politestpirate | OOM: Pearl Repairs

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OOM: Pearl Repairs

The sky is cool, grey, and occasionally misting, but that just means when you are working hard you can keep warm enough.

And there is certainly plenty of work to be done. The deck of the Black Pearl has been cleared off, with debris and pieces that are large enough to reuse stacked carefully. All over is the gleam of cut and exposed wood, the splintered edges cut and smoothed in preparation for patching sections. One mast has been cleared of charred and torn sails and rigging, the canvas and rope set in one area to work on before it can be sent back up.

One of the current priorities, however, is fixing the stern section of the ship, the back wall of the captain's cabin, that took some of the worse damage from the kraken-

Scottish autumn nights can start to get chilly, afterall.

Party thread style, slowtimes more than welcome.

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He's not one to stay still at a single project -- he's the captain, after all. He's been from the bilges to the bowsprit over the last little while, seeing people settled in their work and bundling oilcloth into the cabin for the windows, at one point.

(It'll do until the plexiglas arrives.)

Be that as it may, at the moment, Jack Sparrow's set himself up in a cleared space on the quarterdeck, one with a good view of the decks and the water approach. A patch-rack's braced nearby, and canvas is being stretched on it and treated for use on the sails.

Jack himself is going over a sail, with a length of heavy, oiled silk attached to a canvas-needle held in his teeth.

"Come all ye young fellows who follow the sea..."

Mercer can't sing for shit. This has never stopped him.

He's walking along one of the few unbroken stretches of quarterdeck railing, one foot before the other and arms held out for balance.

"With a way, hay! We'll blow the man down!"

"Mmph mmmmph mm."

He pauses, and with an elaborate gesture removes the needle and thread from his mouth, looking up at the man on the rail.

"Not enough wind to blow you over, mate."

"Not yet," he agrees with a bright grin; it's three more steps until he reaches the splintered end, and then he drops into an easy crouch, still balanced atop the railing with arms across his knees.

His fingers drum on his elbows restlessly as he asks, "Is she yours, or someone else's around here?"

"She's mine," he says -- instantly and very firmly. Jack rises to his feet, swaying, and looks at the other man with interest.

"The name's Sparrow -- Captain Jack Sparrow, and she's the Black Pearl."

"And it's a distinct pleasure to meet you both, Captain," he says, swiftly doffing his knit cap and nodding in what could pass for a bow. As he jams it back onto his head, he rises to his feet and steps off the rail onto the deck, as casual as walking down a flight of stairs despite the four-foot fall.

"She's come a long way. Are these all your crew?"

He turns to look out over the deck at Wellard, the winged demon, the five or so small orange men, and the others drifting in and out from time to time and task to task.

Jack grins.

"Suppose you could say that."

He swings around again, adding,

"Don't believe I caught your name, mate."

"'Cause I didn't give it." Still grinning. He tugs at the sides of his cap, fingers rolling around a loose string and tucking it under the edge. "It's Mercer lately."

He doesn't even blink an eye at the 'lately.'

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, mate."

"So..."

And this is rattled off at an impressive clip.

"I'm here, she's here, there're plenty of other people here and construction might not be much of my thing but I've got quick hands," he flashes them palm-out, "quick feet, ways of getting around and a good set of limbs. And all my own teeth. Where do you need me?"

He's been eyeing the ship on occasion ever since she turned up, and it's a damn shame to see her in disrepair.

(More of one to see her landlocked, but that goes without saying.)

Jack grins wickedly at him.

"Belowdecks, at the rails--" this part is said with a speaking glance toward the rail that Mercer's just been walking-- "or aloft, mate?"

"Huh."

He drops his head back to eye the sails consideringly, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back onto his heels.

"Not below. There's not enough room to move and I like the air up here better. In fact," and he matches Jack's wicked grin, "the more air the better. Aloft. The rails after that if they still need it."

One mast has been dealt with thanks to Elda and Wellard's work, and Wellard's hard at work again on the second, with Crowley.

Jack gestures grandly to the mizzen, near at hand.

"Hope you're good at climbing, mate."

Mercer gives a theatrical gasp, as if mortally affronted.

"What? Of course I am! The hell kind of question is that, man?"

And then it vanishes as the grin comes sliding back and he hops onto the rigging, scaling it for the barest handful of feet before swinging around to vault higher onto the mast.

If something seems to flicker near his heels for an instant, it's probably just a trick of the light.

He throws his head back in a shout of laughter, and peers upward to follow Mercer's progress.

"Apologies, I'm sure."

"You're forgiven." Easy, if magnanimous, as he springs higher, turning a somersault as he goes.

(Showoff.)

He lands just above the stay, sandaled feet braced against the mast and one hand twined in the tangle of rigging. The jib sail's gone, the stay cracked and the other sails twisted into a knot. Mercer hops another foot higher before easing a tentative foot onto the stay to test it.

Satisfied it'll hold his weight even in its poor condition, he lets go and calls down to Jack, "You want all this to come down?"

"Want's not the word, mate," he says, very dryly. "But it's got to come down-- can't stay like it is, savvy?"

"I savvy."

It's not swift this time, how he walks further out onto the stay and takes a seat. Not for him, anyway. Mercer's feet swing as he leans over and snatches up part of the tangled ropes to begin examining them, turning them over and around in his hands to follow the winding knot.

Thoughtfully, "Want and need. That's good. I like it. You'd be surprised how many people don't get that semantic distinction, captain."

"People don't get a lot of things," Jack advises him, just as dryly as before. "It's a thing what's worth keeping in mind."

"Oh, I do," he reassures him, cheerful, as he plucks at one loop with an oddly delicate motion before starting to unwind the knot. "If I didn't I'd never get any work done. You got anything sharp down there you could toss up?"

This earns him a rather curious stare.

"... you're wanting me to throw something sharp at you, mate?"

An eyebrow.

Actually, more like an Eyebrow.

"Yes?"

Mercer holds up the knot and wiggles it to punctuate.

Jack shrugs.

"As you'd have it, then."

In one swift movement, he's pulled a knife from his boot and sent it spinning through the air, straight at Mercer's shoulder-- or the mast behind it.s

Mercer's expression doesn't change, except for the sudden unnatural sharpness to his eyes as he watches the knife spin toward him.

And then --

Thwap.

At the last second, a hand shoots out to grab the hilt from midair.

"Thanks!" he calls, and flops out flat on the stay as he wiggles the flat of the blade into the knot.

"... now that's very interesting." Jack grins at him, and takes a step back for a better angle of view.

"Need anything else, mate?"

OOM: Pearl Repairs

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