The voice drips honey and poison. And not at all in equal doses. When Jack turns on his heel, he is faced by Barbossa, at the head of those he rejected passage, the rolled-up charts cradled in his arms, a smug little smirk on his lips.
"Which way you goin', Jack?"
He drums his long-nailed fingers on the bamboo charts as Jack-the-Monkey, perched on his shoulder, chitters at Jack-the-man.
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The voice drips honey and poison. And not at all in equal doses. When Jack turns on his heel, he is faced by Barbossa, at the head of those he rejected passage, the rolled-up charts cradled in his arms, a smug little smirk on his lips.
"Which way you goin', Jack?"
He drums his long-nailed fingers on the bamboo charts as Jack-the-Monkey, perched on his shoulder, chitters at Jack-the-man.