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Post by Anya Savicheva on May 24, 2011 16:39:49 GMT -8
Despite the fact she had remained for at least a week in Port Royal, she hadn’t recovered from the culture shock. In comparison to her home country, Western Europe was very much a strange place with strange customs (even if they were still rather similar to the customs from home). Perhaps it was the constant use of English that had caught her off guard, perhaps it was the lack of a large body of poverty stricken masses, she did not know. Moscow was rather packed at all times of the year, whether it was with people or animals. Port Royal was a rather crowded place, there was no doubt about that; but, there was still enough space all around to make Anya feel as if she were unstable. The beauty of Moscow crowds was the relative ease with which one could pull off pick pocketing, or absconding with a small item from a street vendor. With the space that people kept between each other, doing these tasks became rather difficult and much too dangerous to even risk. So, in short, Anya was broke.
Things weren’t getting better when what little money she had ran out. Being as it was, begging gave absolutely no income; but, strict harassment from the bobby. So, Anya took to wandering most of the city, scrounging what she could from the scraps left out in the street. That didn’t do for very long. Suffice it to say, she was rather hungry. She was quite cold, also, since a mugger had stolen her coat the first night she arrived. That should have been an omen of things to come. Ever since she had arrived, things didn’t seem like they would look up. If it wasn’t for her dream to become a pirate, she would have left back to Moscow days ago. However, finding recruiters, as it were, was difficult to accomplish. Impossible, actually. What was hard to understand initially was the illegality of pirating activities. So, smart pirates kept quiet and laid low. You couldn’t tell a common beggar from a pirate. Perhaps coming to this place had been an awful idea.
It was late at night when she had arrived to the Royal Anchor. It had been an uneventful venture of scrounging (only being able to find a small piece of bread and a half eaten apple). The air was stale and smelled of piss and saltwater. Her clothes were a bit ragged, but clean, draped around her form barely enough to keep her from wanting to huddle from the cold. She approached the entrance, pulling her hair behind her head, letting out a deep sigh long enough to avoid the sudden waft of dry ale and sweat that flew by as she stepped inside. The men inside, drunk and foolish, were singing songs, smoking their pipes and making eyes at hookers that positioned themselves vicariously through the establishment. There wasn’t a single woman inside that wasn’t a prostitute: Caked heavily with make up, each adorning a corset that made her feel like a queen. One even had the luck to wear a bonnet. Business was good.
Prostitution, while an honest means of income, was never something that crossed Anya’s mind. It wasn’t out of a moral prospect; but, out of fear of commitment. Once you had resigned your life to such a job, it was difficult to ever bring yourself out of it. Not to say that you could make a comfortable living doing such a thing; but, eventually, you became a slave to the job. You could eat and there was always somewhere to sleep. One could become content to the routine. Anya, on the other hand, knew she could not. To be tied to such responsibilities was something that she couldn’t bear. It took a different type of woman to do that. It was a means of survival; but, Anya was just much too prideful. Too much hubris for her own good.
However, selling yourself for one night might be a good means to get a meal. Perhaps she could get enough money to buy another coat. Who would pay that much, though? It would have to be someone hanging around that had enough money to spare on a night with a somewhat vivacious young lady. Russians had stamina, they had energy. It was easy to conclude that a girl like Anya was somewhat talented in the sack. Her eyes scanned the area, looking for something that would tip off a rich customer. You learned how to do this in Moscow, looking for rich clients to either steal or beg from. It was a rather useful tool. However, most of the men she was viewing within the Anchor’s peeling walls seemed to be carrying very light purses.
Well, it seemed so until she saw him.
Her gaze landed shortly after she had stopped watching one lush pinching on the skirt of a hooker close by. He was sitting at the bar, seemingly speaking with the bartender as he enjoyed his drink. He was somewhat well dressed, and armed tooth and nail; a sword to one hip, a pistol to the other. However, what caught her eye was his hat. A very peculiar hat it was: Medium in size with a feather attached. Those types of hats were rather expensive. From what she could tell from the back, he was adorned with various pieces of jewelry and knick knacks. All in all, amongst the men there, he seemed the classiest.
So, Anya had her target.
Putting on a bit of swagger, Anya approached the bar. There was a vacant stool next to the man’s, so she occupied it graciously with her person, crossing her legs as she looked him over with an air of haughtiness. She focused in on the side of his face, in which his eyes seemed rather focused and distanced at the same time. It was an odd sight. He was still talking, and to Anya’s realization was that he wasn’t talking to anyone: Or maybe he was speaking to anyone that would listen. With a small smirk, she snaked her hand to his leg, caressing her palm over his right thigh.
“You seemed… lonely,” she intoned gently, trying to control her accent. Her English had improved greatly, and it was only on lesser occasions that she forgot what certain words were in English. Her palm squeezed on the muscle of his thigh as she gave a small, quiet giggle. “You should be gentlemen and buy a young girl a drink.” And, with that, she sealed it with a wink, looking over his face again. A few strands of hair fell over her eyes, which seemed to be in her benefit, since it gave her an alluring looking of mystery.
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Post by Captain Sparrow on Jun 3, 2011 17:40:05 GMT -8
Had his previous visit inland to Port Royal taught him anything it was that he stood out a little too much among the other ships and common, decent folk in the city. Normally he valued his individuality more than anything, but it was proving to be rather difficult to hide from the many who wanted to kill him when he stood out everywhere he traveled. He had been using a more common disguise to get around the city, but it wasn't appropriate for him to enter the Royal Anchor since he looked more like a beggar than a man with the means to support his drinking habit. So he'd pilfered a few pieces of clothing from some dignitary or another in order to piece together another disguise that better suited his needs. It consisted of a large feathered hat, fancy breeches and shoes and a heavily adorned overcoat. He added a fake beard to this and tucked his hair into the hat to the overall effect of a disheveled gentleman who did indeed enjoy his rum. Of course, the getup did attract a fair few harlots who came around to playfully tug at his hair or coquettishly brush against him. None were so bold as to actually touch him or ask for his money, though. Even with his normal clothing disguised, he still managed to give off an air of a dangerous scalawag. That was pretty par for the course, actually, so Jack didn't think much of it. He rather enjoyed being left alone to his rum, at least that meant he wasn't being arrested. The only thing that kept him from jumping out of his skin when a gentle hand connected with his thigh was the the years and years he'd spent training himself to strike a cool, composed figure. Naturally, that didn't stop the small frown from drooping his lips when he noticed whom the hand belonged to out of the corner of his eye. The girl was much too young, and seemingly not from around the area if the amount of effort it took her to utter those few words was any indication. He did like a good woman, but he had never been the type of man to take advantage of a child. At her statement that he should buy her a drink, he finally looked over with a dull glare. He couldn't quite manage to be menacing as he knew the poor girl probably didn't want to be in this position, having to offer herself to a man to get what she needed, but he didn't like it nonetheless. She was much too young and far too pretty to be a slave to some beast of a man who would likely beat her senseless in lieu of pay. "I might buy you a drink if you would kindly remove your hand from my person." His drawl was as kind as he could manage and he did order two more flagons of rum to show that he meant her no ill will. "I'm not interested in your services, little girl. I've never been much for children, if you'll forgive me." He passed her the rum and tossed a few coins to the barkeep before standing, moving toward the door a few steps before his conscience got the better of him and forced him to turn back. He leaned close to her ear, making it seem as though he was just another man giving instruction to a prostitute. "You aren't cut out to be a prostitute. Why are you here?" His demand came with the rough urgency of someone who didn't have the patience to wait for the answer. It was a defense mechanism he'd concocted in recent years to mask his feelings. He'd had to learn the hard way that if he showed that he cared about anyone or anything, it would promptly be taken away. This way allowed him to get the information he needed behind the guise of curiosity. word count: 667. tagged: Anya outfit: As described in post. notes: Sooorry this took so long. <3<3 |
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Post by Anya Savicheva on Jun 3, 2011 22:58:03 GMT -8
Anya was neither sobered nor put off by his reaction to her. In fact, she kept her repose as her hand nonchalantly slipped from his thigh and joined her own, fingers intertwining as she leaned back against the bar, displaying herself to the fullest extent. Even to his rejection, she was still confident in her girlish wiles. It wasn’t the first time she had been rejected solely based on age. What was funny was more or less how this was a reflection of the man’s fears to give in to his desires. As Anya had come to know in the many years she had been surviving impoverish conditions, there wasn’t a man on earth who didn’t desire the wantonness and vivaciousness of a young girl. This didn’t mean child – which Anya was not. Perhaps in comparison to him she was; but, in all practical senses, Anya was an adult and had been so for quite a while. Suffice it to say, she had been in plenty of these situations in the past. She didn’t regret, either. That was the life of a person who wanted to live: Things you did to put you through to the next day were always necessary. To spend your time regretting unsavory decisions was obsessive and useless.
Anya took the rejection in stride, keeping in mind that she could have swayed him if she really had wanted to (though that thought was more of a reflection of her own pride than actual fact). What more did it take than a few more caresses, a knowing gaze, and a suggestive “let me show you what little girl can do for you…”? She had won the purses and wills of a fair few men with that sort of determination. However, what need was there to when she had already gotten what she desired? Although he would not offer her money, he had bought her a drink, which in itself was a blessing since she hadn’t had a touch of alcohol in a very long time. It was better than drinking scrounged water from only God knew where. As the bartender passed her the rum he had so kindly bought her, she had to suppress the need to frown. While not usually picky, after all, beggars could not be choosers; she had a very particular taste in sin. As stereotypical as it was, she had been conditioned all her life to appreciate the subtle brilliance of vodka. If there was something that a Russian was a proud of, it was how much they vodka they could drink, and how it was a reflection of their mother country’s genius. Rum, on the other hand, while good in itself, just wasn’t the same as a good bottle of vodka. As the bartender turned away, Anya turned her head toward him, reaching over the bar to grab a clear bottle of vodka that had been relatively untouched. She pointed to the coins that Jack had left with a wink, as if communicating that was somehow enough to cover the bottle that she had taken from him. He didn’t seem to protest, however, and continued to work with the rest of his customers as Anya nonchalantly pocketed the coins while he wasn’t paying attention.
Anya turned back toward Jack at that point, as the tip of the vodka bottle rested on her bottom lip. She looked him over again. It was strange how annoyed, concerned and disinterested he looked all at the same time. It was a rare talent to be able to exude so many different demeanors all at once. Anya could reasonably conclude that not only was this man an anomaly; but, ubiquitous, also. She had to admit that he somewhat piqued her interest, and she didn’t exactly want him to leave; but, she didn’t exactly begin to protest as he turned to walk away. It was one of those moments wherein people that you probably should have kept around slipped through your fingers. But, what could you do? He had paid her off in rejecting her “services,” even though she wasn’t exactly offering him anything. It was funny how people always assumed that you would trade valuables for valuables. Such practices only came from honest people. She was only trying to milk him for whatever he had to offer her; the idea of sleeping with him never came to her mind. Though, if it came down to such a practice she wouldn’t exactly protest. Who would, after all? Like most men, he wasn’t awful looking. He had a certain gruffness to him that made him more attractive than the men that Anya would ever considering sharing a bed with. That wasn’t saying much, though. It just meant that she would enjoy the sex rather than endure it. Either way, it wasn’t happening. He left, and as he did, her eyes glanced over to another patron as she winked and craned her head a little to expose her bare neck to him.
Then, the most unexpected thing happened.
Before she could even really respond to what was happening, she could feel Jack’s hot, rum stained breath on her ear. She almost wanted to laugh and scream out “I knew it!”, as if she won some small victory over the will of another man. However, the words he had uttered to her with such urgency wasn’t those of deep want; but, rather, of curiosity. Why are you here? It was a simple question, and yet, at the same time, it was very difficult to answer. His demeanor expressed his need for subtly. He looked as if he were giving her instructions of what he wished to do with her. In compliance, she played the part she needed to play. Her grip on the neck of the vodka bottle tightened as she turned her face to meet his. Her nose pressed close up to his as her lips approached within the same distance. She breathed softly against him, although their lips never touched. The point wasn’t to kiss him, just to make it look like she would; to make it look as if she were teasing him. At that moment, the answer to his question popped into her mind. She gave a coy smile as she spoke a single word against his mouth: “Vyzhivanie.” Her eyes flashed knowingly at him, since that word transcended all language barriers. It was the creed of any person trying to make it in this world if they weren’t born with a silver spoon under their tongue: Survival. She very lightly nipped his bottom lip and then slide past him, vodka bottle firmly in her hand. She sauntered outside. If he was curious enough, he would follow.
She stood outside the Royal Anchor, looking up toward the sky as she removed the stopper from the bottle and threw it some distance away. Anya lifted the bottle toward the stars, as if making a toast to them, before she took a long and appreciative swig from it. The warmth radiated through her limbs as it collected in her belly. She gave a slight shudder at the feel, being as it had been such a long time since she had enjoyed the taste of vodka. She beamed and bounced on her heels slightly, not taking long to take another long, leisurely swig from the bottle. Suddenly, as if Anya could feel a presence nearby, she began to speak.
“Who are you?” she inquired, biting her lip slightly as she stole a glance over her shoulder. “You do not look like rest. You are not from here, are you?”
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Post by Captain Sparrow on Jun 26, 2011 13:59:31 GMT -8
Jack was frustrated to say the least, intrigued to say the most, and definitely frustrated on top of the intrigue because deep down he knew better than to be interested in someone for any length of time. But that same feeling that had guided him through so many adventures was pulling him toward this girl; he almost felt like he's swallowed his compass and it was still working inside him. But he didn't need his compass to know that he wanted more of her. He watched her tense under his sudden scrutiny, could almost feel his urgency seeping into her and caressing her skin. Indeed she did look like it was affecting her; her fingers tightened around the bottle making it hard for him to think quite properly enough not to sexualize her. And while he was distracted with thinking maybe she wasn't too young after all, her lips turned to meet his in the teasing, testing game that he hated so much. But with her lips so close to his he found it was rather refreshing to have someone willing to play with him on an intellectual level. Yes, yes, that's exactly what he liked about this particular arrangement. Her answer was surprising, but he hadn't really expected much else deep in his heart. He didn't even need to speak the language to understand the word, the feeling it represented was clear in the conviction she spoke and the look of utter determination in her eyes. He smirked as her teeth grazed his lip before she moved away to sway her way outside. He followed, naturally, but didn't make much of an effort to catch up; he didn't want to look too desperate after all. As he watched the lass take a long drink of her liquor, toasting the sky and enjoying the familiar warmth that would be spreading through her, the realization hit him very suddenly. She wasn't just here for survival, she was a pirate. He hadn't noticed the way she held herself before because she was pretending to be a common harlot, but now that her gig was up and she was relaxed into her usual demeanor he noticed all the little signs. Her muscles tense and ready to spring, her eyes haunted but watchful, but mostly he noticed her want of freedom; the same look he'd had when he was her age. Just that small thing warmed him up to her more than any amount of flirting could possibly have done. So when she questioned him, he was more inclined to answer. "Why, I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," as if it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world. He forgave her because she was obviously from very far away where pirates were a little more rare. "And I happen to be looking for crew." He wasn't and Barbossa would strangle him for suggesting it, but it was his damn ship so he'd hire on anyone he wanted. Or something like that. Really, he was just drawn to the young thing and felt a sort of camaraderie so he didn't want to let her go. word count: 521. tagged: Anya outfit: As described in post. notes: I'm so sorry. >___< |
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Post by Anya Savicheva on Jun 28, 2011 23:53:07 GMT -8
She couldn’t help a chuckle as he had offered himself so openly. He was Captain Jack Sparrow and he was looking for a crew. How easy was that? Anya never wanted to seem desperate at any sort of point; but, it became hard to contain her excitement as the general fact was floating in the air. It had been her dream to join a crew, and there he was, seemingly offering everything she had ever wanted on a silver platter for her to take. She kept her reservations, though. She couldn’t look too hopeful or too excited about this bit of news. What would that say of her beyond the fact she was all too eager to join in on his escapades? He had already won her, she knew; but, she had to at least make him believe that he needed to work harder for that sort of honor. Anya took another swig of her vodka, her index finger tapping on the glass every so often as her eyes seemed to be calculating the thought in her mind. ”I might be looking for crew,” she said offhandedly, her accent seeming stronger than normal. She always got like when she was dreamy and tipsy. The more she drank vodka, the more Russian she became, if that were even possible.
Anya took a few steps forward, hips swaying ever so slightly, before stopping to sit upon a few kegs. She crossed her legs, bending forward just slightly so she could stare at Jack directly in the eye. A small smirk spread across her lips, she could see that he was interested in her. How could he not, really? She was a rather alluring creature, she could admit with a big ego self-stroke. Some of her hair fell over her eyes and she stayed silent for a long while, looking him over. He was a captain, eh? He did look the part, after all. She had chosen him to be the richer looking patron in the pub to mooch off of. Now, he was offering her more than money. He was offering the chance to freedom, and all at what cost? Oh, that was a strange thought: Cost.
Anya took pause. He was a pirate. This all came at a price, didn’t it? There was something he wanted from her, wasn’t there? After all, a man didn’t offer a place on crew to a woman unless he was getting something out of it. There was always a catch, and Anya was smart enough to know that she needed to figure out what that was.
”You are strange person,” she began, smiling coyly. ”From what I know of your… what is word… culture, having woman on ship is bad thing isn’t it? I bring bad luck.” Her eyes flashed for the briefest of seconds. She was being entirely playful at this point, trying to sniff out what his intentions were. She could have fun with it at the same time, couldn’t she? Another swig of vodka for good measure – the burn was good and felt satisfying at the bottom of her stomach. Having the upper hand also felt quite satisfying. Even if it weren’t so, she felt as if she had the advantage. That was a beautiful thing, the idea of control, even if it were an illusion.
”Tell me, Master Sparrow… What do want of me, a young and naïve devochka,” she pouted her lips, giving a quick wink. She had to play it up. It was too tempting not to. ”And what could you possibly offer me that would convince me to give it to you?”
((sorry this sucks. D:))
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