1. Arrival;

a – in the snow;

[ Jack comes to slowly, nestled beneath a tree outlining a sort of clearing – not that it happens to be all that clear, with all the snow. It isn’t the creeping daylight that pulls him from his rest, but the cold. His clothing, while layered and attention catching with a smart little scarf and bright yellow coat, are made with lighter fabrics, linen and cotton, meant to be breathable in warmer climates. But it is evident, quite quickly, that he’s not in Nassau anymore.

He scrambles to his feet, snarling at the snow beneath him as if he means to intimidate it into retreat, and when that doesn’t work, he looks around. Trees, snow, and in the distance, smoke. The pirate calls out, loudly, ]

Hello? Is anyone out there? Anne?

[ If there’s smoke, there’s someone. He shoves his hands into his armpits to warm them, and sets off in the direction of what he hopes is some measure of civilization. ]

b – at the feast;

Is it always so hard to get a straight answer out of him?

[ Jack asks with his mouth full, jabbing his fork in the air, in Methuselah’s general direction. He'd tried interrogating the man before fixing his plate, until it quickly became clear that his efforts were futile. It’s a good thing for everyone that he’s starving, then, and wolfing down what he can, while he can, until he’s turned over to the wolves. By the looks of some of the others around here, that may not be strictly a figure of speech. ]

If he knows to have all this prepared, he must know how we’ve suddenly arrived halfway across the world, yes?

b. Corrupted lungs;

[ Cold is not something that Jack Rackham deals with very well, even in the best of circumstances. As a young man, he left England for the Caribbean, never to look back. The weather where he was born was not the reason, but it was among many that made the decision an easy one. It’s been more than a decade now, so he’s gotten used to feeling the sun on his skin, even during the cooler months.

All this to say, he’s not having a very good time here. He's not just trudging through snow, something he thought he would never have to do again, but fighting with the air itself. It’s so thick with cold, it’s like falling into a lake through the ice, as if his lungs are filled with piercing cold themselves. As he traverses through the place, back towards a modest cabin (more of a shack, really) that he’s posted himself up in, he has to breathe through the mittens he’s scrounged up, to keep the air from freezing him from the inside out.

He’s looking down at his feet, making sure that he doesn’t slip on the ice, instead of up at the sickly-looking haze, and doesn’t realize until his lungs are suddenly burning, with a sudden, wild heat that brings him to his knees. Even after the mist drifts elsewhere, Jack hacks and coughs, spitting blood onto the snow, and clawing at the ground to right himself and finding only (you guessed it) more goddamn snow. When he looks up, still wheezing with the pained expression of a dying animal, there’s a figure, dark and obscured through the heavy fog, but human, or at least something like it. ]

Over here! [ More coughing, more blood. Fuck, it burns. ] A hand, [ hack ] if you would.

c. Sharp claws;

You’re bleeding, it’ll smell you.

[ That’s his justification for keeping the door closed, when someone asks for entrance, on account of a crazed wildcat prowling around, because as long as he stays here and stays quiet, it doesn’t have to be his problem. And that is how he’d prefer it, because he’s not so sure this little shack will hold up to a large cat attack, if it’s got a mind to get in.

...but someone getting mauled and bleeding out even more right in front of his door could invite more. He rubs his temples, and asks through the door: ]

It is close?

d. wildcard;

[ or choose your own adventure! You can PM me or hit me up at dorsquee if you have any questions or want to plot something! ]