Of Petticoats&Pirates

[Annika Dodger]

• Date and Time: October Seventeen -- 2 o'clock AM
  
• Setting: Port Royal Marketplace Alleys
  
• Weather Conditions: Warm, muggy, light rain.
  

The light rain began to cease as the night drew on. The sun had long since sunk down past the horizon. The only light that was left was the occasional burning candle or fire from inside a house or pub. Everything seemed to be lost in shadow. Like a blanket had wrapped itself tightly around the port. And with darkness, silence came.

It was strange to see a small girl walking sneakily around at this time of night. After all, she was only a child. Her boots clicked on the cobblestoned pathways. For such a small noise, it seemed to echo through the many alleys. If one would have looked out of their window down at the little girl, they would have immediately thought something terrible had happened to her. Her auburn hair was tidy (except for a few loose strands here and there) and her clothing seemed that of a rich girl, but she was badly bruised and covered in dirt from head to toe. Someone would have to think that she had been in some sort of accident right? Wrong. For Dodger was born into a stable family, she had given that up for the rough life of theft.

It had been a great adventure for the girl for the few months she had been with the other children who made their lives great with stealing and trickery. However, there was the occasional time that she missed her life at home; with or without the screaming, taunting, and sadness that forever loomed within the house walls. However, for now, she was content with who she was. And most certainly would not give that up for anything.

As she continued to walk, Annika untied the black sash around her waist that held her petticoat tight around her stomach and unfolded the piece of fabric. Smiling at it like it was a baby, she placed it upon her head, holding back her hair as she did so. When it was tight around her crown, she let the tails of the scarf hang loosely over her left shoulder. As she passed a shoppe window, she looked at her reflection in the glass. Just the sight of her made her giggle. How easy it was for her to transform herself from innocent child to deceiving pirate.

[rosethorn]

I say day to the night, night to the day
Up around where I stay we do things this way
You got to watch how you act and watch what you say
Cause there ain't no stallin' when your death come callin'

It’s uncanny how many people depend on others the help them through their pathetic lives. It was easy not to have anyone, so why even try? It was better to trust no one and live your own life to then have some little scallywag take all you own. Of course life never is easy, as a certain bounty hunter knew right off from the beginning. It was all about clawing one’s way to the top and shoving people off that mountain once they got there. You made sure no one stood in your way between hell and the light at the end of the tunnel. Hope was on thing you also learned to live without because when it was your time to go, there was nothing for it. You had to die, that was that. The grim reaper has a tendency to knock when we least expect it and sometime he shows up in human form to commit murder for no apparent reason. But what if there was a reason? What if God wanted us for some higher purpose? No. When it came down to death, there was no God, no devil, no heaven nor hell. There was just two forces going at work: one was you, and the other was a judge who would give his subjects the full extent of what death had to offer. For some, they screamed like lambs being slaughtered, but others accepted their fate and slipped into death without so much as a whisper. They knew what was coming to them, so why fight? It was so easy, like slipping into a warm bath or falling into a deep sleep and never waking up. When the story of mortality ended, it began a knew one that would become a legend, a legacy that no one would never forget, even though they didn’t know who the dead were. When life ends, the story doesn’t because as we write our own legacies, there is always someone to tell what and who we truly were. But how will we know who this person is and how will they reveal themselves to us? Life is a precious thing, but when it is taken from us, death can only be as sweet. And the ones to take us there come in many disguises: Hunters, murderers, thieves, traitors and what not. It’s hard to say when our time arises because it comes when we least expect it. With God and the devil battling, and no one to help us, who do we look to when death comes callin’? Who will make the trip easier for us?

If you say our family, friends or relatives, I must say you are sadly mistaken. There is no one to help us when it is our time, no one to ease the pain of loss besides who ever takes us: Heaven or Hell. It is the sad truth a Bounty hunter must live with day by day, night by agonizing night when they must take someone’s life, whether it be out of mercy or order. It’s hard living with the cold reality of one’s life, but why not turn away and begin anew? Sometimes there was no turning back once the path was made. Sometimes there was no ‘I can’t’ or ‘I won’t’ . Once your life was sworn to the East India Trading Company, it was hard to go back without them coming after the one who can’t take it anymore. Love had no say in it, no emotion had a say. This was the dark reality that one particular Bounty Hunter lived by because she had no where else to go and sometimes that’s all it took. The life they live by is a label that brands them for life, and she knew that, she just didn’t want to admit it. It was hard admitting one was a cold-blooded killer, but with every life she took, it became easy for her to let it go. One might say she enjoyed death, including if it was her own. There had been countless times where she had come so close to her own demise and yet she had lived to see the blood of another body. The tranquility of life had ended the day she was branded Bounty Hunter for the EITC. There was no peace to ease the emotional suffering that dwelled deep in her heart, nothing to ease how much she wanted to stop this addiction. But she loved it, however sickening that might be. She loved the fact that when she put her blade to the throat of a human being that blood trickled down it into a small puddle on the ground. She loved swinging the blade hard at a person’s head and watch as their head rolled across the earth, coming to an abrupt halt to stare her in the eyes with their own lifeless voids.

“Please, please, I beg you! I have a family!” a man who was kneeling on the ground was begging up to a cloaked figure who indeed looked like the grim reaper. No sound came from the figure as it lifted the sharp blade over the neck of the man. Despite the pleading prayers of the man as he stared into the earth, he braced himself as the heavy saber came slicing the air above his neck and in one great sling, the man’s head became decapitated from his body and it rolled across the topography, stopping within close proximity to the hems of the figure’s cloak. Pulling a burlap bag from deep within the pockets of the cloak, the figure reached down and picked up the head by the man’s hair and stowed it inside the bag. The blood that seeped from it did not leak through the bag as the figure took it and placed it inside a leather travel bag, slinging it over her shoulder and it soon rested on her hip. The dark alleyway was sure to attract attention as the figure was near the marketplace, so why not go collect the bounty in the shopping center? That is where the navy officer said would be a good meeting place to exchange the money for the captured man’s head. Lowering the hood of the cloak, one could not identify whether the person was a man or a woman because the forehead of the person was covered with a black bandanna and the lower part of its face was covered with a dark brown piece of cloth so only the eyes of the person could be seen. Of course, one of the eyes was covered with a black eye patch. The dark cloak covered the rest of the person’s clothes and hung about an inch above the ground as it walked to the side of a heavily built black Friesian mare. The beast snorted at the scent of blood and obeyed as its rider nudged her sides with deep brown boots.

After riding a little more than a few blocks, the horse and rider came to a stand where sat a figure of an old man, of course a person in disguise. Neither of the two people noticed the small girl walking just a few feet away from them as they began dealing in trading business. As the older figure stood up, a walking stick clutched in his hand, the rider dismounted from the horse, bag clutched in hand as the figure made its way to the old man. When it reached the counter, the figure dug through the bag and pulled out the burlap which had just begun to show black in the pale moonlight. The figure place it on the counter and then the two began divulging in conversation, which no one except French persons could understand. Why the French were in England was beyond any of the English inhabitants, but of course the street was nearly deserted so late in the evening. So the two went about conversation until the old man plopped a sack of gold onto the counter which seemed to suffice the new comer completely for as the bag of gold sat there, its new owner grabbed it up and hung it from the belt under the cloak. The old man smiled and this time, in English, said, “Pleasure doing business with someone of a foreign nature,” to which the figure standing there replied, “ Merci, commerçant de piratage,” which means quite literally thanks, piracy trader. The figure bid ado to the man and mounted up onto the horse once more, the gold bouncing along as the horse picked up a trot across the cobblestone ground. Not even a few blocks did the horse stop behind the young girl, the rider of the horse looking down in front of the animal and shouting, “ Hé que faites-vous ? Vous ne savez pas que ces rues sont dangereuses pour les petits enfants ? Vous pourriez être tués!,” (Hey what are you doing? Don't you know these streets are dangerous for young children? You could be killed!)

[Annika Dodger]

As the young child continued to walk, her mind still lingered upon the many happenings of this cruel city. To the south was the penitentiary, the last home pirates and thieves rested before their lives were ended. Many times Annika had come in contact with the eerie jail. The young lass was not held captive, but many times her curiosity took hold of her as she passed the wrought iron gate surrounding the prison. When she was younger she would pass the entrance and smile innocently at the guard standing with his sword sheathed at his side, ready to kill anyone who tried to enter or escape. "How many pirates do you s'pose are held in there?" She would stop and ask the man, swinging her arms at her side to give the impression that she was just a mere child with a curious mind for exciting stories. "Tis'ard to say, miss." The man would say simply, wanting the child to leave him be but not having the balls to brush her aside. Annika would smile and inwardly laugh at how soft the man truely was beneath his rough shell. And they called themselves strong.

A faint voice startled Annika back to the present, causing the young girl to stop in her tracks and listen. Annika strained to hear the voice again, but nothing came except the sound of a sword coming in contact with something and the sound of horses hooves clacking upon the cobblestone. Slipping between two buildings, Annika watched as a hooded and masked figure rode past on the horse and continued a little way before stopping in front of a small shoppe around the corner. The lass's heart started beating roughly, for she knew of masked men patrolling the streets and alleys of Port Royal in the dead of night. For the many times she had come out here, this would be the first she had encountered one.

Before the girl came out of her hiding place she stripped of her petticoat, revealing a pair of maroon leggings over which was a pair of black trousers. For a top the young lass wore a maroon sleeved shirt and a black leather vest. The black scarf tied around her head matched perfectly with her attire. Tossing the dress aside where she was sure to find it in the morn, Annika was smiling with comfort in her choice of clothes. 'Much easier to run in.' She thought as she left her hiding place and quickened her pace in the opposite direction of the bounty hunter.

It wasn't but moments later when the sound of the horses hooves appeared behind her followed by a woman's voice. The words she spoke did not comprehend with Annika, for it seemed the woman was speaking a different tongue - French perhaps. Turning on her heel to face the rider atop the horse she smiled politely and spoke, "I am sorry, but I do not speak your tongue nor do I understand your language." She said, placing her hands on her hips, thinking up a scheme in case the worst should happen. Over the years Annika had become one with the streets and alleys and suburbs of Port Royal. There was no doubt in her mind that she could find her way through the city with her eyes shut. And if she couldn't outrun this horse, she would fight the bounty hunter. Annika smiled as she felt the cool silver of the knife strapped to her leg inside of her boots.

[rosethorn]

And when I'm gone, just carry on, don't mourn
Rejoice every time you hear the sound of my voice
Just know that I'm looking down on you smiling
And I didn't feel a thing, So baby don't feel my pain Just smile back

As the rider of the horse looked at the girl through her one good eye, the beast gnawed at the bit impatiently, staring at the girl with wild eyes, almost as if it were possessed. The rider smirked behind the bandanna, pale complexion showing white in the pale moonlight. The face of the little girl held nothing but amusement and as the rider looked at her, the figure could not help but give a slight laugh as the girl did not understand her. It wasn’t surprising, seeing as how this wasn’t France. The rider understood English perfectly and the girl’s words were quite comical. She had come across many people who did not understand the foreign language, mainly the majority of them pirates she was about to slaughter and collect the bounty on their heads. So this girl was a native to the land of England, was she? Just as well. The bounty hunter would hate to have to travel so far to tell the girl’s parents she had been killed in a terrible fight. It was amazing how very little fear the girl had in her eyes, but the bounty hunter, like so many of them, could sense a speck of fear. It was said the majority of them had a sixth sense, but what it was exactly wasn’t really known to anyone but them. The one gleaming eye the woman in disguise had, shone in amusement as this girl was so blatant in not expressing fear. Was the girl that daft to be so unafraid, after what she had just heard? The blade the figure had in the scabbard was still dripping with blood as she pulled it from the sheath, the blade showing black in the moonlight because of the blood. The handle had gold filigree into it and the whole thing looked like it was the sword of a royal navy soldier, possibly worth a fortune. It was amazing how so small a child could be so innocently looking and unafraid. When the bounty hunter was her age, she was full of fear of everything around her and now she knew nothing of the word. When you lived with death at your doorstep constantly, you got used to a little bit of hopelessness in your life. But there was something about this girl that intrigued the bounty hunter and stopped her from slinging her blade down upon the small child. Something so innocent could not be killed so brutally.

Sheathing the sword back into the scabbard, the rider held the reins tightly as she horse stomped its hooves at the girl as if in warning. Jerboa was anxious and restless to get moving. As she side stepped slightly, her rider spoke something in French and the horse ceased her actions, breathing heavily as she obeyed the cruel royal navy bit. Apparently the horse was stolen for the tack was also very pricy looking, the silver on it gleaming in the pale light. The shoes were standard and not worthy anything, but the pirate bounty hunter allowed them to be seen by the girl as the horse reared over her head, crashing down a few feet away, but still close enough to feel the rushing air brought by the large animal. The horse itself was sixteen hands or more, a worthy mount for an army general. Maybe that’s where she came from, but the question remained: where was the bounty hunter from? From this point, we know nothing of her origin, but the one thing we do know is she is cruel and unforgiving, much like the devil himself. We know her skin is pale and hair fair, nothing like what a French woman would be. The accent she had wasn’t French at all, but plainly held a slight British tone to it as she spoke. It was just something she had gotten used to over the years by confusing two languages together. She had been born and raised in England, but she had done her fair amount of traveling as a bounty hunter. She had traveled south to Germany, Italy, France, then north to Scandinavia, west to Russia and East as far as the North American continent. This of course was mostly by ship, but where lad was concerned it was either by carriage or horse back, either way they were still involving horses. She believed them to be beautiful and magnificent animals that deserved respect by anyone who rode them. But people in France thought differently. They thought horses not only as mounts, but worthy of being on a plate next to the beans and potatoes.

“Worthy you are of hearing such language, but don’t you think it a bit late to be wandering the streets alone at your age? There could be dangerous people about,“ she said with a slight sneer. Bringing her thoughts out of a tangent, the bounty hunter lowered the bandanna covering her mouth and she merely showed a simple smile. She took off the eye patch, revealing a perfectly alright eye that looked as bright and exuberant as its twin. Her gloved hands gripped the reins and the saddle horn as she brought her frame to come off the animal, solid heeled boots making a slight thud on the cobble stone ground. She let the horse stand there stock still with a back hoof inclined while its owner stepped over to the girl, her youthful complexion holding a few small scars on her face as she looked at the girl. The one most distinguishable scar was a small R below her left eye. It was given to her by the Spanish Armada so long ago, but still it looked fresh and appeared to have the looks of being burned into her skin because of how white it looked. This of course stood for Rosethorn, but she doubted such a young girl would understand what that had meant. She unclipped the cloak right below her neck and opened it slightly to reveal many numerous weapons, but of course they were strapped to her so no one would have sticky fingers. Observing the girl with a watchful eye, she took note of how filthy and ragged the girl seemed to be. Then she started lining up professions that a young girl could have and only one stood out so obviously: Thief. Eyes flickering over the young lasses frame, she could not help but envy the care free attitude she seemed to have. She admired that about anyone, especially when her blade, muzzle of a pistol or the bolt of a cross bow was pointed directly at their heads. Right now no weapon was pointed at the girl, but just in case of the worst, she pulled a small vile of poison out from under the layers of clothing and let it rest just below her neck, its contents shimmering splendidly in the moonlight.

“Do you fear death child?” She asked the little girl, eyes narrowing slightly as if to get a better look at her. She herself showed no fear that the girl might have a weapon on her because Charity had something the girl lacked: skill, or experience if you prefer. It was a question Davy Jones might ask, but she might as well be the man. She decided whether a pirate lived or died and that made them equals. If she met him again, it would be only in death for now the man was dead, if you could say something already dead could die. She knew that boy Will Turner was now the captain of the cursed ship, but let’s save that for a different type of meeting.

[Annika Dodger]

Ever since she had been a child, Annika had never shed a tear. When she was born, her wails echoed through the walls of her home, but never once did a single tear fall down her cheeks. At fist Charlotte Muringer had thought her daughter was ill, that there was something wrong with her. There was never anything wrong with her. As she grew, Annika claimed that she didn't know how to cry, that she was incapable of the natural actions a human takes when they feel sadness or agony. Because of this, Caleb and Jacob insisted Annika was not afraid or hurt by anything that wasn't physically inflicted upon her. Mental emotions had no effect. As the lass stood here now she thought of this. Why had she never been afraid of things? Why had she never been able to produce tears even in the saddest of times? The answer was simple -- she did. Annika was afraid of something. Aye, it being one thing. This one thing, however, is a broad subject that would take centuries to finally understand if you did not know the little girl already. What does she fear? You ask. Death. I answer. Not necessarily the dying part, but the thought of what she'd miss once she had passed. Annika knew that everyone died at one point, what she didn't understand is how one could leave behind such a vast world waiting to be explored. So yes, the small girl was afraid of something.

The image of the hooded rider dismounting the beast brought no emotion to her. As the bounty hunter approached her, Annika did not flinch. Even as it spoke, revealing that it was female, Annika merely tilted her head to the side slyly. "I believe that is for me and me alone to determine what and what is not dangerous." Annika said, her English accent mixed with her retort. "Besides, I am very well capable of taking care of myself." She declared, appearing to stand up straighter as she said this. Many a-time she would come in contact with an older being who thought her just an innocent little girl who cared only to wear dresses and to play with dolls. Many a-time she would assure them that she could hold her head high and that she would not bow down nor appear lower than anyone else. This was one of those times. It was but one of her pet peeves when someone such as this woman in front of her expected her to be frail, fragile, and fancy. For the young girl was none of them. Indeed she was born into a stable lifestyle where her mother would attend parties, wear large dresses and purchase more jewelry than she could wear, but Annika had willingly given that up for the life that she now lived.

However, it was still obvious with her attire that Annika did enjoy wearing the more expensive clothing. The attire she currently wears was her father's when he was a lad. When Annika had found it stashed away in their attic, she remembered something her mother had once told her many years before. She had said that black and maroon fabric were some of the most expensive colours one could buy. Annika remembered thinking that the black, to her, represented dark, mysterious nights and that maroon represented strength and bravery. That was why she currently wore the two colours.

As the woman spoke again, Annika listened intently to her words, for there were only five of them. Do you fear death child? The question spun in her mind, sailing through every aspect of her life like a ship sailing toward the horizon. She waited a few moments before answering. A smirk crossed her face as she spoke, her voice calm and her appearance poised as she replied, "Death I do not fear, but rather unlived life."

[rosethorn]

I’m suppose to be the soldier who never blows his composure
Even though I hold the weight of the whole world on my shoulders
I ain’t never suppose to show it, my crew ain’t suppose to know it
Even if it means going toe to toe with the Benzino, it don’t matter

Emotion. A strong feeling about somebody or something. Mostly emotion was showed to humans, but what about inanimate objects? Charity smirked slightly as the girl showed no emotion in her eyes nor on her face and a hand traced the handle of her sword affectionately. She showed love to her weapons for without them she would not be who she was. Removing the sword from the sheath once more in a steady, slow motion type of action, she allowed the blade to gleam in the light cast by the moon. What would the girl think if she just slung the blade across the back of her neck like she had done with the man? She would not of course, but the sentamite was acceptable none the less. Her intentions were not of killing the young lady, but possibly making her an ally for the two of them had a lot to offer one another. If a proposition of friendship could be made, who knows what they could accomplish together. The little girl would thief pieces of pirates and Charity would give her a percentage of the plunder, 50 50 if the girl accepted, but why not let this little meeting come farther into the game? She had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and she would make sure the girl was the same way. She twisted the sword in a way that the light would trace along the blade, glinting menacingly in its gleam, sort of a threat presentation. There was no reason to boast, however, because the woman knew what she was capable of, but did the little girl know? Already she had taken the life of another human being, who was to say when she’d do it again? As a bounty hunter it was a known fact they could kill more people in a day if they tried, yet why would they kill just for the pleasure of it? Charity had fulfilled the minor bounties, but there still were the main pirate lords that had yet to have their lives claimed. No man had ever been brave enough yet to do so, but then again, Rosethorn was not a man. She was in fact a woman as she had revealed to the little girl and one of the most feared employees of the East India Trading Company, but what importance did this have? Killers weren’t revered and respected for no reason. They had made a name for themselves and this was a name she was going to protect with her life, even if it meant taking the one of the little female whelp.

Thinking of her own past was some what difficult for it had been a hard one. She had not been sheltered like so many wealthy spawned children and that fact remained she had indeed been born practically royalty. But she had never lived that life. With her mother dead, her father had no choice but to drop her off at an orphanage at such a young age. He had no means of caring for her, though he had vowed to be there for her, all she had to do was write when she was old enough. Looking back on those days were hard, even now after so many years had passed. Did the little girl know what never being accepted meant? To have everything you held dear ripped away from your clutches like a worm from the ground in the mouth of a hungry bird? Hard lives often end in hard hearts and this progeny was no exception. Living in an orphanage was meaning being sheltered, but with a terrible price. You had to watch brats of different ages claw their way to the top as they tried to make their way in a civilized society. At the tender age of 10, Charity had not been strong enough and it nearly cost her life and the life of her family, where ever they were. When the royal navy found out of her father’s treachery toward them, they searched high and low for his daughter, but they could not find her. The girl Charity Buckthorne didn’t exist. Her name had been changed to Rosie Buckman and by the time she was old enough to know what from what, she adopted the name Rosethorn. It had been a simple life in the orphanage. She didn’t expect much and basically kept to herself. She had always been a little bit of a loner, but sometimes you had no choice but to depend on the kindness and hospitality of others. When she had gone back to the orphanage a few years ago, she found it was burnt to the ground and there was nothing left for her, but that was not the end of her life. She was granted a new one by a single man and forever branded her as a Bounty Hunter employed by the East India Trading Company, which wasn’t a real bad thing, unless you were a pirate.

Taking off a glove on her right hand, she lifted the blade while taking the glove into her teeth, biting down on the hard leather as she made a cut on one of her fingers. Rubbing the blood in between her fingers, madness gleaming in her eyes. She truly was insane and cutting her own finger proved it. “I have a proposition for you that I find you will benefit well from, if you would grant me your name, or something to call you by. I prefer to know the name of someone who could seek to supplant me,” she said, wiping the bit of blood on her black cloak. She had cried a few times in her life, but they were silent tears with no sound to them coming from her vocals. She had never whined, never complained like a spoiled child. She had lived with the bare minimum for survival all of her life, even in the orphanage. She had never been granted a toy, a gift for a birthday, but she was granted a gift from a friend in the orphanage just before she killed him. It was wrist knife coated in the poison from the fugu, one of the most poisonous fishes in all the sea. It had been used only twice and was still as potent as ever. The blade itself was clean, but it secreted the poison into someone’s system when she pressed the release. “An unlived life, eh? But why hasn’t such a young form lived her life yet?” She asked, not prying, but just curious of what this girl was like. “If it suits you, you can call me Charity.”

[Annika Dodger]

As Annika gazed upon the woman, she couldn't help but imagine herself in the same scenario, but instead of an East Indian Trading Company Bounty Hunter, she saw her brother. No, not Caleb, but rather Jacob. She had recently gotten word that both of her brothers had joined the British Royal Navy. The young girl's first reaction to this batch of news was simply that of shock and anger. How could her brothers do this to her? After all, their father had been a pirate. Why would Caleb and Jacob leave home after their father's death just to become the monsters that had killed him? It hadn't been her intent to rebel against them, but when she had met the children thieves she formed an instant bond, not even thinking of what might happen if Jacob found out that his new enemy was in the form of his fourteen year old sister. Annika was not worried about Caleb though, if she ever encountered him, she knew he would not have the guts to hurt her. Jacob, on the other hand, Annika was not sure about.

With the sudden demand for her name, Annika was taken aback. This was a bounty hunter, wasn't it? Weren't bounty hunters all about killing pirates and turning them in for reward? Annika was a pirate. Shouldn't the woman be killing her and not asking for her name. As she thought about it, Annika couldn't complain - she was not in the mood to die. "I cannot say it is a pleasure meeting you, Miss Charity." Annika said, tilting her head to one side coyly, "But I may give you the knowledge of my name. You may address me as Annika." The young girl paused before adding, "Or Dodger, if you'd prefer."

A light wind picked up, blowing the girl's auburn hair into her face, along with the tail of her black scarf around her head. As the woman continued to speak, Annika thought carefully of what she was saying. What sort of preposition was she speaking of? Curiosity gripped upon her once more, "What would this preposition be?" She asked, "And are you sure you'd like to make it with a pirate?" She added before the woman could speak.