doesnotkneel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doesnotkneel) wrote2018-03-03 09:35 am
doesnotkneel) wrote2018-03-03 09:35 am
Entry tags:
Cape Buena Vista, Cuba, June 1715
They’d been off the coast of the Cape Buena Vista in Cuba on a ship led by a man known as Captain Bramah when the English had attacked.
They called those upon the brigantine the English even though English made up the core of the crew and Edward was English by birth, English in his heart. That counted for nothing as a pirate. You were an enemy of His Majesty (Queen Anne had been succeeded by King George), an enemy of the Crown, which made you an enemy of His Majesty’s Navy.
So when they'd seen the Red Ensign on the horizon, the sight of a frigate foaming across the ocean towards them, figures running to and fro on her decks, what they said was, “Sail ho! The English are attacking! The English are attacking!” with no bother for the small details of their actual nationalities.
Details. Edward hadn't a bloody clue why he was thinking of that as the cannon balls came flying past his ears, smashing into the water behind them. So far. "Hold fast!" he bellowed, gripping a cannon, and--
"SHE'S ON US!"
The English had struck the side of the ship, and Edward went falling to his knees, rolling around, unable to get a grip. Something pierced his arm, pain spidering through his skin-- it was enough to jerk him back into an uneasy consciousness.
He scrabbled to his feet. "Did you see her?" he called, gripping the iron spine that had lodged itself in his biceps and pulling it free. He wobbled towards the edge of the deck to get a sight of the Red Ensign-- someone behind him yelled "Man the cannons!" -- and froze.
There was a man there, on the edge of a plank, a hood over his face. His arms were folded, and he stood still in his robes, his entire demeanour emanating unconcern at the events that were unfolding around him.
For a moment, his eyes met Edward's. What a strange--
"Our helmsman's dead! Someone man the wheel!"
He tore his attention away.
"Kenway! Take the bloody wheel!"
He startled into action, rushing across the deck, ignoring the splinters flying past him and the sound of men screaming. His hands fell upon the wheel, just as his instincts told him to duck. A gout of flame burst not far from his head.
Bloody hell.
He threw the wheel around. The men - those that were alive, at any rate - scrambled across the blood-soaked deck to the cannons. Edward hadn't the foggiest where bloody Captain Bramah was, so he bellowed "Fire!" and watched as their cannon balls tore into the ship, buying them precious time.
By the sound he could tell this ship wasn't the only one - might not even be the main one. Another tore through the waves not far away, and he bellowed again. The heavy lead struck their tormentor and broke it to pieces, its sails coming down with a resounding clash.
They might make it out of here alive after all--
"The magazine!"
"She's going up!"
Screams. Fire. Edward tumbled away from the wheel, his feet skittering over the deck. Grappling for stability again, he looked up, and--
For a moment the man in the hood seemed like an eagle, his robes spread out behind him, his arms outstretched like wings.
Then he landed right on top of Captain Bramah and drove a small blade straight through his heart. The grace of it - the death of it, the way the flames made the blade seem alive... it was breathtaking.
Edward stood there, transfixed, for perhaps a moment too long. The man rose to his feet and his eyes met Edward's again, and then he was moving towards Ed, blade outstretched, and--
The magazine went up. All that gunpowder burst in one, blasting a hole through this ship and the next, but Edward wasn't aware of a goddamned thing about it-- his body hit the water hard, and his mind went blank.
---
He was drifting.
Thoughts flickered in and out of Edward's head. An island. A dark-haired girl, covered in strange tattoos. The top of a building, the wind in his hair. A lady with a French accent. A red-headed woman, much-beloved, yelling and cursing.
("It's not about need, Caroline. I want food that don't make me sick. I want walls that can hold back the wind...")
Of a man with a long black beard, yelling--
Blackbeard.
Thatch.
Edward jerked back to consciousness, spluttering. Thatch. Thatch had warned him about sailing with Bramah, and he'd been bloody right. Ed was going to pay for his greed and his stupidity with his life.
He turned over in the water, no longer a passive weight on its surface. There were fires everywhere. The tell-tale sign of sharks in the water. Blood and dead bodies.
And his hat. His hat was missing.
Edward sucked in a deep breath of air and began to swim. He was not going to end his life as shark chum: he'd make certain of that. Thankfully, he still had enough strength in his limbs, his wounds not too severe, that he could make it across the bay while the sharks contended with easier prey.
He fell upon the beach, relief and joy and exhaustion coursing through his body. He rolled onto his back and felt the sun on the face. A chuckle tore through him. He was alive!
As he fell silent, another noise caught his attention - a groan. Looking over Edward saw that its owner was the robed assassin. He’d come to rest just a short distance away from hime and he was lucky, very lucky not to be eaten by the sharks, because when he rolled over to his back he left behind a patch of crimson-stained sand. As he lay on his back with his chest rising and falling, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps, his hands went to his wounded stomach.
“Was it good for you as well?” Edward asked, laughing. Something about the situation struck him as funny.
“Havana,” the man groaned. “I must get to Havana.”
Edward grinned at him. “Well, I’ll just build us another ship, will I?”
“I can pay you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Isn’t that the sound you pirates like best? One hundred Escudos.”
Hm. Edward sat up, and in the process, noticed a bottle. Maybe if he was lucky, there was some drink in it for him-- no. Empty. “Keep talking.”
“Will you, or won’t you?” he demanded to know.
This was a friendly one, wasn't he? Edward rose to his feet, pleased that his legs could still bear him. "You don't have that gold on you now, do you?"
And suddenly found the barrel of a pistol pressing into his stomach. Edward staggered back, falling flat on his arse on the sand.
"Bloody fucking pirates," the man growled, pushing himself up. He held the gun pointed to Edward's head, his finger curling around the trigger...
Click.
Ah, good to know: as unearthly and graceful as the man seemed, he was not capable of controlling sea, or commanding it not to get his gunpowder wet.
His advantage lost, the killer turned and headed straight for the tree line, one arm still clutching his wounded stomach and the other warding off undergrowth as he crashed into it and out of sight.
For a second Edward just sat there, not believing his good fortune. But he rose again quickly enough. That man had something Edward wanted. That hidden blade.
The outfit wasn't half bad, either.
[[ taken and adapted both from Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag and its novelization. mix and match! and we're finally on game canon. ]]
They called those upon the brigantine the English even though English made up the core of the crew and Edward was English by birth, English in his heart. That counted for nothing as a pirate. You were an enemy of His Majesty (Queen Anne had been succeeded by King George), an enemy of the Crown, which made you an enemy of His Majesty’s Navy.
So when they'd seen the Red Ensign on the horizon, the sight of a frigate foaming across the ocean towards them, figures running to and fro on her decks, what they said was, “Sail ho! The English are attacking! The English are attacking!” with no bother for the small details of their actual nationalities.
Details. Edward hadn't a bloody clue why he was thinking of that as the cannon balls came flying past his ears, smashing into the water behind them. So far. "Hold fast!" he bellowed, gripping a cannon, and--
"SHE'S ON US!"
The English had struck the side of the ship, and Edward went falling to his knees, rolling around, unable to get a grip. Something pierced his arm, pain spidering through his skin-- it was enough to jerk him back into an uneasy consciousness.
He scrabbled to his feet. "Did you see her?" he called, gripping the iron spine that had lodged itself in his biceps and pulling it free. He wobbled towards the edge of the deck to get a sight of the Red Ensign-- someone behind him yelled "Man the cannons!" -- and froze.
There was a man there, on the edge of a plank, a hood over his face. His arms were folded, and he stood still in his robes, his entire demeanour emanating unconcern at the events that were unfolding around him.
For a moment, his eyes met Edward's. What a strange--
"Our helmsman's dead! Someone man the wheel!"
He tore his attention away.
"Kenway! Take the bloody wheel!"
He startled into action, rushing across the deck, ignoring the splinters flying past him and the sound of men screaming. His hands fell upon the wheel, just as his instincts told him to duck. A gout of flame burst not far from his head.
Bloody hell.
He threw the wheel around. The men - those that were alive, at any rate - scrambled across the blood-soaked deck to the cannons. Edward hadn't the foggiest where bloody Captain Bramah was, so he bellowed "Fire!" and watched as their cannon balls tore into the ship, buying them precious time.
By the sound he could tell this ship wasn't the only one - might not even be the main one. Another tore through the waves not far away, and he bellowed again. The heavy lead struck their tormentor and broke it to pieces, its sails coming down with a resounding clash.
They might make it out of here alive after all--
"The magazine!"
"She's going up!"
Screams. Fire. Edward tumbled away from the wheel, his feet skittering over the deck. Grappling for stability again, he looked up, and--
For a moment the man in the hood seemed like an eagle, his robes spread out behind him, his arms outstretched like wings.
Then he landed right on top of Captain Bramah and drove a small blade straight through his heart. The grace of it - the death of it, the way the flames made the blade seem alive... it was breathtaking.
Edward stood there, transfixed, for perhaps a moment too long. The man rose to his feet and his eyes met Edward's again, and then he was moving towards Ed, blade outstretched, and--
The magazine went up. All that gunpowder burst in one, blasting a hole through this ship and the next, but Edward wasn't aware of a goddamned thing about it-- his body hit the water hard, and his mind went blank.
---
He was drifting.
Thoughts flickered in and out of Edward's head. An island. A dark-haired girl, covered in strange tattoos. The top of a building, the wind in his hair. A lady with a French accent. A red-headed woman, much-beloved, yelling and cursing.
("It's not about need, Caroline. I want food that don't make me sick. I want walls that can hold back the wind...")
Of a man with a long black beard, yelling--
Blackbeard.
Thatch.
Edward jerked back to consciousness, spluttering. Thatch. Thatch had warned him about sailing with Bramah, and he'd been bloody right. Ed was going to pay for his greed and his stupidity with his life.
He turned over in the water, no longer a passive weight on its surface. There were fires everywhere. The tell-tale sign of sharks in the water. Blood and dead bodies.
And his hat. His hat was missing.
Edward sucked in a deep breath of air and began to swim. He was not going to end his life as shark chum: he'd make certain of that. Thankfully, he still had enough strength in his limbs, his wounds not too severe, that he could make it across the bay while the sharks contended with easier prey.
He fell upon the beach, relief and joy and exhaustion coursing through his body. He rolled onto his back and felt the sun on the face. A chuckle tore through him. He was alive!
As he fell silent, another noise caught his attention - a groan. Looking over Edward saw that its owner was the robed assassin. He’d come to rest just a short distance away from hime and he was lucky, very lucky not to be eaten by the sharks, because when he rolled over to his back he left behind a patch of crimson-stained sand. As he lay on his back with his chest rising and falling, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps, his hands went to his wounded stomach.
“Was it good for you as well?” Edward asked, laughing. Something about the situation struck him as funny.
“Havana,” the man groaned. “I must get to Havana.”
Edward grinned at him. “Well, I’ll just build us another ship, will I?”
“I can pay you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Isn’t that the sound you pirates like best? One hundred Escudos.”
Hm. Edward sat up, and in the process, noticed a bottle. Maybe if he was lucky, there was some drink in it for him-- no. Empty. “Keep talking.”
“Will you, or won’t you?” he demanded to know.
This was a friendly one, wasn't he? Edward rose to his feet, pleased that his legs could still bear him. "You don't have that gold on you now, do you?"
And suddenly found the barrel of a pistol pressing into his stomach. Edward staggered back, falling flat on his arse on the sand.
"Bloody fucking pirates," the man growled, pushing himself up. He held the gun pointed to Edward's head, his finger curling around the trigger...
Click.
Ah, good to know: as unearthly and graceful as the man seemed, he was not capable of controlling sea, or commanding it not to get his gunpowder wet.
His advantage lost, the killer turned and headed straight for the tree line, one arm still clutching his wounded stomach and the other warding off undergrowth as he crashed into it and out of sight.
For a second Edward just sat there, not believing his good fortune. But he rose again quickly enough. That man had something Edward wanted. That hidden blade.
The outfit wasn't half bad, either.
[[ taken and adapted both from Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag and its novelization. mix and match! and we're finally on game canon. ]]