[At first there's nothing before ( a doodle )

[PRIVATE TO JACK SPARROW]

Can't say I particularly know or care how much you listen in on this thing, but I wager it's more than you'll admit.

That fool. The one who does his weekly good deed answering questions and taking a shot at predicting the weather. He's an arse, but he's not usually wrong.

And given what was on the report this week-

Well.

Now where have I heard stories of fogs and curses from, I wonder.

Better yet, awful...Messy way of trying to keep it quiet.

[/PRIVATE TO JACK SPARROW]

[You all remember Hector, of course. The ass who's torn apart most of the folks who've asked stupid questions? And has been highly offended at the assumptions about the way he speaks? Well, he's just come upon a thought that struck him out of the blue, and really, in his opinion you just might want to pay attention.

But hoo boy, does he sound full of schadenfreude. Because he is.]

Just as an aside, as that execution do bring some things to mind. At least for meself, as I'm a bit more versed in the laws and rules of the sea...

You do realize, o'course, with your sailing and bartering without proper papers - letters o' marque or otherwise granting you permission to do such from a nation - you are all, in fact, committing acts of piracy, aye?

No papers, no authority to conduct yourself as a legitimate crew. No authority, of course, to organize yourself in a militaristic force. You aren't privateers. You aren't merchants, and you aren't treasure hunters.

You're pirates. Piss poor excuses for pirates, I'll grant ye that, but not a single soul brought to this place has authority to do anything. You're conducting in black market trade, operating a craft that is not, in fact, registered in any home port, and not a single one among ye has a place ye make berth.

This, of course, does include our little ship full o'sparkle and light in the name of justice et cetera, et cetera.

Pirates, the lot of you. Every last one of you be staring at Jack Ketch, waiting to be the next to dance the jig. No matter your noble intentions.

[Well, things are back to normal for this pirate, at least, and for the most part he's kept to his own, for the simple fact that he hasn't been able to properly express how much you lot have been doing it wrong.

This is more than pirate pride, alright? This is about an entire professional jargon that has quite obviously flew over the heads of all of you lot, and his ears, in his own opinion, are close to bleeding.

It doesn't help that he's been rolling his eyes since minute one, either.]

Alright, ye paper-skulled, dim-witted barmpots. Listen, and listen close, as I won't go repeating meself a second time except with lead shot.

I've no idea what that nonsense were that made ye all gibber like plonkers without brains between your ears, but I be here to let ye all know ye cocked it up something fierce. Never in me life 'ave I ever heard so much bilge spew from greenhorns at that rate of speed, and I've spent me fair share of time in Tortuga and New Orleans.

All of it were nonsense, and only about half made the slightest bit of sense. Honestly, ye'd think we were speaking two different tongues or some such, and you only bothered to learn half of it.

What gobs among ye were crying avast. Set yourself down, as you've only made yourself look a fool. Ye warn't speaking like pirates. Ye were mangling orders and doing it in the most half-arsed West Cun'ry accents I nary have 'eard in me life. Mister Cotton hisself do a better job, and he has no tongue.

Learn the difference between talking like you have brains and giving orders. From the sounds of it, ye have no idea what any of that means anyway, so spare those of us as have some know-how the pain of listening to you gurgle like a dying whale. Leave the talking like a man of the sea to those as know it, shut your gobs, and get back to pumping the bilge like most of ye need to be doing, as ye aren't fit to haul line or trim sails. Why the lot of you figured ye just had to share with the rest of us, I'll nary understand, nor do I particularly care.

So for future such nonsense, do us a solid and keep your traps shut.

[Look who's figured out the voice function. Good thing, too, as he sounds nothing like himself when he handwrites things.

Besides, he's a bit pressed for time, and writing it out is far too much like dawdling for his comfort. And as far as he knows, this is the Locker, and the rest of his crew is mysteriously missing. The idea that he's the only one to survive the waterfall at World's End isn't the most comforting one.

So here, folks. Enjoy those dulcet yet nasally tones of the West Country accent. Let it soothe you.]

Miss Swann, Mister Turner, if you two can, perhaps, find it within your schedules to interrupt not speaking to one another and give us an aye, I'd be most obliged. You, too, Gibbs, if you managed to survive that, though I'm not holding me breath. Cotton, if you could-

Well, Cotton's parrot. If you could give us an aye, then.

The rest of you sorry lot in this place. If you happen to come across an ice queen dragon woman and the wimpy looking gob she's pointedly not speaking to, or the drunk that may or may not be sleeping with the pigs, do us a bit of a solid and point them toward the docks.