politestpirate | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

aj_crawley

"Yeah, I just don't want it to catch on the, um."

He waves a hand blankly at the next yard below them for a few moments.

"...Fore-...course yard?" he hazards. "Since a, I haven't checked that one out for, you know, integrity or anything, and b," he continues, patting the furled sail, "this whole thing might come unravelled. And - well."

For the first time, Crowley lowers his head to look at Wellard over the tops of his sunglasses - which, really, is a mean trick to play on the boy whilst they're up in the rigging, but... well, Crowley'd catch him if anything happened. Probably.

Then, one arm gripping the yard, he bends just enough to wrap the other around the top of the coiled sailcloth, and - with a very slight "Oof," - straightens his knees once more. The rope tying the sail to the mast goes slack.

He raises an eyebrow.

From:

politestpirate.livejournal.com

.... Riiiiiiight. As if the wings were not enough. Wellard raises an eyebrow-

But you do not survive being up in the rigging during a hurricane by having weak hands. (Or when being tossed all over the world via magic, for that matter.)

.... Crowley picking up the sails nearly tops those, however. Wellard stares.

(His hands do have more survival sense, however, and hold on.)

"Alright, then."

From:

aj_crawley

"Okay."

Crowley lowers the sails until they're hanging from the mast, and then looks down again. The ratlines, the normal mode of ascent and descent, are rather ensnared with the buntlines used to lift the next sail beneath Crowley and Wellard. Clear enough for an unencumbered man to climb up and down, yes - but less easily navigable for anyone carrying what Crowley's going to be. Anyone who won't be properly able to see where they're stepping,

Hm.

"Okay," he says again.

"I'm going to go down - " he points, " - about halfway to the bottom of our sail, before where the ropes get all caught up. Then you detach it from here, and I'll get it," he illustrates with hand-gestures, "over my shoulder."

From:

politestpirate.livejournal.com

He nods slowly, looking from Crowley down to the lower spar and ratlines.

"You'll be able to handle the wieght, when it drops, then?" Wellard eyes the sail, then moves over to be ready to until the final connection.

"Once we get this down..." He eyes the spar, then the tangled mess of the ratlines, and shakes his head wryly.

"Won't be any sortage of what next to do, for a while."

From:

aj_crawley

"Well," he says wryly, gently patting the fore-mast, "she's not going anywhere."

If his hand lingers for a moment, fingers fitted to whorls in the dark wood, it's probably only because Crowley is charting his way down.

After a moment, he shifts his grip to the ratlines and steps off the footrope, beginning the short descent with one hand and one foot to either side of the folded sail. Halfway to the lower yard he stops, and reaches forward to pull himself and the ratlines closer in to the mast - whilst the other hand adjusts the heavy canvas where it lies against his shoulder.

As an afterthought, Crowley winches in his wings; his shirt flickers briefly as the dark feathers vanish into his back.

"Right," he calls up. "Er, ready whenever."

From:

politestpirate.livejournal.com

... Jack has a lot of interesting friends. That is the best way to put it, really.

Wellard nods to Crowley, hands already working on loosening the last connection. The knots loosen, with the rope connecting to the sail already starting to pull away with the weight of the canvas below. He moves free, watching the ropes.

"On its way- be careful, sir!"

From:

aj_crawley

The "Oof" is substantially louder this time, as the sail drops and its full weight is transferred, joltingly, to Crowley's shoulder. The ratlines sway alarmingly, nearly knocking Crowley into the mast, and he reaches out again to steady himself whilst imagining quite fervently that the immense roll of sturdy cloth weighs very little at all.

A few seconds later:

"Got it."

Then there's a second thick rustle, much like the sound of the sail as it fell, and Crowley's wings re-appear, one to each side of the canvas along his back.

From:

politestpirate.livejournal.com

Wellard winces slightly when the sails drop on Crowley-

He is really hoping as well that there is no immediate crash-splat, so when Crowley stabilizes, and the wings come out, there is an audible sigh of relief from the spar up above.

"... Good."

From:

aj_crawley

Getting airborne this time is a little trickier, but it's still a better option, in Crowley's opinion, than attempting to navigate the maze of ratlines with the unwieldy bundle over his shoulder. A few readjustments, a moment's untangling of hands and feet from lines, and then a faint tremor runs up the mast as Crowley kicks backwards, spreading his wings as he clears the rigging.

The ends of the sail, the trailing gaskets and ties... don't.

Ever see a running dog suddenly, and abruptly, reach the end of its leash?

Yeah.

From:

politestpirate.livejournal.com

"-Hell."

One of the trailing lines is caught up and tangled in the mess of ratlines just below. Wellard is already dropping down to make his way there, to see about freeing the rope-

From:

aj_crawley

- but Crowley's already backbeating frantically, twisting around in order to yank the tangled line free. Hovering in place (or close enough), he can do - has done before, with a tip of the hat and a jaunty wink to such concepts as physics and necessary anatomy. But waiting around for Wellard whilst on increasingly intimate terms with an exceedingly heavy and awkward sail is... not something he's about to try.

And with a final grunt, a last determined tug, the end of the sail comes free again, dropping to hang from Crowley's shoulder once more, leaving him free to begin his descent. Only...

Only the abrupt fall's caused it to slip sideways a bit, half off his shoulder and half onto his wing.

The deck's getting closer, and that flapping sound just got a lot more erratic.

From:

river_meimei

And the deck's not empty.

River's head turns upwards, slowly, and her eyes widen.

"Swap out the grav boot," she says to the sky, low and urgent, under the heavy frantic beating of Crowley's wings.

From:

politestpirate.livejournal.com

The tangled rope slips free, thank ~~God~~fully. Crowley is free to land down on the deck safely-

Or not. Wellard blinks, spotting River right in his path.

Not Good.

Disasterous, even.

"Miss River! Get- get down! Crowley, there's..."

He winces.

"Dodge! Hard-a-port!"

From:

aj_crawley

From:

river_meimei

(This thread has been conveniently subtitled for your viewing enjoyment.)

River did, for the record, have the sense to dodge aside at the last minute.

Unfortunately, she dodged in the same direction as Crowley's last desperate attempt at veering.

Oops.

From:

politestpirate.livejournal.com

Wellard is already climbing down the last of the rat-lines- Down is always easier than up, particularly when you can skip the last section and drop down to the deck itself.

"Are you two alright?"

From:

aj_crawley

After a few seconds' silence, a lone casket rolls unharmed from under the heap of sailcloth and black feathers.

It's eventually followed by a hand.

"I'm okay!"

From:

river_meimei

The world may never know if River managed to avoid being splatted by a sail-encumbered demon through luck, skill, or ethereal intervention. Possibly some combination of all three.

She's curled up on her knees, head defensively cradled in her arms, hair and skirts spreading across the deck -- and tucked beneath the bedraggled arch of one black wing, unharmed.

Slowly, she sits up.