Welcome to Purgatory

Elizabeth Swann has gone home.

[That's pretty much all he can manage. People needed to know. He won't answer any messages until very late tonight. In the meantime, he is pretty much going to wall himself up in his house. Not in his room, though. His room still smells like her.

He found her wedding ring. It was lying on her night stand yesterday morning when he first woke to find her gone.

All things considered...he's not doing as badly as he might be. At least, he's convincing himself of that. Trying to. They always knew this was a probability, after all.

But that didn't make much of a difference in the end, did it?]

 Perhaps the message from my superior was too subtle, but he would like to open the Britannia to anyone who would rather be away from the village if the threat the Malnosso have given should come to fruition.  He would like you to work, as we are short of crew, but work could mean practically anything from cooking to needlework to carrying buckets to hoisting, anything you can think of.  You needn't sign up as part of the crew.  We do have at least one cannon to provide some defense.

We sail tomorrow.  Any who wish to come aboard should be there by eight o'clock in the morning with whatever belongings you wish.  There is more than enough room.

[In other words, they're offering to take refugees.]

[A man clearing his throat.]

This is Mr. Kennedy. Ginia...Miss Ginia Solana has gone home, as you know, and left me the club. Now she’s gone, musicians on our schedule are a bit scarce. I could also use a waiter or two. Or three, I wouldn’t mind, especially if they could help at the bar on busy nights, or nights when I am gone. [A pause, then his tone goes falsely cheerful as if he’s impatient with his own awkward long-windedness.] In short, for which I am clearly untalented, if any of you possess a musical skill, I should be very glad to have you perform here. There’s nothing quite like music to lift a spirit, and Cloud Nine is the one place in the village which has it regularly. We should all be grateful to hear yours.

And I know waiting on tables is scarcely anyone’s ideal way to spend his or her evening, but it could be worse. Exchanging idleness for music usually turns out in one’s favor. I’ll be happy for the help. I did begin as a waiter myself.

Now I’d like to address the sailors and would-be sailors of the village. The Britannia has lost a few of her crew—sent home—and I know there are sailors here who’ve not spoken up. I’d like to know why, that I might dispel any concerns. We’re not asking for exclusivity, if that’s the trouble, and it’s been made clear time and time again that we are not a military vessel. If there are any doubts, it is better to ask. Even if you’re not a sailor, you’re welcome aboard. Thank you for your time. We set sail in May.

[Filtered 86% to Nami]

I’d like to ask you especially, Miss Nami. Your skills and experience are second to none here, and we would be honored to have you.

[He’ll spend the daylight hours wandering the woods and all over town, keeping an eye out for a certain young midshipman the rogue Malnosso took. At one point, he’ll head to the smithy to see Hiccup and Sokka. In the evening, he’ll be working the bar and kitchen at Cloud Nine, and bringing food to tables when he must.]

[It's around ten or eleven at night when the transmission begins. Two voices, Kennedy and Bush, are sounding decidedly sloshed. They are, in fact, sitting at the bar in Good Spirits, because how often do you get to introduce someone to Romulan ale twice and see their reaction the second time like it had never happened before? Only if said person went home and came back and doesn't remember the first time. Due to this, Kennedy sounds considerably more sober.]

Your attention, everyone. Mr. Bush has something he would like to say.

Yes, yes I would.....What was it again Kennededy?

Begin with "my profoundest apologies." And-and end with...with the hair thing.

Ah! Right, right. *ahem* My sensherest apologies to the ladies of Lusheti....I like all of you and your is - hair - is very pretty.

Nunno, William, it's...the envy bit, that was nice. Do add that in.

I envy all of your hair.

And how silly a man are you?

Extremely, Kennedy. Siller man there ever was.

Now recite an appropriate verse.

Help me think of one.

What about, "O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!"

It is.

And...why is that, Mr. Bush?

Hm?

Why is it a woeful, woeful, woeful day?

This isn't England and there's no naaavy. Missthenavy.

And...that's the only reason you insulted the crew, isn't it? Just want things to be like they are at home?

Mmhm.

...Do you need a bucket to vomit into?

Please.

[OOC: This is a joint post with wouldntbetonit]

[Archie has barely been around town lately, but he does appear in town this afternoon, dashing about to various shops and stores and picking up various one-use items and lots and lots of groceries. He seems to have one thing on his mind.

Later, he'll sit at the fountain and send out the voice message:]

This is Mr. Kennedy. If anyone is in need of me, I shall be at the beach house for most of the week. You can reach me there or on the journals.

Moreover, Mr. Hornblower and I are wondering if anyone would be interested in helping to build a ship. A sloop-of-war, to be specific, with room and ports enough for eighteen or twenty-two guns. I cannot claim we have a practical use for itm besides exploration, but it would be something to do. We have the plans drawn up, and all we need is enough hands to make it possible. We would be grateful for any help at all.

[After this, he'll be walking back to the beach house, where he's been babysitting Jack Sparrow since yesterday.]