tentacruelest | 10th Wave

10th Wave

The cacophony of noise here is growing worse. Stow your bleating, lambs, or I'll cast yeh overboard to fill your jabbering mouths with seawater.

[Never mind that they're not even sailing over water at the moment. Jones can understand English, but is speaking in Scots Gaelic]

[Private to Sylvanas]

If yeh would oblige me a moment, m'lady..? I've something you might like to see.

[Private to Bush]

Yeh've been quiet, Warden. Plotting something?

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I only speak English, Jones. I haven't got any Scottish.

I wonder, can you understand me.

I wonder, can you understand this. [With some labor and a great deal of care, he plays back the message he has been listening to without turning off his connection to Jones.

A familiar, rumbling voice comes out, in an incomprehensible mash-- incomprehensible to Bush-- of Spanish, English, and Chinese. Riddick's cold sarcasm carries through, however.]

I can't. But an hour ago, this was clear English telling me that you had quarreled with Arthas and killed him.

Edited 2013-12-08 03:55 (UTC)

[She looks confused. Because she is.]

What?

[Of course, she sounds like she's speaking a nordic language suddenly, rather than English.]

...What?

[She shakes her head.]

I don't understand that language, Captain. Speak plainly.

What?

[He tries switching to English, hoping that'll make it better]

And now?

[Another shake of the head.]

I can't understand you.

[Seething and frustrated at this unexpected barrier, Jones holds up his one hand in a plea for pause.

On his comm, he takes out his map and circles Sylvanas' cabin, showing it to her]

[That she can figure out easily. She nods.]

[Satisfied, Jones closes his comm rather than get frustrated and break the damn thing. He gathers up a small wooden box under his claw and sets off for Sylvanas' room.

Keeping an eye out so as to not be intercepted by Bush, Jones arrives within moments at Sylvanas' door and knocks]

[She opens the door, expecting him. She only hesitates for a fraction of a second before holding it wide so he can enter.]

[What wounds Jones sustained from his skirmish have, by now, either healed completely or he's hiding them well. He limps inside in his usual gait, touching his hat with his free hand in a gesture of respect]

I suppose yeh haven't the faintest idea what I'm saying.

[The room doesn't match it's resident. It's...light, and rather fantastical. It suits the person she was before she was made undead, the one that existed on the Mirror Barge. For the creature that she is now, the room just didn't fit.

Again she shakes her head at him, lifting and dropping her arms at her sides in a show of frustration.]

I haven't the faintest idea what you're saying.

[For someone whose room fits him a tad too well, Jones attempts to refrain from commenting on the decor. Even if Sylvanas wouldn't understand his words, she might have a guess at his tone. Perhaps she even likes this.

With a grunt - and wishing he had the words to express his feelings at the moment - he hands her the box.

Inside of which is a bloodied lock of Arthas' hair, pulled from his corpse while it was still warm. The head's long gone; disappeared when the man came back to his senses. But this remained, and it's this token he offers the dark lady now.]

[Silence, for a second.

And then, mercifully, English;]

It - whoever it was - spoke the truth. I did kill the loathsome bastard.

Mister Riddick is something of a friend of Arthas', I think. He was mightily displeased.

But tell me if it was a duel or a murder.

Let him be. If he were a better friend, he'd have taught the man how not to offend those with the capacity to come after him.

What diff'rence does it make? He's dead, and he's come back.

It makes every bit of difference whether you came at the man without warning, or whether he was willing to fight with you-!

I entered his room with intent to kill him, and I did. The rest is up for your...interpretation, Warden.

So you're as happy to be taken for a thief as for a gambler.

I am happy that for a time I had his head. And I care little about how I amperceived on this ship!

This ain't the ship, Jones. This is me, and God I am sorry it is.

Was it a duel, or was it murder.

[Annoyed at Bush not allowing the matter to drop, Jones acquiesces. He is, of course, viciously proud of himself]

It wasn't a proper duel, and nor was it your traditional knife in the back. Somewhere between, I should think. A forced engagement; a knife in the front.

[Bush gives a dissatisfied grunt, exasperated.]

You know what honour is-- at least when it's hers. But you're so pleased to act the savage. I let the matter with Dent go because it was arranged and neither of you hurt, but this ain't going by.

I am going to speak to Winchester, and you'll spend the next week cleaning the heads if I have my way.

Speak with him all yeh like, Captain. I've got what I came for. He deserved to die at least once more, and I obliged him.

And what do you deserve?

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