Commodore James Norrington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stem_the_tide) wrote2008-08-26 03:37 am
stem_the_tide) wrote2008-08-26 03:37 am
Entry tags:
Language barriers
James is not well-versed in whatever particular language it is the Garifuna speak, but it is not at all difficult to determine what it is they want. The Commodore as a prisoner, and whatever supplies the Dauntless was carrying. Sooner rather than later, or the Commodore- as illustrated by a particularly eloquent gesture- would not be a prisoner so much as a corpse. With several sharp spears pointed at his person, James finds that in this case, discretion may indeed be the better part of valour, and nods tightly at his crew. Upstanding pillar of the British Navy he may be, but to refuse now would mean a pointless and vain death; the tribesmen had (shamingly) already defeated his men, and surely had the means to kill the rest of them if he refused to comply with their demands.
Gillette snaps him a sharp salute, signalling the men to bring up the food and water stored in the hold, but James isn't given time to return it before he's roughly turned around and frog-marched up a winding sand trail. His face goes cool and aloof, and he straightens under the hands of the two young men holding him, but does not attempt to pull away. Instead, he simply lengthens his stride, effortlessly keeping pace, as though this were the sort of thing he did every day, his lip as stiff and upper as he can make it.
The Garifuna, however, do not seem to be interested in this, and when they reach the crest of the hill, throw him down in front of what appears to be their chief. He's a large man with skin like an African, bedecked in feathers and bones, and he looks at James with a grin of blackened teeth. He snaps something at the congregation of tribesmen, gesturing off to the left, and though James has no idea what he's saying, it's clearly an instruction of some variety, because the men gathered around him shake their spears, and the two on either side of him drag him off to a tiny hovel on the edge of the village. Stopping before it, they tentatively release their hold on James's arms, as if making sure he isn't going to run off, and then nod towards the door.
James sighs, but ducks down into the little hut. The two boys position themselves on either side of the door before swinging it shut with a clack of wood.
The place is dark and close inside, the only light the faint beams of sunlight filtering in through cricks in the roof and walls, smelling of animals and dirt and unwashed, sweaty human. James wrinkles his nose, but settles himself down onto the floor nonetheless. After a moment or two, he settles himself on the floor, wrinkling his nose.
Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.
Gillette snaps him a sharp salute, signalling the men to bring up the food and water stored in the hold, but James isn't given time to return it before he's roughly turned around and frog-marched up a winding sand trail. His face goes cool and aloof, and he straightens under the hands of the two young men holding him, but does not attempt to pull away. Instead, he simply lengthens his stride, effortlessly keeping pace, as though this were the sort of thing he did every day, his lip as stiff and upper as he can make it.
The Garifuna, however, do not seem to be interested in this, and when they reach the crest of the hill, throw him down in front of what appears to be their chief. He's a large man with skin like an African, bedecked in feathers and bones, and he looks at James with a grin of blackened teeth. He snaps something at the congregation of tribesmen, gesturing off to the left, and though James has no idea what he's saying, it's clearly an instruction of some variety, because the men gathered around him shake their spears, and the two on either side of him drag him off to a tiny hovel on the edge of the village. Stopping before it, they tentatively release their hold on James's arms, as if making sure he isn't going to run off, and then nod towards the door.
James sighs, but ducks down into the little hut. The two boys position themselves on either side of the door before swinging it shut with a clack of wood.
The place is dark and close inside, the only light the faint beams of sunlight filtering in through cricks in the roof and walls, smelling of animals and dirt and unwashed, sweaty human. James wrinkles his nose, but settles himself down onto the floor nonetheless. After a moment or two, he settles himself on the floor, wrinkling his nose.
Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.