Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

I'm killing myself.

Fancy drowned rat

Algol

Tiberius, Ren, Bec

@Nifty Gao

He had not been shot, but his eyes were wide and terrified with the broken open expression of someone who did not look this frightened and sad all of the time.

Dante looked at Ren and words just came tumbling out

“My mom wanted to meet you and we were having tea and then my dad told me to drink the tea and it was really salty and then I showed up on the beach and my entire life is a lie and I threw vomit at some grey manatee jellyfish things floating in the ocean and then-”

He realized what was happening

“Oh stars I’m losing like… negative aura with this.” Was the first thing out of his mouth which… priorities as always. The terrified expression wasn’t quite leaving his face, but more it seemed some part of him was getting better acclimated with all the returned or altered memories to his brain. Physical touch grounding him in a specific way.

“Are you hurt”

“What’s the best thing I can say to get you to both like me and not worry about anymore– I feel like shit but that’s mostly probably the screaming sobbing thing rather than the shot thing” Dante immediately responded with. The immediately raw look of wanting to die a little in mortification

And then the doctor passed out.

…

They were fucked.

“That doctor just passed out.” The whisper is harsh and obvious, his posture small and defeated, his voice a little wobbly despite himself and his horrified face the most painfully expressive feature twisted into expressions Ren most definitely wouldn’t have seen otherwise.

“Why do you have… that guy with you.”

…

“I'm not ready to be a father-”

TIBERIUS STOOD UP?????!!?!

The worries of an older brother constantly trying to keep his younger sibling out of fights, the immediate concern became plastered over his face as he let out a hurried “Maybe you should lay down again this doesn’t-”

“Dante, bud, I’m going to need you to breathe”
“I’m breathing. I’m fucking breathing. You need to-”

Lay down? Chill? NOT MAKE THE BULLET WOUND WORSE?!??!

“Uhm. Ren. Ren help-”

Oaty, Confused, and Devastated

White shirt with full length sleeves; Brown bodice and skirt; Simple black shoes but make it covered in seawater and sand

The Shore of Algol, but also The Canals, but also The Leviathan, but also The Haven Inn, but also The Cascades and Quinlan's complex

Adrius, Yasmine, Lucrezia, Anon, Ilya, Tibby, Dante, Ren, Bec

CrimsonInk [/USER]

TW: Blood, Grief, Death, Brief mention of touching without consent

It was like everything was flashing, and Cassandra was just being held, forced to endure the kaleidoscope as her life blended together.

The Haven Inn.
Their cabin on the ship.
The storm.
Judge Quinlan grasping Adrius’ shoulder and smiling his loathsome smile.
Blood lust in a young woman’s watery eyes.

No. It all could not be real. There had to be a logical answer to it all. Yet, Cassandra had no desire for logic at this moment. Logic was gone, hardly even missed as she was released from Yasmine’s hold around her arms and legs. Carefully, she rolled away to get a better look at her friend.

“You’re not really here.”

She couldn’t be. Yasmine left Tortoise Rill when they were teenagers, on a day that looked like this. The chaos around them on the shores of Algool faded away, gone with her desire for logic. The skies were not dark, but a bright azure blue dotted with wispy clouds. The imposing grey figures along the waterline were great trees. The panicked and injured passengers around them were friendly faces from her memories.

As sure as the sky was blue, and the sun shone high and hot in the sky, Yasmine was laying on the beach beside her. She must have surprised her with a return visit. It was very much like her to sneak up, and it wasn’t the first time Cassandra had been playfully tackled to the ground.

“why look at ya….the same as ever.”
Her voice was sweet, as it always was when Yasmine spoke to her, and a strand of hair was wiped from her face. The feeling of fingertips on her face was undeniable proof and logic tip toed back into Cassandra’s mind.

“You are here.” Cassandra’s eyes grew wide as she regarded her best friend, hands reaching out to confirm the existence of her face. “Yasmine,” tears welled in her eyes. “I have missed you greatly. I can hardly describe how much.”

Quinlan was not here.
Adrius was not here.
Yasmine was here.

They were home in Tortoise Rill.
Not on a ship.
Not at an inn.
The tavern wasn’t real.
But Yasmine was real.

“You know what babes….isn’t it turtle season? How about we help the baby turtles?”

It was turtle season. An important time of the year, especially as the rivers and the banks grew rougher and rougher. It was always important for nature to take its course, but sometimes they needed to help. Predatory birds, unsavory terrain, and rogue footfalls were the biggest threats to turtle eggs and the babies who managed to hatch as they scuttled their way to the water.

Was the ship real?
Was Adrius real?

Yasmine helped her stand and they started towards a group up ahead, who were presumably already observing and assisting the baby turtles. Were she not still firmly under the effects of the mysterious tea, Cassandra might not be skipping gleefully towards the anxious group. She might have recognized the raven haired woman who looked exhausted and bruised around the neck as she spoke to a forlorn, sandy haired man. Perhaps, she might have hastened her approach upon the realization that Doctor Ilya was lying unconscious beside a bleeding man, or the distressed state of another man speaking to a dark haired figure who held an air of familiarity, or the young boy whose eyes kept being drawn to the water.

Was Judge Quinlan and the city of night and terror a nightmare she dreamed?
Had she been asleep this whole time?
Did she never leave Tortoise Rill?

As they walked, more memories flashed through Cassandra’s mind. Sailing on her fathers ship, heeding his warnings as they approached the docks of The Cascades.
How the sky was inky black, spattered with white stars. People milling about the streets near the docks, dressed in fine fabrics and fashions she had never seen before.

How clean the streets were.
How unclean the prison cells below Quinlan’s complex were.

Where was Adrius?

Cassandra stopped in her tracks, her palms finding her forehead, pressing against her flushing skin. Over her eyes, her cheeks, over her mouth. She was dizzy.

“Yasmine.” Ice filled her chest as the blue sky and bird song melted into grey night and the air filled with anguished cries. “Where are we?”

The executioner.
Blood streaming from the cut above his eye as she screamed from the stands.
Quinlan in her room at the inn.
The feeling of strange men - friends of Quinlan - touching her thighs and neck.
Punishment for embarrassing him.
Adrius’s arms around her on the ship.
Adrius slamming her against the wall in The Haven Inn.

High diving in the punchbowl.
Throwing herself through a window.

A wave of nausea weakened her knees and they met the cold sand.
“Where is Adrius?” Cassandra asked quietly, unsure as she fit her memories together like a puzzle.

Corset ties constricting her ribcage.
Gem laden silver tight around her neck.
The reflection of her eyes pleading through the looking glass.
‘Do not let me die here.’

Echoes of her uncomfortable, heeled shoes as she ran through to the gate out of Quinlan’s complex harmonizing with heavy footfalls of a man seeking the same freedom, and they collided. For a moment they did not speak, worried they were moments from being caught. He was gaunt and dirty with crusts of dark blood dried upon his forehead and a nasty cut which had yet to be attended to. Cassandra lifted the curved knife she held in her hand towards the man’s throat.

“We will help each other escape, or I will have to choose my own survival in favour of yours.”

His expression was serious, unwavering, but understanding as she allowed him a moment to consider his choice. They reached a silent agreement of trust as he nodded his head once and brought a finger to his lips to signal they were to move in silence.

The Good Ship Sylvia.
The Leviathan.
Adrius telling stories.
Adrius praying to the flames of the candles in their room.
‘My name is Flora Fitchner.
I am married to Ivan Fitchner.
We are from Zenith, and we are very happy together.'

Her hands clutched the cold sand and tears flowed down her face, dripping onto her shaking fists. Cassandra spoke again, louder, pushing through sobs. “Where is Adrius?” She forgot to uphold his disguise, his alias gone from her lips.

'My husband, Ivan, experienced a mountain lion attack before our wedding, and he is still recovering from this.
We did not want to wait any longer to be married, so we eloped.
We are enjoying the voyage on The Leviathan for our honeymoon.’

The infection was bad but it got better. He was able to leave the bed for short periods of time. They shared a laugh over breakfast one morning, eliciting twitters of congratulations from a lady at the table beside them. He remarked it had been a while since he laughed.

Was all that real?

The storm. The rain.
The thunderous crashes of waves against the wood of the ship.
The sharp rip as the haul tore open.

Elbows shoving them as they ascended to the deck of the ship.
They were evacuating onto small boats.
Adrius’ hand grasped hers as they approached the slick ladder to their life boat.
Carefully, she coached him as he climbed down.

“It is alright my darling. The Inn will be safe and warm, and the shore is not far.”

It could have happened to any of the small boats, and perhaps it did and Cassandra didn’t notice. She was preoccupied with flailing her arms out into the frigid water, nearly falling overboard herself as she tearfully cried out as Adrius gulped at the water’s surface before slipping under.
Cassandra’s sobs consumed her as she crumpled in the sand.

The Haven Inn.
Reuniting with Yasmine in the tavern.
Adrius brushing her hair from her face before he kissed her.

They never kissed.
They never will.

Adrius couldn’t swim.

It was always important for nature to take its course
But sometimes nature was cruel.
Not every baby turtle makes it to the river.

Nostalgic, annoyed, amused, is never more determined than this

His usual dirty coat of course

The shore of Algol

Captain Lexi, Rosaline

Lexis and the crew Gao

"That was a joke."

The clarification arrived just in time, preventing Maltke's arm to continue its limp trajectory and succeed in bringing together his firm fist and the Captain's equally stone-like face. "Ah a joke..." Verbalizing the strange statement may have helped a bit to the old pirate to realize that the menacing threat was an attempt to ease the weight of the situation. His shoulders relaxed, his hand returned to the monotone task of holding the torn fabric against the wound.

"...to share a drink with me." His messy head rose higher in surprise, eyebrows followed to motion as well when the old pirate, the wanted man who had gotten on the ship without a ticket was invited by Lexis Graves himself. For a drink!* "Maybe bein' shot was worth the pain if it means I will drink with Capt'n..." He thought and without him noticing it his face contorted into a grimace that was sharing distant similarities with a child's content smile when their father buys one of those overpriced, yet delicious goodies for them on the festival of the village. "He sure knows how to get on my good side, clever bastard..."

Last time he shared a drink with his Captain had been on the night before the bloody encounter between the Carmine Corsairs and the Bastards' Company. That night the important figures of the crew had all gathered in the Captain's cabin, they had opened - and in a few minutes emptied - the Captain's finest bottle of rum and had drunk either for the glorious victory or for the death side by side their comrades. Since the later had turned out to be correct prediction, one of his last memories about his mentor and friend had been fermented in Maltke's hippocampus into a bitter-sweet segment of his life, his last rum-flavoured supper. Or it had been until this very moment when the stinging, burning hole in his shoulders and Lexis' offer reminded Maltke Cycek yet again that he was still alive.

"Sure, let's drink sometime!" He nodded, answering finally, maybe a bit more eagerly than he had wanted to. He turned his head away from his assailant and caretaker, squinting annoyedly because his emotions had boiled over again.

"What will I talk with this guy about though?" Maltke was wondering silently, allowing his gaze to run along the line of the chipped black rocks of the shore. "He gotta like ships..."

His eye settled on the unsettling, slimy figures, swaying in the wave-tattered surface of the dark water. When the word 'Algol' slipped through Lexis' modest mouth, a chill ran through Maltke's spine. Still looking in their endless, ugly-yellow eyes, the non-existing, theoretical book of monstrosities in the old man's mind opened, dusty, yellowed pages were flipping in hurry to place the word and the sight to their well-deserve place in Maltke's private mythology. "Don't say that word too much, Capt'n!" He warned him thoughtfully. "Evil word, bad omen." He looked at Lexis face, never being more serious. Algol was one of those few places of the endless see where the adventurous soul had never wanted to travel. Looking back, he couldn't believe they had survived the illusion of the tempting sea-fiends of Algol.

The old pirate could hear as the Captain told him something about counting to three but whatever it was, a sudden and sharp shock of pain pulled him back from pondering on what could have happened with the crew on this accursed land.

"Aaaargh, motherfucker...!"

"I lied. I have used the element of surprise." He certainly have.

Even if he wasn't sure, Maltke rolled with what his instincts told to him - that Lexis Graves made another pathetic attempt to crack a joke. A painful one. However pirate this time was ready with his well-practiced, salty answer. "AHAHAHHAaa don't ye ever dare to do this again, gotcha?" The obnoxiously loud, fake laughter transitioned into a blank stare on an even blanker face. "With all respect, Capt'n!" He added with a smirk forming in the corner of his mouth.

With the dressing tightened, Maltke accepted the helping hand of the Captain and finally stood up and groaned in chorus with his weathered bones that were protesting against his will. "This be pretty fuckin' bad!" Now standing tall, Maltke could only agree with Lexis. Some were way too close to the water that was shining with oil-quality, some where sitting with a posure distorted by pain similar to how Maltke had been sitting on the sand - the wounded, some were trying to get closer to the dangerous range of sea-soaked sand, their movements were erratic, yet determined, mirroring their inner delusions. A woman was half-naked, strangely enough. "Blessing in disguise."

"I will need your assistance to move everyone away from the shoreline."

"HE?" Maltke raised his eyebrows confusedly, trying to look at Lexis despite his eyepatch made it a bit difficult. "But ain't ye the Captain? What could I...?" In the middle of the question the old man realized something: he had never heard that Lexis Graves raised his voice, not even once. Ignoring the topic, the Captain always talked on the same, polite, banal tone. "Maybe his throat be weak." If their position had been optional, the old man would surely hit Lexis on his back reassuringly. "Ye can count on me!" He smirked, looking forward what would come soon.

Standing confidently on the uneven sand, his nosetrils widened, giving space of the extreme amount of air to Maltke's lungs, gradually filling it to its limits. He straightened his posture as much as his conditions allowed. He knew after this his throat would be sore but everything for the crew. Maltke Cycek opened his mouth and the cannon went off.

"ACTION STATIONS!!! EVERYONE OF YE FUCKERS GET A GRIP AND LISTEN WELL! WE FELL FOR THE CHARMS OF THOSE WRETCHED SEA MONSTERS BUT NO TIME FOR PANIC! ALL WHO FEELS THEMSELVES CAPABLE, PULL THE IDIOTS AWAY FROM THE WATER! KNOCK'EM OUT IF NEEDED! THEN COME THE FAINTED AND WOUNDED, MOVE THEM AWAY AS WELL! GO, RAISE YER LAZY ASSES AND SAVE YER CREWMATES AS QUICK AS FUCKIN' POSSIBLE..."

The vocal rumbling stopped because of the lack of oxygen. The old man took another breath and his voice boomed above Algol again, now a bit less confident, his other arm was pointing at Lexis Graves. "THE CAPTAIN'S ORder, aight?"




*(suck it up Rosaline, Maltke was asked out by Lexy first!)

IM-GOING-TO-KILL-YOU CORE.

SNEEKY SLEEKY

ALGOL SHORE

BEC, DANTE, TIBERIUS, ILYA, CALANTHE, DEVANA, CADENCE, MALTKE.

qunqun @Nifty

Whatever carefully curated control Dante often wears has been shrugged aside for a frenzy. It all begins with a six letter horror story:

“My mom wanted to meet you.”

Oh?

Oh.

OH?!

It’s the sort of comment that springs into Ren’s mind like a living thing, vivid and invasive and threatening and comforting all at once. His mind knows better than to indulge and entertain such a remark, but there is a genuine note of something warm to hear it all the same. If not for the crushing urgency of their circumstance, he would have liked to shuffle closer and interrogate.

“–And we were having tea and then my dad told me to drink the tea and it was really salty and then I showed up on the beach and my entire life is a lie and I threw vomit at some grey manatee jellyfish things floating in the ocean and then-”

It ribbons out of Dante and only when he mentions the beach does Ren realize this is the product of the inn. Floats in the interval of silence that engulfs him in both caution and marvel for whatever the fuck could possibly be going on in Dante’s mind right now. Stares blank-eyed as the man continues to unearth every notion of honesty or delusion or what have you seeping from mind to mouth.

“Oh stars I’m losing like… negative aura with this.”

Ren smiles and thumbs some sand from Dante’s jaw.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” He surprises himself at the lack of command to that question, gentle impassivity to what this man currently concerned himself with on a shore of gray sand and gray monsters. Dante’s most precious aura hangs in the balance and god forbid he sink it with talk of vomit. “At least you’ll have your smile to fall back on.”

Ironic when there is no levity to the man’s face, wide-eyed features of a catacomb. Harrowed as the lawyer is, their words feel saccharine sweet when admitting to wanting Ren to like him. Eyes narrow and something smug upturns the corners of his mouth. Mild amusement dissolves the original distress that had him scouring the man for injury like a dog on mutton. He has obtained an advantageous resource that he can harass Dante later with in a wii tennis conversation, but it would be unfair to poke about it now. Dante has suffered enough for the night.

His eyes drag to approaching figures, a woman who splits through the velvet dark and sends a nervous flicker through fleet-footed vein. Her face is lacerated with scar and Ren knows better than to focus on features like that. He then notices the blood of the rich woman in tow, copper to the sand from a mutilated leg. More injuries, no doctor, but at least the first woman seems to have a grasp on what needed to be done.

His hand eclipses Dante’s arm, pulling the lawyer to his feet and letting his hand hover in wary expectation for the man to collapse. If his footing was anything like his voice, shaky, then he does not hold much faith for Dante’s cooperation here. Ilya needs help and they are one of few who are not bleeding.

“Why do you have… that guy with you.” In all the bedlam of Algol and arrival of this newest pair, Ren had temporarily forgot about That Guy. “I'm not ready to be a father-”

Ren did not know what to say. Stands in silence (nature is healing) while the yap-centric nature of his personality scrambles for a footing. Loom of his organised thoughts sliced open and scattered to the wind, he struggles to reform the connective tissues to understand what Dante means by fatherhood. He cannot mean Ren and him because that would be. That would be.

That.

Hee hee hoo.

h.

Focus.

What did that imply?

“That’s not–” What did Ren want it to imply? “No I–” he swallows a wishbone in his throat and feels it snag on every wall. “We–”

WE?!

WOAH BUDDY.

GET DOWN BOY.

“That’s Bec.” The stray Ilya gave me to look after so I shoved him around and said mean things. That won’t sound good. That won’t impress Dante. “He likes the sea.” Okay. Now he’s describing Bec as if he were bringing a pet to Dante and trying to convince him to keep it. The thought gathers momentum even as he tries to tamp it, and maybe it is good fortune that Tiberius is back on his feet to distract Dante with panic and Ren with ire.

There is something crouched in him, he feels it stir the moment he notices the Doctor on Tibby’s shoulder and sees the ruby red arm reaching. He does not want blood on the lawyer and he does not want the doctor manhandled so carelessly, and given the rising apprehension and plea of help from Dante, he is inclined to do something about it.

Ren's lip curls back and it looks as if he’s ready to lunge for Tiberius. He almost shoves them when that wrath stirs, but must give allowance for the Doctor’s wellbeing; keeps him from reacting on every malignant impulse coveting for combat. Uncompromising as Ren often was, he takes a confrontational step to bar Tiberius and Dante with a solid stance. His jaw feels willing to rip meat straight from the bone and that yawning abyss of ire is a blackened thunderstorm tearing itself across features with violent conviction.

For an infinitesimal moment in time— just a small grain in this expanse of anaemic sand, Ren thinks this must be the impulse to kill. Would he be willing to take life for Ilya and Dante? Be rendered down to someone like Magnus? His blood is curdling and albeit how ridiculous his stature looks in comparison to the prizefighter, it is not a physical instrument of violence he uses to threaten them.

“You have done enough.” A reiteration of a warning: it is your fault, from a mouth filled with red teeth. Ren does not have anyone to blame and therefore it falls to the one who steps forward first; the kind martyr who has chosen to offer their neck for severance and placed five-fingered audacity onto Dante. He will apologise to Tiberius when his temper has ebbed, but currently two people he cares about are not okay— because of the gladiator and his little blonde wife, Ren had decided, and he is not eager for a third.

“Tend to Ilya,” he bites like a gavel, “make yourself useful.” Fix it, the consuming anger is souring and the salvia in his mouth tastes metallic, from reactionary spark to nocuous tempest and he looks now, hostile and impatient in the way many know him to be. Dormant till that targeted point of pressure fissures in the crust of the earth, it splits like a red flare and arcs with an oath of ash and extinction.

“Should the doctor die due to your incompetence,” a hiss as icy as the wind, “I’ll make sure this day is your last.”

Ren has never killed anyone, still brandishes the threat with the serrated weapon of his tongue and holds the scathing stare with no intention to back away first. All that unease, the cold and the shadows, the kind of gaze indecisive between clamping maw or passing by with indifference. If it were anyone shorter on the receiving end of Ren’s anger, he’d have driven them back with the push of his own forehead.

The yelling is like gunfire, Captain's orders through a loud mouthpiece, and only then does Ren redirect to matters outside of festering blame into Tiberius.

It is only the worry he has for Ilya and Dante that keeps him soft but not calm, and that care for others is starting to feel all too warm around him.

Worthless; Dante Coded

These will do!

ALGOL BEACH

TALULLAH | MILO

@ComplexDragon
@AnimeGenork

WARNING: Themes of abandonment, hallucinations, and mentions of suicide are in the text (not the act).

Dahlia couldn’t put a name to the voice addressing her. With teary eyes the girl turned to face someone familiar and unfamiliar all at once. The Algol spell had replaced his face with another, and it undoubtedly made her upset. Angry. Wrathful.

“No…no…” she began to mutter, “you don’t get to say that to me. You left us….why…”

The woman didn’t understand. She couldn’t comprehend the hallucination and the reality. Her hand reached out to smack his arm, but it wasn’t to hurt him. It wasn’t aggressive. She too exhausted for aggression no matter how much she wanted to be.

“You….you left us! Why? Why did you leave!? I don’t know you….But you left her….you left me….wasn’t I enough!?” she started to cry, her tears rained down her face and the buried hurt began to feel like it created a physical effect, “why does it hurt!? Someone! Kill me! Sedate me! I don’t care! I-I don’t wanna! I’m tired! I’m sick and tired of this life! AHHHH!”

Dahlia wailed her heart at the sand allowing herself to hold onto the strangers she called her parents. The darkness heavily preyed on her fear of abandonment, taunting the girl who considered death to be a way out. All she could do was allow herself to feel the pain until it wears off. No longer wanting to fight she laid on sandy beach looking into the void. The will to fight is no longer in her spirit, for now. She allowed her final whispers to be heard by these two before going into a state of depression.

"I'm sorry Noelle.....Lora.....Malty....Gal....everyone....I should have wasted away like the rest of Antares....."

:3

Clean Uniform

Med Bay

Adrius, Genevieve, Cassandra

Whoever is the people Ilya is treating.

Numb. Flush. Stitch. Stitch. Bandage.

He blinked back bloody scalps and waves from his eyes as he closed the wounds of whoever the fuck this was. His movements clean and robotic as he fought his own mind to not wander into grieving until the jobs in front of him were done. They belied none of his conflict.

Neat, orderly lines, wrapped with a pristine white bandage. A couple of soft mumbled words that he was certain weren’t going to be at all adhered to. “Take it easy for the next couple of days, try not to aggravate it and open the stitches once more. If you reopen them, just come back and I'll restitch them”

He was spread thin once more. He thought that this boat, this party for the rich and secure would be safe from the death that haunted his life, his every step.

Someone had told him once while he was an apprentice that to be a doctor was to stare in the eyes of death and suffering every day. Surely, Ilya had thought, it wouldn’t be that horrible. Every day.

Numb, flush, stitch.

Clean. Simple. Easy. He'd done a million of these, and had a million to go.

Genevieve. The amnesiac. Her gentleness, but the sense of mischief laying beneath. Ivan. His eyes had been hardened and kind at the same time. Wary, strangers seemed to unsettle him. As many had in his profession, there weren’t enough kindhearted doctors.

Stitch. Stitch.

His head was pounding, and his eyes screamed for rest, but he could not rest when he saw their eyes in his head. All of theirs. How much blood was on his hands?

Bandage.

Another one complete.

“Take it easy for the next couple of days, try not to aggravate the wound or open the stitches. If you happen to reopen them, just come back and I’ll restitch them.”
Like he wasn’t already spreading his resources so thin so that everyone got a little bit of medicine to make the pain go away.

Numb, flush, stitch.

Would Ivan had left the boat if he’d been on such an upswing with his infection?

Stitch, stitch

Had Ilya doomed him to an early grave by being competent in his work?

Bandage.

“Take it easy for the next couple of days, try not to aggravate the wound or open the stitches. If that happens, come back and I’ll restitch them once more.”

Did anybody even hear his warnings? Tiberius had almost immediately done the exact opposite of what Ilya recommended and made his wound that much worse by carrying around his sorry ass.

Numb, flush, stitch.

What a fucking joke, taking a nap in the sand while people needed him.

Stitch, stitch, stitch.

Maybe they didn’t even need him. They seemed to at least have stopped fucking dying once he’d collapsed.

Bandage.

“Take it easy for the next couple of days, try not to aggravate the wound-” Would this ship be even able to run if Ilya got his way and every single one of these people took it easy? Probably not. This was a lesson in futility and madness. “-I’ll restitch them once more.”

Even though it was your mistake costing us our precious few resources available, I will keep fixing you.

Numb, flush.

There had been a child with doe like eyes that Ilya could so clearly see in his memory. Broken his arm. Ilya had reset it and created a cast.

The child was able to climb trees a couple months later, but fell and hit his head, dying on his table as Ilya tried to dam the flow of blood.

Would that child have died had Ilya not fixed his arm with such competency?

Stitch. Stitch.

He’d gotten into medicine because he wanted to be helpful, and these were the only skills he had. He was too weak for hunting or fishing. Much better at scavenging herbs for medicinal poultices out in the Umbrian wastes.

He missed home, but so many dead infants and dead adults dotted that village. Perhaps he was cursed to be a grim reaper.

Bandage.

“Take it easy for the next couple of days-” No you won’t. Whatever. "Try not to reaggravate the wound"

He half expected them to do jumping jacks the second they walked outside of the clinic.

Numb, flush.

He wanted to go to sleep, maybe forever. Maybe if he did nobody else would die and everyone would be at peace and nobody would need his shitty cursed help ever again.

Stitch stitch stitch. Dark brown eyes rimmed with shadow were beginning to droop and his steady hands stilled for a moment.

He saw wary steel eyes once more, like a jolt. Something heavy burned in the pit of his stomach and he forced himself into the present day once more, passing off the pause as if he was inspecting his handiwork. He shouldn't falter. He'd already stumbled earlier. He can't make a single mistake here again.

Bandage.

“Take it easy for the next couple of days-” A purgatorial wasteland of pain and herbal antibacterial. His head was throbbing, really. But the heavy stone eating away at his insides was telling him he had to continue.

Numb… flush… Stitch… Bandage.

It was almost like he could feel the apparitions of the dead patients with him, following him. Haunting him. The mistakes of the past boring into his soul. Did they even have loved ones that would grieve them? The retrograde amnesia probably made it difficult to know in the case of Genevieve, but Ivan had been survived by his fiancee.

“Take it easy.”

hehe...sigh

Winter Attire

Umbra's Woods

n/a

N/a

With the crisp sound of the Umbra’s icy winds feeling like an invitation to the surrounding echoes of what hid deep within the reaches of the dark, hidden mysteries of the forest and roaring mountain peaks. From the howls of a distant lone wolf that seem to only ring through every branch and bark of the snow powdered trees to the almost silent whispers of the elementals that roamed these very lands, all of this and more that Nerrivik could feel flowing through her blood and soul. This only seemed to grow the already strong connection she had with Hri, knowing what she was doing at this very moment was what she was meant to do since the incident.

Regardless of what her leaders have advised her not to do, reminding Nerrivik that the shadowed parts of her book were forbidden and would only end with one outcome, her permanent exile from her tribe. From her people. But she couldn’t continue carrying this pain in her spirit, weighing her down every day. Her mother. Nerrivik had to see her again, hold her close, speak to her, simply to have her again was all she wanted. It didn’t matter if she had to abandon her true identity with the Firja, she would give it up every time if it meant her mother would be back in her arms, telling her what mistakes she had while creating the rosemary and lavender ointment.

“Aakka Vikie! You don’t ground the rosemary then the lavender together like that. First the lavender after you have soaked it under lukewarm water, grounding the two separately then combining them once you have the animal fat into its liquid form.”

The sweet stream of her mother’s lectures washed over Nerrivik just as the early morning dew of the first spring gust. A tear splashed onto the heavily dug lines beneath her, snapping her back to her reality. The one she didn’t want. The one she couldn’t bear to believe was her own. Her vision begins to fog with pitiful tears, keeping her behind from the task at hand.

“No. No more crying. Once I’m done with this, there will be no need for that.”

Nerrivik murmured under her breather and stared at her creation as she stood up, wiping the fallen tears with the back of her hand, soaking her caribou mittens. Taking a moment to admire the hide it was made from, her father and brothers had taken ages to hunt this particular bull, with the exact words of her father:

“You should have seen it, Riv. Even with the distance we were at, all I could think was ‘How lovely its fur looked, the warmest I had ever seen.’ We just had to have it. Didn’t matter how long it would take, we just had to.”

Her stare shifted between her tear soaked mitten and the dirt between her. Nerrivik had perfected the scriptures down the exaggerative curves and sharp indentations, as if she had placed the exact page from her mother’s pages onto the ground.

What did she have to lose? ‘Everything’ Doing this would make her lose the only bit of family she had left. Was the cost of this too high for her if failure were to come as the result? Was she even strong enough to do such rituals? Sure, she was convinced by her leader that she was one of the strongest shamans that the Firja have had in many decades but what if it wasn’t enough? What if… Shutting her eyes and keeping her breathing steady, letting the nature around her consume her, advise her, control her. A soft whisper creeped into her left ear, her eyebrow frowned as she tried to focus on what the voice was trying to say.

“Maaktuyuq.”

Nerrivik finally heard it as the wind dragged it up to the branches of the trees that circled her. It was all she needed to know. With a single nod, she rushed over to her beaded bag, taking an armful of human bones and placing them carefully on the indicated circle scriptures. With her mother’s skull now resting at the top of the ritual, staring off to the snowing horizon behind Nerrivik.

She tried her best to ignore the growing sadness in the pit of her stomach, knowing that her beauty, her wisdom, her love, her entire being were now forever to be locked away within these very bones. After arranging the last remaining essentials for this to work the way she needed it to go, an entire antler of a freshly hunted caribou, jarred sand from Sirocco (quite an expensive purchase but worth every coin), charcoal from a burned bark of the sacred tree, dried ‘life’ plants and lastly and the most important ingredient for this to all come together correctly. Nerrivik took a strand from the lower part of her head and cut it clean off with her copper arrowhead and placed it down to complete it, only to cut her palm. Pressing it hard, observing her droplets of blood drip over top her recently cut strand of jet black hair.

“That should be it.”

Her voice shaken, taking in her creation. This was it. This would bring her back. Surely this would be all it would take, it said so in the book. In her book. Her mother’s book. Nerrivik looked up at the pitch black night sky adorned with the sparkling twinkles of the stars above her, the full moon shining down into the opening of the forest and engulfing the surroundings below including Nerrivik.

“Perfect.”

This was the night. Her imagination now painted the moments she would have once she had completed the ritual. Nerrivik bit her bottom lip nervously, taking once more a deep breath and closing her eyes.

“Oh dear Hri. Light to all that has come to live and breathe on this earth, Open your arms and welcome my offerings. Ikajunga! Anaana! Aunaaqtunga! Ikajunga! Anaana! Aunaaqtunga! Ikajunga! Anaana! Aunaaqtunga! Hear my prayers! Hear my plea!”

Idek man.

Bisexual Whore

Zenith -> Antares

N/A

N/A

Stars, with their gravitational pulls, create their own systems of the universe. More commonly found, however, are binary star systems — those which have two stars slowly revolving around each other in the emptiness of space. Bound together.

Forever.

What am I talking about?

This is a Graham post.

You’re here for really shitty poetry and dick jokes.

Ahem.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
In the moonlight
Your eyes take on the most beautiful hue

KACHOW ROMANCE.

Graham’s lips twitched upwards in bemusement as he read off the poem to his latest paramour, seated upon a bench placed within a beautiful gazebo. The moon was full, and it reflected off the small pond in the gardens. Lovely lass, married too young and for politics, produced an heir young and promptly forgotten about by her husband. Like a lot of the women that were recommended to him. Beautiful mind for mathematics. A part of him felt a little bad that he may have been the first to actually see her, and that he was getting paid by her husband to do so in his place.

She laughed “Didn’t you study poetry in university?”
“Doesn’t mean I can write it” He responded with another small laugh.
“Fair enough, can we kiss?”
“Of course, love. You can do whatever your heart desires.”

She grabbed him by the collar when they kissed.

Sometimes, being a himbo had its perks, after all.

But with all of the soft gazes, soft touches, warm beds, and the fanciest wine-ing and dine-ing a guy could ever ask for, there was some sort of adventure to be had, yeah? Some itch under his skin he couldn’t quite grab.

When his contract was up, he chose to not go to the next duchess, but instead disappear.

He hooked a ride with some travelers in the night. Initiation into their exclusive club had a single feat of daring, after a little too much whiskey, Graham found himself staring down a massive cliffside into waters down below.

Well, if he was going to die… It was nice knowing ya. His regards to his mother, tell his father that he could suck Jesus’s dick for all he cared.

He took a running start, reaching for the setting sun like Icarus did before he fell. Maybe fifth time cliff jumping was the charm.

What were the statistics on this again? A little late to consider them as gravity took a hold.

He hit the darkened water below. The shock of the icy water sent the breath out of his lungs, and for a moment he realized that he may actually drown if he didn’t push himself upwards.

Huh.

Maybe this was actually the way that he died. It would’ve been peaceful, even as his lungs burned for air. Maybe… Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

And then he remembered the people waiting for him up on the cliff. Dashed against the craggy rocks and drowned would be traumatic… wouldn’t it. For them.

He began to kick.

He broke the surface and gave the group a thumbs up.

“How’s the water” There was nervousness to the tone behind the bravado of self-assurance.
“Fecking gorgeous” He shouted back up and then swam to safety.

Wrapped in a blanket to keep the shivers at bay, the fire was warm and painted the group’s faces in orange hues. A couple of them were musical, had brought out little instruments to entertain with. The stars were out in all of their glory up above, but Graham was pointedly ignoring them tonight as he sidled next to a lithe man with beautiful blue eyes.

The bereaved grinned. “So you come here often?”
“Do you tell all the boys that?” His build said gymnast, his accent said runaway, and the little quirk upwards of his lips said amused
“Not all of them, just the ones I find cute.” Graham’s eyes flickered down to the Runaway Gymnast’s lips and then back into staring into his eyes.
“He’s a smooth talker isn’t he?” Their leader said, mostly to save her companion from the furious blush spreading across his cheeks.
“If you’re not interested-” The now former courtesan said, pulling back for just a moment.
“Well… now who said I wasn’t interested”

A grin spread across Graham’s face.

Stars have to continually burn fuel in order to continue to survive. The ones that burn the brightest are usually the ones that die the fastest.

He stared at the hand, fingers intertwined with his hookup as the man slept on his chest in the aftermath. The stars were calling to him as usual, and even this hadn’t drowned out their siren song.

He had to keep moving.

He gave the clasped hand a small kiss before getting up and pulling his clothes on.

Antares. Practically lawless, full of seedy underbelly.

Graham stepped into a bar currently in the middle of a massive brawl, chairs being flung everywhere.

Well well well. Looks like it was his lucky day.

A drunken man approached him with a broken bottle and swung it at him. Graham did not move out of the way, but the man tripped over another brawler and impaled himself. A stool getting flung at his head wouldn’t kill him, but it would sting like a motherfucker so Graham dodged out of the way of that one.

In the throes of frustration, one of the servers let out a cry “I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE I QUIT.”

She threw down a tray which ricocheted and hit another man currently in the massive brawl in the crotch. That man let out a roar of anger, grabbed a person not at all involved in the fight, and tried to smash their head through the table.

Graham weaseled his way to where the tavernkeep had her head in her hands. “Does this happen often?”
“Not as much as you'd think, but rent’s due soon.” She said “So much property damage.”
“I can round up some lads and have them get thrown out, if you want?” Graham offered, his voice as soft and kind as he could make it as a bottle was thrown and shattered somewhere behind the tavernkeep’s head.

“... You do that. Anything in return?”
“I’d like to take that new position as a server and a permanent room, if that’s alright with you.”
“You’ve got it. And I’ll give you free drinks on the house. Just make them all stop.”

Side quest achieved, Graham managed to sneak his way out once more.

Now… How to get a bunch of guys to follow him to break up a tavern brawl…

Get a bunch of meaner looking guys to break the fight up! Genius!

It didn’t take too long to find some guys that looked like they might shoot someone if they so looked at them wrong. This would take some excellent persuasion methods of a high caliber courtesan who spent his life politicking in the high courts and-

Graham punched one of them in the face. “OI, I FUCKED YOUR MUM LAST NIGHT, MATE. WHAT’RE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT.”

And then he fucking booked it. He flew through the streets of Antares, eventually finding the tavern once more and slipping his way through the fight for a third time.

He was clipped in the ear, his hearing going all ringy. Once in the stomach, and he felt himself drop to his knees. He crawled out the backdoor, and continued his dead sprint away from the fight.

Leaned up against a wall, Graham sucked in air to calm his rapidly beating heart. He heard a bunch of guns go off, bodies hit the ground.

Graham came back like a slightly bloodied god of destruction amidst shattered furniture and glass. Men groaning in pain at his feet, blood soaking into the wooden floors. It looked like the mean fuckers that he’d punched had gotten killed in the shootout, lucky him he supposed. Nobody to hunt him down for revenge.

But! The fighting had ceased!

“... I wish your methods weren’t quite so… chaotic.” The tavernkeep said. While she was acclimated to Antares, a shootout was still a shootout and she seemed a little shaken by the whole ordeal.
“Well. It stopped though, didn’t it?”

She shook her head, but came out from behind the bar, pocketing the men’s purses and wallets from the bodies of the injured and the dead.

“You’re hired.”