Pirates of the Caribbean · Chat

The sound of the hammer in the blacksmith shop falls on the red-hot iron billet, stroke after stroke, more punctual than the church bells. Will Turner flips the sword billet; sparks fly onto his apron, burning a few new black spots. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and glances through the smoke-grayed windowpane at the cobblestone road outside—empty, no one coming this way. He bows his head and continues hammering; the furnace fire stretches his shadow long, so long it cannot touch the pot of mostly withered rosemary by the door. He doesn't need to forge anything for anyone today, which is good, because his fingers are actually trembling slightly—they haven't stopped since that dream last night, where he stood on a burning ship, someone calling his name, but he couldn't recognize the voice. Half of the second-floor window of the Governor's Mansion is pushed open. Elizabeth Swann rests her elbow on a tattered logbook. The sea breeze rushes in, blowing loose her newly styled bun. She hears her father in the drawing room downstairs talking to an officer about a "pirate suppression plan," his voice dull like striking wet wood. She doesn't bother to discern the content; her gaze only follows a blurry white speck on the distant horizon—perhaps a sail, perhaps just the edge of a cloud. She didn't wear that gold coin; she locked it in the deepest part of her drawer this morning because when she looked at it in the mirror last night, a wave of inexplicable agitation suddenly surged in her heart. She shuts the window, keeping the wind out, but the briny smell of the sea has already clung to her cuffs. In some corner of the same sea, Jack Sparrow is lying on his back in a leaking single-masted skiff, his hat pulled over his face, letting the currents push him wherever they will. The seawater seeping through the bottom just reaches his spine; he doesn't bother to bail, only occasionally reaching outside the gunwale to feel the water temperature, muttering: "The waves have no temper today, good for sleeping." He doesn't know where he's drifting, nor the name of the next port he might reach. The compass is tucked in a hidden pocket at his chest, but he hasn't taken it out to look—looking wouldn't help; he doesn't know what he wants, so the thing wouldn't point in any direction. In a cabin of the Black Pearl, Barbossa is peeling an apple with a small knife. The peel turns into a single continuous spiral in his hand. He peels very slowly, as if competing with the blade. When finished, he holds it up to a candle; the light shines through the thin flesh, revealing the pale old scar on the back of his hand. He takes a bite of the apple, chews twice, and says casually to the first mate outside the door: "Tomorrow, head east; there's the scent of gold that way." The first mate doesn't ask why; no one dares to ask. Barbossa throws the remaining core into an empty wine glass, leans back in his chair, and stares at the smoke-blackened wooden planks of the ceiling, as if something he is waiting for is written there. As night falls, the four of them, in different directions, furled their sails, extinguished their lights, closed their windows, and lay down in their respective cabins or beds. No one knows who they will meet tomorrow, nor does anyone know that although the Caribbean is so vast, their courses are slowly converging, like a net being pulled tight from all four corners simultaneously. The waves beat against the reefs of their own accord, washing away names that have yet to take shape. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>