You've reached the, ah... voice mail for Commodore James Norrington.  Clearly I'm not here at the moment, but leave a message, and I'll be in contact as soon as may be.

It's more an effort to escape Sparrow than anything else that prompts James to push back his chair and shuffle his papers in order, quite ready to leave.  He won't take Beckett's coin, but it wouldn't do to do him the discourtesy of refusing his summons entirely; James may dislike the man, but he is a Commodore; he represents not only His Majesty's ( Read more... )

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 ( Read more... )

James shut his computer with a click, exhaling thoughtfully through his nose.  He had not entirely intended to volunteer himself to be this goddess's 'company,' whatever that meant, but that was what had happened.  Not that he had any objections, really.  She was a fine lady, he was sure, and goddess or no, she comported herself with all the grace ( Read more... )

Because they've been chucking about the idea of a daemon!virus for a bit now, I've taken the liberty of taking a quiz to see what dear James's daemon might look like, and this is what he got:

Lysandra, an osprey. Dependable, a leader, softly spoken, responsible, solitary.

Now that is really quite uncanny.  An osprey, first of all, is a sea-eagle; a ( Read more... )

A shore leave, Sparrow had decided, was in order, and so when he had gone off to do... whatever it was he was doing, James had set about helping the crew to unload the necessities, and he himself had gone belowdecks to make sure that all the supplies and victuals housed therein had not been upset by the storm.  One of the barrels of fresh water had ( Read more... )

As is his wont, James wakens just after sunrise.  This is normal for him, as is the sight of the half-hearted sunlight streaming in through the windows, the smell of the sea in the morning.  What is not normal, however, is the bed he's lying in- deep and soft- the plush blankets covering him.  As his sleep-grimed eyes blink further, he notes that ( Read more... )

Well, well, well... that insolent wretch Sparrow has taken one of my men hostage.   Not a surprise, I suppose, as I practically told the pirate where to find him.  Damn him!  It's the letter-writing, I suppose.  One would never say such things to another's face as one writes in a letter, and it's easy to forget who precisely you are writing to.  ( Read more... )

It has been three days since I departed Port Royal with the Dauntless to search for Jack Sparrow, and thus far we have encountered nothing but doldrums on the sea and rumours on land.  The ideas that man seems to cultivate about himself are absolutely mad- he rode off on the back of a dolphin, or perhaps he was last seen in the upstairs room of a ( Read more... )