He's a catfish. With two braids for a beard. And he lives in the shoals off some place familiar, though he can't place quite where it is in his mind. The water is clear and perfect, multicoloured coral reefs shimmering beneath him and long green stalks of seaplants waving and bending in the tide. Then somewhere do below there is a chest. Brown, unordinary, with a two metal handles at each end. He doesn't know what's in it but he wants to.
No but he's being poked. By another fish. With floppy ears. A dogfish, apparenty, and it's wearing a wig. It barks at him, fish-ly, and then seems to call his name.
"Dogfish don't talk," he says, actually mumbles out loud in both the dream and the waking world, and looks back at the Commodore Dogfish. It says something else, something about nonsense and something else, and Jack just scoffs at it. "Course bloody Commodore Dogfish talk. They do everything else," he mutters. And tries to turn and swim away.
Which is when he falls out of the chair. He starts up, gasping in air like someone just held his head underwater for took long, and then looks around him. Cabin, right, yes. Empty rum bottle, not out the ordinary. Empty port decanted, that'd explain the dream. And... two pairs of legs. Which are connected to knees. And up and up and up and eventually connected to a Commodore Dogfish -- Norrington. Commdore Norrington. But without a wig this time so Jack can see the highlights in his dark hair pick up the golden sheen of the new born sun.
Fascinating way to wake up. "What time is it?" he asks throatily, all the rum dried in his mouth, and rolls onto his back to better stare up at Norrington.
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He's a catfish. With two braids for a beard. And he lives in the shoals off some place familiar, though he can't place quite where it is in his mind. The water is clear and perfect, multicoloured coral reefs shimmering beneath him and long green stalks of seaplants waving and bending in the tide. Then somewhere do below there is a chest. Brown, unordinary, with a two metal handles at each end. He doesn't know what's in it but he wants to.
No but he's being poked. By another fish. With floppy ears. A dogfish, apparenty, and it's wearing a wig. It barks at him, fish-ly, and then seems to call his name.
"Dogfish don't talk," he says, actually mumbles out loud in both the dream and the waking world, and looks back at the Commodore Dogfish. It says something else, something about nonsense and something else, and Jack just scoffs at it. "Course bloody Commodore Dogfish talk. They do everything else," he mutters. And tries to turn and swim away.
Which is when he falls out of the chair. He starts up, gasping in air like someone just held his head underwater for took long, and then looks around him. Cabin, right, yes. Empty rum bottle, not out the ordinary. Empty port decanted, that'd explain the dream. And... two pairs of legs. Which are connected to knees. And up and up and up and eventually connected to a Commodore Dogfish -- Norrington. Commdore Norrington. But without a wig this time so Jack can see the highlights in his dark hair pick up the golden sheen of the new born sun.
Fascinating way to wake up. "What time is it?" he asks throatily, all the rum dried in his mouth, and rolls onto his back to better stare up at Norrington.