Post by JAMES NORRINGTON on Oct 12, 2010 12:38:13 GMT -5
At first glance, he would seem to fit right in: a ragged state, a slight drunken stagger...a hint of smell that suggested lack of a recent bathing. I mean, that was normal, wasn't it? He probably didn't smell half as bad as the others who stumbled about this town until the sun broke the darkness. Yes, he did seem quite the match to Tortuga-looking like he actually belonged. But had anyone who had assumed him as so would be, for the most part, entirely wrong. Had they actually gone up to him and conversed, they would've found a completely different story. One of tragedy and misery, of spite and hatred. At least, to him that's what it was mostly compromised of. So who was this man, so out of place yet so strangely fitting in?
James Norrington.
No, not Commodore. Not anymore. He had resigned after his failure, his tragedy. The hurricane had ravaged him in a way James had never experienced before. He hadn't been prepared for it. Losing his ship, his entire crew...his life. When he had washed up upon the shores of Tortuga, he had been so thankful for land he didn't even seem to realize where exactly he had landed. Misery had torn him up as badly as the hurricane, and had followed him ever since. There was no use in returning to what he once had loved; the life that he had given everything to have. The life where he was comfortable and in control. His failure had tortured him constantly, scarring the man for who knew how long. Now James had turned to Tortuga, reluctantly, for any sort of salvation. However intoxicating it might've been.
A dirty navy jacket (the first jacket he had ever received upon earning a title-a prize James would never relinquish) sat on his hunched shoulders, the bricade worn and grimy. A now off-white shirt covered most of his upper half, save for a rip which had made it a few inches below his collarbone, showing off a bit of skin. His outfit was very much the same since he had been a proper man just....dirtier. Much dirtier. He had made the decision to disown his hat and wig-it merely posed as an incoveniance, resting uncomfortably disheveled his head. And now his brown hair fell from hiding, shaggy locks dangling from his head. Most were held back by a tattered leather ribbon, a few random strands managing to wriggle free. In his time spent here he had grown some facial hair, a scruffy beard and moustache surrounding his lips. Green eyes now burned amongst sun-kissed skin, from many days spent outside. His appearance had changed so dramatically he doubted anyone ever recognizing him. Not that they would in Tortuga, anyways.
Currently James had positioned himself in a dim corner of "The Faithful Bride", a tavern he had come to know quite well in his recent stay here. A half-empty mug of rum sat in front of him, a few droplets of liquid seeping down the sides. He eyed it with a glare, angry at the fact that slowly he was becoming the very thing he had sought to rid the world of for so long. Rough hands gripped the tankard on each side, debating whether or not to take another drink. He had been careful to keep at least partly sober, not ever wanting to let his guard down by drowning endless mugs until he couldn't see quite straight. No, he never wanted to be like that scourge of a man, James' enemy since even before they had met.
[so sorry this took so long! Life got a little bit crazy last week]
James Norrington.
No, not Commodore. Not anymore. He had resigned after his failure, his tragedy. The hurricane had ravaged him in a way James had never experienced before. He hadn't been prepared for it. Losing his ship, his entire crew...his life. When he had washed up upon the shores of Tortuga, he had been so thankful for land he didn't even seem to realize where exactly he had landed. Misery had torn him up as badly as the hurricane, and had followed him ever since. There was no use in returning to what he once had loved; the life that he had given everything to have. The life where he was comfortable and in control. His failure had tortured him constantly, scarring the man for who knew how long. Now James had turned to Tortuga, reluctantly, for any sort of salvation. However intoxicating it might've been.
A dirty navy jacket (the first jacket he had ever received upon earning a title-a prize James would never relinquish) sat on his hunched shoulders, the bricade worn and grimy. A now off-white shirt covered most of his upper half, save for a rip which had made it a few inches below his collarbone, showing off a bit of skin. His outfit was very much the same since he had been a proper man just....dirtier. Much dirtier. He had made the decision to disown his hat and wig-it merely posed as an incoveniance, resting uncomfortably disheveled his head. And now his brown hair fell from hiding, shaggy locks dangling from his head. Most were held back by a tattered leather ribbon, a few random strands managing to wriggle free. In his time spent here he had grown some facial hair, a scruffy beard and moustache surrounding his lips. Green eyes now burned amongst sun-kissed skin, from many days spent outside. His appearance had changed so dramatically he doubted anyone ever recognizing him. Not that they would in Tortuga, anyways.
Currently James had positioned himself in a dim corner of "The Faithful Bride", a tavern he had come to know quite well in his recent stay here. A half-empty mug of rum sat in front of him, a few droplets of liquid seeping down the sides. He eyed it with a glare, angry at the fact that slowly he was becoming the very thing he had sought to rid the world of for so long. Rough hands gripped the tankard on each side, debating whether or not to take another drink. He had been careful to keep at least partly sober, not ever wanting to let his guard down by drowning endless mugs until he couldn't see quite straight. No, he never wanted to be like that scourge of a man, James' enemy since even before they had met.
[so sorry this took so long! Life got a little bit crazy last week]
