StormWolf
Elder Member
There they all are! Anyone who wants a closer shot of their character, just let me know
-
This section is for roleplays only.
ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.
Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.
Fandom Grishaverse art
- Thread starter EasyWright
- Start date
There they all are! Anyone who wants a closer shot of their character, just let me know
StormWolf
Elder Member
Gentle trigger warning: there's some child abuse in this.
Turn back the clock.
Wind in reverse the cruel hands of time.
17 years ago. . .
“Bah! Rise and rise again, bar-shoo!” Botkin bellowed through the hanging cloud of dust, clapping his hands as if to remove the grime of mediocrity from his palms. A thin cough answered him through the drifting plume as it caught the last rays of sun of an autumn day. Sure enough, back on his feet was a reedy boy of nine, caked with sand and sweat from head to toe.
But those eyes burned like coals. Botkin had stared into a tiger’s eyes plenty, and while young, those held that same quality.
“That’s a good boy, bar-shoo. Again!” Benhamin needed no further preamble. He lunged with the carved wooden knives Botkin used for sparring, and they clashed once again. Sharp cracks and snaps like distant pistol fire as Ben pushed the offensive. He was tall and athletic for his age, but still thinner than he should have been, Botkin noticed.
As the Shu battlemaster deftly blocked and parried the decisive strikes delivered by his pupil, Botkin too noticed the ugly splotches of bruises. Those were not Botkin’s work. Clicking his tongue, he brushed Ben’s next lunge aside with his off hand and slapped the boy’s ear with the flat of his knife. The boy growled sharply, dashing back and rubbing at the side of his head.
Ben was like a puppy still growing into his ears and knobby joints, but he was tenacious, and as sharp a student as Botkin could ever hope for. Unlike with training the Grisha brats, Ben never once lamented a lesson.
“Too angry, bar-shoo. Anger is good, but if you let it control you?” Botkin made a flatulent noise with his mouth as he drew the training knife across his neck. “Dead.”
“Yes, Master Yul-Erdene. I’m sorry.” Benhamin bowed sharply and once again fell into his combat stance. Botkin chewed on the inside of his cheek. Any other student would be embarrassed to tears, seething in frustration, or otherwise fussing as children are wont to do at that point in the day.
Not even ten and he is more disciplined than half the soldiers in the Second Army…
It made Botkin ill. Rumors floated among the servants and the Grisha. Ivan’s terrible bastard, was what they called the boy.
“Master Yul-Erdene? Another round?” Ben asked, and Botkin shook his head.
“You missed your chance, bar-shoo. I was distracted! No. Enough for today. You will eat.” Botkin slipped the training dagger behind his belt, and Ben mimicked the gesture the way impressionable boys do. The only thing that kept a smile from the instructor’s lips was the pure glee at the prospect of food.
“The little shits take too much for granted,” Botkin muttered, picking up a fine keftan of Etheralki blue that had been shed and forgotten in the sand, “It will go to waste otherwise. Eat. Instructor Botkin’s last lesson for the day: the world is cruel because the people in it are cruel. You must survive how you can. But if you let survival change you too much, sometimes better off dead.”
“Yth miffh,” Ben said, smiling around a mouthful of rye and herring. Botkin personally helped himself to a slice of marble cake and the tepid tea at hand. Cake at a training yard. Bah! No wonder the little shits puked.
He heard the frantic footsteps from down the hall, and the sharp boom of his chamber door flying open hit Ivan in the head like a mallet. The Heartrender stifled a curse, pinching at his nose. Only one soul had the right to enter unannounced. The other did so out of stupidity.
“You are late, otkazat'sya,” Ivan hissed around his chair, slowly, deliberately rising to his feet. Ivan Helsvanov was a fearsome man. Tall and broad with long pitch-black hair and eyes as cold and keen as grisha steel. He was in his crimson kefta, unlaced down to the black sash about his middle. A dozen medals and commendations jingled on his chest.
When Benhamin stood in his father’s shadow, it took all he had to not quiver. Especially when he saw that bear-paw of a hand snatch the nearly-empty kvas bottle from the brass tray beside his chair.
Sankta Anastasia protect me, Sankta Liszabeta watch over me…
“I am sorry, pap-”
“What?” Ivan sneered.
“I-I am sorry, sir!” Ben’s voice shook, his eyes watching those hands like they were two snarling wolves. Ivan grunted, refilling his glass, walking with the faint stumble of a drunk.
“That’s better. Sorry little toy soldier you are. Stand straight!”
Ben squared his shoulders desperately.
“I said straight, otkazat'sya!” Ivan spat, froth flecking his lips as he curled a finger at the boy. The ruby ring on Ivan’s finger glinted balefully in the firelight. Ben barely managed to bite back a yelp as a searing hot lance of agony shot through his nerves, from his toes to his scalp.
“That’s a good boy! You’re so lucky I’ve never spared the lash, aren’t you?”
“Luckier than I des-serve, s-sir,” Ben gasped.
“You’d be worse than those parading nobles! All the softness, but none of the status. What would that make you, I wonder?” Ivan drained his glass in a single quaff, kvas dribbling down that brick of a chin. “Well?!”
Benhamin flinched, his eyes hot with tears he couldn’t let break.
“A sheep-p, sir.”
“Wrong!” Ivan howled, drinking straight from the bottle this time. “Sheep serve a purpose, unlike you! Try again!”
“Noth-ing…”
“Come again?”
“Nothing, sir!” Ben’s voice cracked as every correction was like screws tightening in his joints, at his temples, and a needle-thin dagger through his heart.
“And don’t forget it, filthy little otkazat'sya. Look at you!” Ivan grasped Ben roughly by the face. Never mind his Heartrender powers, Ivan could just crush the life out of Ben’s slender throat.
“Filthy, scrawny, and whinging like a bloody woman.” He drew his hand away from Ben’s face, feeling the grit of the dirt turned to grime by sweat and tears. “Saints, have you no shame?” Ivan had turned to wipe his hand on the priceless embroidered curtain.
“Is it shameful to seek an education, sir? Should I not make something of myself?” Ben regretted saying those words the moment they left his mouth. Ivan stood deathly still, his back turned to Ben, making him unreadable.
“What did you say? Who here would teach a baseless mongrel like you?” Ivan leered over his shoulder, dropping an icy ball of fear in Benhamin’s stomach.
“Nobod-”
“I want a name!” Ivan whirled on Ben, hand flexed like a talon. The agony began anew with the sharp panic of an erratic heartbeat. Ben’s little chest quivered, panting desperately.
“Nobody, sir! I’m sorry!” The boy cried.
“A coward? Or a liar?!” Ivan brought the bottle down like a club. The thick glass shattered, savaging the left side of the boy’s face. A shrill holler filled the room as Ben was sent sprawling, then curled up in a ball on his side, clutching his face through soundless wailing.
“Shit…” Ivan sighed, eyes dropping from the broken boy to the broken bottle. “Saints-damned waste…”
It was nearly fifteen minutes for a Healer to come in, followed by Ivan with a fresh bottle of the very same apple brandy the Tsar so enjoyed.
“Saints! What happened?” The Healer asked. She was a kindly Suli woman, built like a whip.
“Idiot boy had a fit. Tripped and put his head through a window.” Ivan replied plainly, sniffing the contents of his new bottle. The Healer’s honey-hued eyes flashed to the the windows of the study, seeing them unmarred, but fully aware of the smell of kvas that covered the room like a sheet. Still, she knew better than to contradict Ivan.
“How are the wounds?” He asked with the same passivity as if he was inquiring towards the weather.
“His eye is fine and there’s no fractures in his skull, thank the Saints, but the glass is thick and deep. He is in a lot of pain.” The Healer said, her voice soft as she ran her fingers through Ben’s hair, combing slivers from his matted black locks.
“Are any of them fatal?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Shohrej. That will be all.” Ivan said with a dismissive wave. “Sorry to have woken you.”
“What?” Shohrej blanched, “Ivan, at least let me take the glass out.”
“That will be all, Shohrej. I have needle and thread. He will suffice. Healers will be busy tending with Grisha in the field. It is good that Ben learns to take care of himself.” If he noticed the look of disgust upon Shohrej’s face, Ivan made no sign of it, or he simply didn’t care.
Ivan had passed out drunk in his chair by the time Ben had mustered the strength to stand. The Healer had said his eye was fine, but he couldn’t see out of it. His face was throbbing and sticky, lanced with fresh agony every time his pulse pounded. Shuffling to the vanity, Ben found the small clamps used to handle sugar cubes or ice, and started pulling the shards of glass from his face.
Come morning, when the Grisha had gathered for their combat instruction, they gawked and jeered at the precocious otkazat'sya boy, the left side of his face a massive bruise and morass of poorly-woven stitches. Ben stood at shaky attention, his good eye listless, puffy, and darkly circled.
The Grisha children kept their distance, muttering behind their hands, and it took Botkin’s bellowing to muster them to their drills.
“What? Never see animal in zoo before? Shoo!”
The trainees departed, leaving Botkin at Ben’s shoulder.
“The key to killing a Heartrender, bar-shoo, is their hands and their eyes. If you want to be worthy of the name I give you, train harder. Longer. Better.” Ben just nodded to Botkin, sniffing.
“Mas-” Ben started,
“You only call me Botkin, bar-shoo.”
“Yes, sir...Botkin. What does bar-shoo mean, if I may ask?” Smiling at Ben’s question, Botkin drew a knife from somewhere. It was grisha steel, and curved like a claw, fang, or talon. A fearsome slashing weapon for its size.
“In Shu, it means little tiger. Today? You are small and weak. One day, you will not be so. You will be hunter to which all beasts bow. Botkin will make you this, but you must commit, bar-shoo.” The talon-knife danced between Botkin’s fingers in a flourish, then vanished. "Steel is earned."
The glacial hardness he saw in Ben’s eye was haunting. That first spark of hatred. Not even ten and he has killer’s eyes.
“Teach me…”
In any other student, such enthusiasm should have made a master proud. Botkin was not, but he still managed a resolved smile.
Edit:
It won't let me keep these in one spoiler tab. Apologies :<
Turn back the clock.
Wind in reverse the cruel hands of time.
17 years ago. . .
“Bah! Rise and rise again, bar-shoo!” Botkin bellowed through the hanging cloud of dust, clapping his hands as if to remove the grime of mediocrity from his palms. A thin cough answered him through the drifting plume as it caught the last rays of sun of an autumn day. Sure enough, back on his feet was a reedy boy of nine, caked with sand and sweat from head to toe.
But those eyes burned like coals. Botkin had stared into a tiger’s eyes plenty, and while young, those held that same quality.
“That’s a good boy, bar-shoo. Again!” Benhamin needed no further preamble. He lunged with the carved wooden knives Botkin used for sparring, and they clashed once again. Sharp cracks and snaps like distant pistol fire as Ben pushed the offensive. He was tall and athletic for his age, but still thinner than he should have been, Botkin noticed.
As the Shu battlemaster deftly blocked and parried the decisive strikes delivered by his pupil, Botkin too noticed the ugly splotches of bruises. Those were not Botkin’s work. Clicking his tongue, he brushed Ben’s next lunge aside with his off hand and slapped the boy’s ear with the flat of his knife. The boy growled sharply, dashing back and rubbing at the side of his head.
Ben was like a puppy still growing into his ears and knobby joints, but he was tenacious, and as sharp a student as Botkin could ever hope for. Unlike with training the Grisha brats, Ben never once lamented a lesson.
“Too angry, bar-shoo. Anger is good, but if you let it control you?” Botkin made a flatulent noise with his mouth as he drew the training knife across his neck. “Dead.”
“Yes, Master Yul-Erdene. I’m sorry.” Benhamin bowed sharply and once again fell into his combat stance. Botkin chewed on the inside of his cheek. Any other student would be embarrassed to tears, seething in frustration, or otherwise fussing as children are wont to do at that point in the day.
Not even ten and he is more disciplined than half the soldiers in the Second Army…
It made Botkin ill. Rumors floated among the servants and the Grisha. Ivan’s terrible bastard, was what they called the boy.
“Master Yul-Erdene? Another round?” Ben asked, and Botkin shook his head.
“You missed your chance, bar-shoo. I was distracted! No. Enough for today. You will eat.” Botkin slipped the training dagger behind his belt, and Ben mimicked the gesture the way impressionable boys do. The only thing that kept a smile from the instructor’s lips was the pure glee at the prospect of food.
“The little shits take too much for granted,” Botkin muttered, picking up a fine keftan of Etheralki blue that had been shed and forgotten in the sand, “It will go to waste otherwise. Eat. Instructor Botkin’s last lesson for the day: the world is cruel because the people in it are cruel. You must survive how you can. But if you let survival change you too much, sometimes better off dead.”
“Yth miffh,” Ben said, smiling around a mouthful of rye and herring. Botkin personally helped himself to a slice of marble cake and the tepid tea at hand. Cake at a training yard. Bah! No wonder the little shits puked.
* * *
Sitting in his darkened study, Ivan Helsvanov idly inspected how the firelight from the hearth danced through the fascets and filagree of his drinking glass. A thousand points of dying embers in his swimming vision.
He heard the frantic footsteps from down the hall, and the sharp boom of his chamber door flying open hit Ivan in the head like a mallet. The Heartrender stifled a curse, pinching at his nose. Only one soul had the right to enter unannounced. The other did so out of stupidity.
“You are late, otkazat'sya,” Ivan hissed around his chair, slowly, deliberately rising to his feet. Ivan Helsvanov was a fearsome man. Tall and broad with long pitch-black hair and eyes as cold and keen as grisha steel. He was in his crimson kefta, unlaced down to the black sash about his middle. A dozen medals and commendations jingled on his chest.
When Benhamin stood in his father’s shadow, it took all he had to not quiver. Especially when he saw that bear-paw of a hand snatch the nearly-empty kvas bottle from the brass tray beside his chair.
Sankta Anastasia protect me, Sankta Liszabeta watch over me…
“I am sorry, pap-”
“What?” Ivan sneered.
“I-I am sorry, sir!” Ben’s voice shook, his eyes watching those hands like they were two snarling wolves. Ivan grunted, refilling his glass, walking with the faint stumble of a drunk.
“That’s better. Sorry little toy soldier you are. Stand straight!”
Ben squared his shoulders desperately.
“I said straight, otkazat'sya!” Ivan spat, froth flecking his lips as he curled a finger at the boy. The ruby ring on Ivan’s finger glinted balefully in the firelight. Ben barely managed to bite back a yelp as a searing hot lance of agony shot through his nerves, from his toes to his scalp.
“That’s a good boy! You’re so lucky I’ve never spared the lash, aren’t you?”
“Luckier than I des-serve, s-sir,” Ben gasped.
“You’d be worse than those parading nobles! All the softness, but none of the status. What would that make you, I wonder?” Ivan drained his glass in a single quaff, kvas dribbling down that brick of a chin. “Well?!”
Benhamin flinched, his eyes hot with tears he couldn’t let break.
“A sheep-p, sir.”
“Wrong!” Ivan howled, drinking straight from the bottle this time. “Sheep serve a purpose, unlike you! Try again!”
“Noth-ing…”
“Come again?”
“Nothing, sir!” Ben’s voice cracked as every correction was like screws tightening in his joints, at his temples, and a needle-thin dagger through his heart.
“And don’t forget it, filthy little otkazat'sya. Look at you!” Ivan grasped Ben roughly by the face. Never mind his Heartrender powers, Ivan could just crush the life out of Ben’s slender throat.
“Filthy, scrawny, and whinging like a bloody woman.” He drew his hand away from Ben’s face, feeling the grit of the dirt turned to grime by sweat and tears. “Saints, have you no shame?” Ivan had turned to wipe his hand on the priceless embroidered curtain.
“Is it shameful to seek an education, sir? Should I not make something of myself?” Ben regretted saying those words the moment they left his mouth. Ivan stood deathly still, his back turned to Ben, making him unreadable.
“What did you say? Who here would teach a baseless mongrel like you?” Ivan leered over his shoulder, dropping an icy ball of fear in Benhamin’s stomach.
“Nobod-”
“I want a name!” Ivan whirled on Ben, hand flexed like a talon. The agony began anew with the sharp panic of an erratic heartbeat. Ben’s little chest quivered, panting desperately.
“Nobody, sir! I’m sorry!” The boy cried.
“A coward? Or a liar?!” Ivan brought the bottle down like a club. The thick glass shattered, savaging the left side of the boy’s face. A shrill holler filled the room as Ben was sent sprawling, then curled up in a ball on his side, clutching his face through soundless wailing.
“Shit…” Ivan sighed, eyes dropping from the broken boy to the broken bottle. “Saints-damned waste…”
It was nearly fifteen minutes for a Healer to come in, followed by Ivan with a fresh bottle of the very same apple brandy the Tsar so enjoyed.
“Saints! What happened?” The Healer asked. She was a kindly Suli woman, built like a whip.
“Idiot boy had a fit. Tripped and put his head through a window.” Ivan replied plainly, sniffing the contents of his new bottle. The Healer’s honey-hued eyes flashed to the the windows of the study, seeing them unmarred, but fully aware of the smell of kvas that covered the room like a sheet. Still, she knew better than to contradict Ivan.
“How are the wounds?” He asked with the same passivity as if he was inquiring towards the weather.
“His eye is fine and there’s no fractures in his skull, thank the Saints, but the glass is thick and deep. He is in a lot of pain.” The Healer said, her voice soft as she ran her fingers through Ben’s hair, combing slivers from his matted black locks.
“Are any of them fatal?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Shohrej. That will be all.” Ivan said with a dismissive wave. “Sorry to have woken you.”
“What?” Shohrej blanched, “Ivan, at least let me take the glass out.”
“That will be all, Shohrej. I have needle and thread. He will suffice. Healers will be busy tending with Grisha in the field. It is good that Ben learns to take care of himself.” If he noticed the look of disgust upon Shohrej’s face, Ivan made no sign of it, or he simply didn’t care.
Ivan had passed out drunk in his chair by the time Ben had mustered the strength to stand. The Healer had said his eye was fine, but he couldn’t see out of it. His face was throbbing and sticky, lanced with fresh agony every time his pulse pounded. Shuffling to the vanity, Ben found the small clamps used to handle sugar cubes or ice, and started pulling the shards of glass from his face.
Come morning, when the Grisha had gathered for their combat instruction, they gawked and jeered at the precocious otkazat'sya boy, the left side of his face a massive bruise and morass of poorly-woven stitches. Ben stood at shaky attention, his good eye listless, puffy, and darkly circled.
The Grisha children kept their distance, muttering behind their hands, and it took Botkin’s bellowing to muster them to their drills.
“What? Never see animal in zoo before? Shoo!”
The trainees departed, leaving Botkin at Ben’s shoulder.
“The key to killing a Heartrender, bar-shoo, is their hands and their eyes. If you want to be worthy of the name I give you, train harder. Longer. Better.” Ben just nodded to Botkin, sniffing.
“Mas-” Ben started,
“You only call me Botkin, bar-shoo.”
“Yes, sir...Botkin. What does bar-shoo mean, if I may ask?” Smiling at Ben’s question, Botkin drew a knife from somewhere. It was grisha steel, and curved like a claw, fang, or talon. A fearsome slashing weapon for its size.
“In Shu, it means little tiger. Today? You are small and weak. One day, you will not be so. You will be hunter to which all beasts bow. Botkin will make you this, but you must commit, bar-shoo.” The talon-knife danced between Botkin’s fingers in a flourish, then vanished. "Steel is earned."
The glacial hardness he saw in Ben’s eye was haunting. That first spark of hatred. Not even ten and he has killer’s eyes.
“Teach me…”
In any other student, such enthusiasm should have made a master proud. Botkin was not, but he still managed a resolved smile.
Edit:
It won't let me keep these in one spoiler tab. Apologies :<
Last edited:
Ayama
Enthusiast
"Whatever you wish, I will be."
Last edited:
Morrighan
Member
I NEED TO KNOW WHY HE'S THERE.
Ayama
Enthusiast
-raises eyebrow- Why does any man visit the House of Snow? >>
StormWolf
Elder Member
A massage!
Morrighan
Member
Right! JUST A MASSAGE
EasyWright
Cracked Shell
A boy sits on the steps of his family's house, fighting tears as they pooled in his eyes from the scraped knee and bruises his mentor had given him during a lesson of guarding. On the walls of either side of him hung old portraits of men he never knew, all black of hair and Prussian blue in eye. All of them were revered in the house, and here he sat with black hair and blue eyes, but finding nothing as of yet but scoldings, lessons in what was wrong with his combat, and teachers that seemed to more readily break his mind open to pour in information than let it grow from a seed internally.
The girl sat beside him, and with a power that the boy could not yet understand, she mended his bruises and scrapes. After all, the methods of the family couldn't be known or suspected outside of the family. The girl was the only neutral constant in a world of adversary and correcting; she listened when he spoke, when he cried, when he found something innocently funny. She always listened, and didn't say anything against him or to ward him off. She accompanied him as a friend, and it wasn't long before the boy wanted more -- typical of mercher's blood. In simple gifts of flowers and shiny coins or cute carvings did the boy feel some solace in the connection between him and his designated healer.
There came a day soon after friends when the boy heard her voice for the first time. A naturally quiet thing she was, with a soft voice and a smooth cadence that caressed the boy's ears as would a fine silk from across one of the oceans.
Later, the boy made an attempt at holding her hand in his own, and frightfully, she pulled away. He was of high blood, and she was nearer the bottom of the steps. The boy cursed himself for thinking something such as that would work.
She returned for pay, and the boy kept his distance. A small, pale hand slipped into his own, and rising eyes gave him the view of the girl, who was faced away and visibly apprehensive of what little contact that they had.
After weeks, the boy and the girl became close, and their visits in the garden and after practices became more frequent. In the courtyards could be heard wonderful young sounds and play, as children should be.
The girl sat beside him, and with a power that the boy could not yet understand, she mended his bruises and scrapes. After all, the methods of the family couldn't be known or suspected outside of the family. The girl was the only neutral constant in a world of adversary and correcting; she listened when he spoke, when he cried, when he found something innocently funny. She always listened, and didn't say anything against him or to ward him off. She accompanied him as a friend, and it wasn't long before the boy wanted more -- typical of mercher's blood. In simple gifts of flowers and shiny coins or cute carvings did the boy feel some solace in the connection between him and his designated healer.
There came a day soon after friends when the boy heard her voice for the first time. A naturally quiet thing she was, with a soft voice and a smooth cadence that caressed the boy's ears as would a fine silk from across one of the oceans.
Later, the boy made an attempt at holding her hand in his own, and frightfully, she pulled away. He was of high blood, and she was nearer the bottom of the steps. The boy cursed himself for thinking something such as that would work.
She returned for pay, and the boy kept his distance. A small, pale hand slipped into his own, and rising eyes gave him the view of the girl, who was faced away and visibly apprehensive of what little contact that they had.
After weeks, the boy and the girl became close, and their visits in the garden and after practices became more frequent. In the courtyards could be heard wonderful young sounds and play, as children should be.
StormWolf
Elder Member
Between the music and the latest flashback shared by EasyWright, I think I have a feeling for the origin of his retribution~
S n o w
Dreamer
I was supposed to make a post but I did this instead.
The leftmost dice rolled to a stop on six, the rightmost on one, and the middle fell into a crack in the cobblestone, wedged between four and five.
Louis scooped up the dice, shook them, and rolled them again.
“I still don’t know your name,” said the blue-eyed boy sitting across from him, legs crossed, eyes on the dice as they bounced, more brown than white.
Louis, legs pulled up, chin resting on his arm, ignored him.
His stomach growled, twisting itself into knots. Sweat stuck his shirt to his chest. It was cooler at the Lid, where he could take refuge in the shadows of the people crowded around him. He was a magician to them. He made dice disappear before their eyes; he closed his eyes, had them roll, and accurately predicted which number was landed on; he made them reappear from seemingly thin air behind the ears of sons, within the hair of daughters, from pockets sometimes, if he felt particularly daring.
They would gawk and clap, only sometimes dropping a few coins in his hat for the effort.
But there was no one at the Lid today. No ships came in either.
His stomach made a pitiful sound and Louis burrowed deeper in his arm.
“E’ya... autchen’ye,” the black-haired boy said, unsure and hesitant.
Louis’ eyes narrowed at the cobblestone. He recognized the foreign tongue, but only understood it spoken brokenly, with the context of other words around it.
He rolled the dice again.
“We... zho...? No, wait. Ye yuyan?”
“I don’t speak Ravkan,” Louis finally said. He could feel hunger’s breath on his neck, the familiar hands slowly creeping around his neck.
The boy’s face lit up like they weren’t sitting in filthy clothes with dirt-caked bodies, like the silver knuckledusters Louis wore weren’t tinted red. “It’s not Ravkan,” he explained patiently. “It’s Shu. I don’t know much of either, but I wasn’t sure if you spoke Kerch.”
He was a new face that tumbled down into the Barrel. A little older than Louis was, a lot greener.
Louis lifted his eyes, and the black-haired boy smiled at him. He looked out over the harbor. It was the smell of the water and the dung that drove others away, the ruins that held nothing of value. That, and during the night when the tide was high water sprayed over the side, dousing anyone that dared to sleep nearby.
It felt good after a long day in the sun.
The Fifth Harbor was an undesirable place to live for most people, even people without homes. No one fought him for it because no one wanted it. Even the Gulls and the Tips steered clear of it.
It was fine to Louis on most days, except days like these when he had an empty belly and no money to fill it.
“Why come here?” Louis asked, rolling his dice. Two. Two. Six.
The boy looked down at the dice, his smile softer. “Because you didn’t drive me away,” he said simply.
Louis tilted his head at him.
“I tried begging for work at the Emerald Palace, the Cumulus Club, Blue Paradise. I even got so hungry and desperate that I tried selling myself to The Anvil—” He stopped abruptly, choking on his own spit.
The look Louis gave him was of a wild thing. It promised extreme violence if he kept talking.
The boy’s eyes flicked down to his brass knuckles, to the blood on them. He swallowed. “Nothing worked,” he began again, carefully. “No one would take me. Even the street kids refused to let me stay with them, and that was if I didn’t get a beating for asking. I knew you were here but—” he paused, eyes flicking out to the sea. “I just wanted a place to sleep where I wouldn’t be woken by yelling or a gun in my side. But you never said a word to me. You treated me like I was a piece of the scenery, and that’s the kindest anyone’s been to me since I came here.”
It sounded more like he was shoved, hitting every step on the way down.
Louis stared at him, then shook his head. “If you think that’s kindness, you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”
The boy chuckled. “Well, I got you to talk to me, didn’t I?”
He took a bite out of something hastily fried and greasy on a stick, tasting more of rubbery dough than meat. He’d fished it out of a trash can behind a tavern.
The Lid was empty. The port was still closed.
“I know,” the boy said at his side, subdued. He was perched close, nearly a bird on his shoulder. The lack of personal space grated Louis, but he saw why.
The hard, curious eyes that watched them pass, leaning against the walls outside of the gambling dens, standing beneath the awnings of taverns until the owners came out to drive them away. Some Louis knew, belonging to the Lions or the Gulls.
He took another bite. It was cold.
The streets of the East Stave were filled only with the gangs and the homeless, where usually tourists would be about, lured in by the flashing lights of the dens or the promise of cheap drinks from the taverns.
A long time ago, Louis feared the gangs and the guns they carried too.
Further down the street, a fight had broken out. Two flailing bodies were rolling back and forth, punching and kicking at each other and anyone that was near. A crowd was slowly forming around them, while a tavern owner lumbered about, screaming about them driving away business.
The boy, green thing he was, shivered.
Louis stepped around them like they were loose newspapers sticking to the street and continued on his way.
“Never seen a fight before?” Louis asked, waving the doughy thing at him.
The boy looked from it to Louis. “I’ve seen plenty,” he protested. “Just, not like that.”
Behind him glass shattered. Someone screamed.
The boy turned his head around to look and his eyes went wide.
“You’re like a kitten,” Louis said, but he couldn’t find it in him to make it sound like an insult.
Louis scooped up the dice, shook them, and rolled them again.
“I still don’t know your name,” said the blue-eyed boy sitting across from him, legs crossed, eyes on the dice as they bounced, more brown than white.
Louis, legs pulled up, chin resting on his arm, ignored him.
His stomach growled, twisting itself into knots. Sweat stuck his shirt to his chest. It was cooler at the Lid, where he could take refuge in the shadows of the people crowded around him. He was a magician to them. He made dice disappear before their eyes; he closed his eyes, had them roll, and accurately predicted which number was landed on; he made them reappear from seemingly thin air behind the ears of sons, within the hair of daughters, from pockets sometimes, if he felt particularly daring.
They would gawk and clap, only sometimes dropping a few coins in his hat for the effort.
But there was no one at the Lid today. No ships came in either.
His stomach made a pitiful sound and Louis burrowed deeper in his arm.
“E’ya... autchen’ye,” the black-haired boy said, unsure and hesitant.
Louis’ eyes narrowed at the cobblestone. He recognized the foreign tongue, but only understood it spoken brokenly, with the context of other words around it.
He rolled the dice again.
“We... zho...? No, wait. Ye yuyan?”
“I don’t speak Ravkan,” Louis finally said. He could feel hunger’s breath on his neck, the familiar hands slowly creeping around his neck.
The boy’s face lit up like they weren’t sitting in filthy clothes with dirt-caked bodies, like the silver knuckledusters Louis wore weren’t tinted red. “It’s not Ravkan,” he explained patiently. “It’s Shu. I don’t know much of either, but I wasn’t sure if you spoke Kerch.”
He was a new face that tumbled down into the Barrel. A little older than Louis was, a lot greener.
Louis lifted his eyes, and the black-haired boy smiled at him. He looked out over the harbor. It was the smell of the water and the dung that drove others away, the ruins that held nothing of value. That, and during the night when the tide was high water sprayed over the side, dousing anyone that dared to sleep nearby.
It felt good after a long day in the sun.
The Fifth Harbor was an undesirable place to live for most people, even people without homes. No one fought him for it because no one wanted it. Even the Gulls and the Tips steered clear of it.
It was fine to Louis on most days, except days like these when he had an empty belly and no money to fill it.
“Why come here?” Louis asked, rolling his dice. Two. Two. Six.
The boy looked down at the dice, his smile softer. “Because you didn’t drive me away,” he said simply.
Louis tilted his head at him.
“I tried begging for work at the Emerald Palace, the Cumulus Club, Blue Paradise. I even got so hungry and desperate that I tried selling myself to The Anvil—” He stopped abruptly, choking on his own spit.
The look Louis gave him was of a wild thing. It promised extreme violence if he kept talking.
The boy’s eyes flicked down to his brass knuckles, to the blood on them. He swallowed. “Nothing worked,” he began again, carefully. “No one would take me. Even the street kids refused to let me stay with them, and that was if I didn’t get a beating for asking. I knew you were here but—” he paused, eyes flicking out to the sea. “I just wanted a place to sleep where I wouldn’t be woken by yelling or a gun in my side. But you never said a word to me. You treated me like I was a piece of the scenery, and that’s the kindest anyone’s been to me since I came here.”
It sounded more like he was shoved, hitting every step on the way down.
Louis stared at him, then shook his head. “If you think that’s kindness, you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”
The boy chuckled. “Well, I got you to talk to me, didn’t I?”
.
.
.
“I’m not going to feed you,” Louis said. .
.
He took a bite out of something hastily fried and greasy on a stick, tasting more of rubbery dough than meat. He’d fished it out of a trash can behind a tavern.
The Lid was empty. The port was still closed.
“I know,” the boy said at his side, subdued. He was perched close, nearly a bird on his shoulder. The lack of personal space grated Louis, but he saw why.
The hard, curious eyes that watched them pass, leaning against the walls outside of the gambling dens, standing beneath the awnings of taverns until the owners came out to drive them away. Some Louis knew, belonging to the Lions or the Gulls.
He took another bite. It was cold.
The streets of the East Stave were filled only with the gangs and the homeless, where usually tourists would be about, lured in by the flashing lights of the dens or the promise of cheap drinks from the taverns.
A long time ago, Louis feared the gangs and the guns they carried too.
Further down the street, a fight had broken out. Two flailing bodies were rolling back and forth, punching and kicking at each other and anyone that was near. A crowd was slowly forming around them, while a tavern owner lumbered about, screaming about them driving away business.
The boy, green thing he was, shivered.
Louis stepped around them like they were loose newspapers sticking to the street and continued on his way.
“Never seen a fight before?” Louis asked, waving the doughy thing at him.
The boy looked from it to Louis. “I’ve seen plenty,” he protested. “Just, not like that.”
Behind him glass shattered. Someone screamed.
The boy turned his head around to look and his eyes went wide.
“You’re like a kitten,” Louis said, but he couldn’t find it in him to make it sound like an insult.
Three chimes rang out across the city.
The plague siren, the official announcement that confirmed what everyone already knew.
The plague was here.
The ports had been empty for a week and a half, any and all ships steering clear when they caught the slightest whiff that there might be plague. The Emerald Palace closed its doors to anyone who wasn’t a Lion the day before.
Louis curled on his side, eyes squeezed shut, clutching his stomach. Lucky that starvation would take him before the plague had its fill.
The stadwatch wouldn’t let them leave the harbor, and there was nothing to eat but worms, nothing to drink but the filthy water. He was cold, because even the Saints had turned their backs on Ketterdam.
Where had the sun gone?
“Which will take us first, you think? Hunger or the plague?” Louis asked, amused because there was nothing else to feel but the hunger pains.
The Halber bastard leaned back on him, using his side as a pillow. “Neither,” he grunted.
And Louis laughed. A dry, croaking laugh that made his cracked lips bleed. “Dehydration, then?”
The bastard made himself sit up, struggling, panting. His cheeks were sunken, eyes alight even though Louis could see his bones. “We’re isolated,” he reasoned. “Neither of us are sick and neither is that azel over there. We can drink from the harbor until it passes.”
Louis laughed and laughed. “You used azel wrong,” he said. “It’s azel not the azel.”
The bastard looked to the harbor, but Louis grabbed his wrist before he could move. “It’s salt water, pretty boy. You drink that and you die faster,” he let go. “Or you die from the water itself.”
“It’s better than not drinking anything,” the bastard protested.
Louis laughed again, even as his stomach seemed determined to eat itself alive. “I’d rather drink my own piss.”
The bastard sighed and laid back down next to him. “We’ll live,” he chanted like a mantra. “I-I don’t know how well it’ll go but I can try to get help, after the plague passes.” He closed his eyes, lowering his voice, “Protect us until then, Sankta Alina.”
The pain was gone, but Louis felt adrift, like a man at sea when he knew he was on land. He was flat on his back, and he didn’t have the strength to curl his fingers. He felt the spray of the harbor on his skin, but not the cold, neither refreshing nor an added cruelty.
His head was filled with fog. When Louis closed his eyes, hours passed.
The stadwatch was another body on the street, a feast for the flies and crows.
The bastard left and returned. His palm was sliced open, blood dripping down his fingers. If Louis had the strength, he might’ve tried to catch them in his mouth.
He wondered, deliriously, if he could turn his knuckledusters into a liquid he could drink.
He lifted his hand to stare at them, and then after two minutes, realized his hand was still unresponsive at his side.
“I like you,” Louis said suddenly, before he lost the strength to speak.
The bastard paused. “I like you too,” he murmured, then turned away to cough wetly into his sleeve.
“No,” Louis denied, trying to make him understand. “More than that.”
“I know,” the bastard said, quieter.
Louis drifted between life and death, on the edge of hell he called ‘living’.
“Come on,” the bastard murmured, tugging on his leg, far away from his face. “I need you to do something.”
“Let me sleep.”
The bastard coughed, a wracking one that shook his whole body. “Now,” he said, urgent, blood crusting his lips.
Louis didn’t remember standing. Nor did he remember stumbling, following the bastard’s words and gestures, falling, fainting, but still getting up.
“Here,” the bastard said, crouching beside a dead cat.
Louis blinked slowly at it, trying to tether himself to reality. His legs buckled. He saw arms reaching for him, only to abruptly retract. He heard coughing, saw how hard the bastard was panting. His eyes rolled up.
Louis woke to the smell of rot and death, and his eyes slid to the black cat. His shoulder stung, and when he twisted his head, he saw a cut there, and it smelled like the cat.
The bastard sat back against a wall, hands smeared with viscera.
“What did you do to me?” Louis asked. He should have felt fear or horror, but he couldn’t muster it.
The bastard gestured to the cat. “It died of the plague,” he murmured. “I was looking for food yesterday and I found it. I thought if we caught the plague from it instead of people, we could fight it off and be okay, but...” he trailed off, looking at the scabbed cut on his palm. “I did it too late for me.”
Louis looked at the cat again. “Or we’ll die.”
“Or we’ll die,” he agreed, eyes glassy with fever. “I still had to try.”
Louis sat up, head spinning. "How long was I out?”
The bastard’s smile was bloody. “Hard to say. You passed out a lot. It took two days to drag you here.”
The loss of time jarred Louis. “You’re kidding.”
The bastard shook his head. He closed his eyes. “It’s safer back at the harbor, but I don’t think I can move.”
Louis found a comfortable position away from the dead cat and laid down. “Ten kruge on dehydration,” he mumbled.
“Twenty kruge on the plague,” the bastard said, smile widening.
“My name is Eban,” the bastard said through the fluid in his lugs.
“Eban the Halberd bastard,” the humor Louis tried to summon fell flat. He tilted his head back against the brick. “Has a nice ring to it.”
It was Eban who laughed that time. It was cut short by hacking and wheezing, but it was still a laugh.
Later, it was what Louis would remember the most.
The plague siren, the official announcement that confirmed what everyone already knew.
The plague was here.
The ports had been empty for a week and a half, any and all ships steering clear when they caught the slightest whiff that there might be plague. The Emerald Palace closed its doors to anyone who wasn’t a Lion the day before.
Louis curled on his side, eyes squeezed shut, clutching his stomach. Lucky that starvation would take him before the plague had its fill.
The stadwatch wouldn’t let them leave the harbor, and there was nothing to eat but worms, nothing to drink but the filthy water. He was cold, because even the Saints had turned their backs on Ketterdam.
Where had the sun gone?
“Which will take us first, you think? Hunger or the plague?” Louis asked, amused because there was nothing else to feel but the hunger pains.
The Halber bastard leaned back on him, using his side as a pillow. “Neither,” he grunted.
And Louis laughed. A dry, croaking laugh that made his cracked lips bleed. “Dehydration, then?”
The bastard made himself sit up, struggling, panting. His cheeks were sunken, eyes alight even though Louis could see his bones. “We’re isolated,” he reasoned. “Neither of us are sick and neither is that azel over there. We can drink from the harbor until it passes.”
Louis laughed and laughed. “You used azel wrong,” he said. “It’s azel not the azel.”
The bastard looked to the harbor, but Louis grabbed his wrist before he could move. “It’s salt water, pretty boy. You drink that and you die faster,” he let go. “Or you die from the water itself.”
“It’s better than not drinking anything,” the bastard protested.
Louis laughed again, even as his stomach seemed determined to eat itself alive. “I’d rather drink my own piss.”
The bastard sighed and laid back down next to him. “We’ll live,” he chanted like a mantra. “I-I don’t know how well it’ll go but I can try to get help, after the plague passes.” He closed his eyes, lowering his voice, “Protect us until then, Sankta Alina.”
.
.
.
The bastard coughed, facing away from him, arm held over his mouth. .
.
The pain was gone, but Louis felt adrift, like a man at sea when he knew he was on land. He was flat on his back, and he didn’t have the strength to curl his fingers. He felt the spray of the harbor on his skin, but not the cold, neither refreshing nor an added cruelty.
His head was filled with fog. When Louis closed his eyes, hours passed.
The stadwatch was another body on the street, a feast for the flies and crows.
The bastard left and returned. His palm was sliced open, blood dripping down his fingers. If Louis had the strength, he might’ve tried to catch them in his mouth.
He wondered, deliriously, if he could turn his knuckledusters into a liquid he could drink.
He lifted his hand to stare at them, and then after two minutes, realized his hand was still unresponsive at his side.
“I like you,” Louis said suddenly, before he lost the strength to speak.
The bastard paused. “I like you too,” he murmured, then turned away to cough wetly into his sleeve.
“No,” Louis denied, trying to make him understand. “More than that.”
“I know,” the bastard said, quieter.
Louis drifted between life and death, on the edge of hell he called ‘living’.
“Come on,” the bastard murmured, tugging on his leg, far away from his face. “I need you to do something.”
“Let me sleep.”
The bastard coughed, a wracking one that shook his whole body. “Now,” he said, urgent, blood crusting his lips.
Louis didn’t remember standing. Nor did he remember stumbling, following the bastard’s words and gestures, falling, fainting, but still getting up.
“Here,” the bastard said, crouching beside a dead cat.
Louis blinked slowly at it, trying to tether himself to reality. His legs buckled. He saw arms reaching for him, only to abruptly retract. He heard coughing, saw how hard the bastard was panting. His eyes rolled up.
Louis woke to the smell of rot and death, and his eyes slid to the black cat. His shoulder stung, and when he twisted his head, he saw a cut there, and it smelled like the cat.
The bastard sat back against a wall, hands smeared with viscera.
“What did you do to me?” Louis asked. He should have felt fear or horror, but he couldn’t muster it.
The bastard gestured to the cat. “It died of the plague,” he murmured. “I was looking for food yesterday and I found it. I thought if we caught the plague from it instead of people, we could fight it off and be okay, but...” he trailed off, looking at the scabbed cut on his palm. “I did it too late for me.”
Louis looked at the cat again. “Or we’ll die.”
“Or we’ll die,” he agreed, eyes glassy with fever. “I still had to try.”
Louis sat up, head spinning. "How long was I out?”
The bastard’s smile was bloody. “Hard to say. You passed out a lot. It took two days to drag you here.”
The loss of time jarred Louis. “You’re kidding.”
The bastard shook his head. He closed his eyes. “It’s safer back at the harbor, but I don’t think I can move.”
Louis found a comfortable position away from the dead cat and laid down. “Ten kruge on dehydration,” he mumbled.
“Twenty kruge on the plague,” the bastard said, smile widening.
.
.
.
When he woke again, Louis sat with him, close, but still apart, just in case he could still catch the plague. .
.
“My name is Eban,” the bastard said through the fluid in his lugs.
“Eban the Halberd bastard,” the humor Louis tried to summon fell flat. He tilted his head back against the brick. “Has a nice ring to it.”
It was Eban who laughed that time. It was cut short by hacking and wheezing, but it was still a laugh.
Later, it was what Louis would remember the most.
Last edited:
Ayama
Enthusiast
"Whatever you wish, I will be."
Last edited:
Morrighan
Member
The fact that Ben and Neige had sex is so jarring for me, but the scene was gorgeous!!!!
EasyWright
Cracked Shell
The story thusfar (and an actually serious drawing of cole in the corner)
StormWolf
Elder Member
Perfection
Morrighan
Member
accurate
StormWolf
Elder Member
#SadCornerBen
“What’s the matter, Ben? Don’t get so... choked up!”
“What’s the matter, Ben? Don’t get so... choked up!”
EasyWright
Cracked Shell
#GetSadCornerBenTrending
Ayama
Enthusiast
"Whatever you wish, I will be."
Last edited:
Users who are viewing this thread
Similar threads
