen the rest of this ship since they...brought me aboard, I...couldn't possibly say.”
“Well. And what am I t'do with you, exactly, if y'are?”
The man snorted, setting himself off once more. Then snapped back nonetheless, far too haughtily for any ordinary prisoner: “As you please, I'm sure! I obviously can't prevent it.”
A bit too sharp to count as showing proper respect, though since Rusk could only assume the poor bastard was in pain, he forgave it. Yet here the Captain felt his own eyebrows hike, fast as sparks striking from cold flint, and peered closer, suddenly aware how that shadow the man was trying to hide beneath his close-held blanket was, in fact, the rim of a collar—cold iron over puffed scar, with portions of it adhering yet to the sadly tormented skin below.
The man did not seem to notice; he was deep-engaged in trying not to cough again, pale face flush-blotched with sudden, indignitous scarlet. But he looked up against nonetheless, when Rusk told him: “You interest me, 'sir'.”
“I...do not mean to,” the man replied, apparently regaining some sense of caution, too late by far.
“No more you do, I'm certain, and yet—maybe I ain't wasted me men's time s'much after all in playing out this lark, now I recognize yer true nature. For any prize that comes wi' a man-witch already netted in its hold is one well worth the taking, in my estimation.”
Obviously quick-touched by Rusk's implication, the man perhaps wished to say more—opened his prim mouth to, at least, baring teeth like a cat, a harbinger of equal-sharp words to come. But even as passion undid his better judgement, sheer sickness overtook the rest; those pale eyes rolled up and he fell forwards, into Rusk's arms.
Frail, and slim, and steely. He smelled ill after his captivity, but Rusk wondered what lay under that. His cabin had a tub, liberated from some Moghul vessel and sold in the market-place on Veritay Island, back near where his kin had slave-holdings; to fill it with hot water would take more effort than simply sluicing the man with a bucket of brine, but it wasn't as though Rusk had so much to do he could entirely discard the notion of entertainment.
So: "Bo'sun," he called back, through the open door. "Them as takes the articles may come along; kill the rest. And make ready t' cast off sharpish, in good time, that the Bitch not get restless."
"Yes, Cap'n."
With that, Rusk hoisted his newest possession, and left--a bad choice, as it turned out, but he wasn't to know. Nor would that knowledge have stopped him, anyhow.
For we must do as our natures dictate, seeing we cannot do otherwise, he would think, later. And conjure up the bitter memory of a smile on lost lips, so ghostly now, he barely remembered what such an expression should feel like.
