Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[CrimsonInk]

THE OPHIDIAN.

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YASMINE

LAVIGNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

WTF, HAHA EVERYTHING IS FINE

OUTFIT

SHOWING SOME SKIN

LOCATION

Beach in Algol

MENTIONS

Ilya
Calanthe, Cassandra, Dante

TAGS

qunqun @picklemouse qunqun

CHOKEHOLD CHERRY PYTHON — ASHNIKKO.

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POWER IS POWER

The gods have no mercy, that’s why they’re gods.

CHAPTER THREE.

Damn these boots and the sand. Normally Yasmine would have no trouble traversing this kind of environment, but right now it was completely holding her back – basically halfing her speed and it was frustrating. She watched as her baby otter jumped at the woman in front of her. Her nails dug against flesh with blood staining under her fingernails, the blood curdling scream from the woman under left shivers. Yasmine barely got there in the middle of their fight, her hands grabbed the barrel of the gun to have it face the other direction. From other bodies hopefully. She immediately tried to calm the situation, until she looked back towards Cassandra — CASSANDRA NO!

“CASSANDRA!” she roared, her eyes widening in fear forgetting the other woman and sprinting towards her, “CASSIE NO! CASSIE BABY NO!”

Fear never felt real in her reality. She imposed fear onto others, never once had she felt fear ever take over, until now. Cassandra, her childhood friend from the Canals, her otter baby, her best friend, the only good thing in her greedy life, was the one thing that made her feel that fear and she wasn’t going to lose her over some dehydrated grey monsters.

"-I HATE YASMINE I HATE THAT DIRTY LITTLE SNAKE-"

Dante, shut up, you love me — nope, not right now. Focus on the otter baby.

This time she was much faster, more diligent, and without hesitation she tackled the woman to the sand. Yasmine took in deep breaths to control her rapid breathing, her thighs hugged Cassandra’s sides for good measure, because no way in hell is she going to let her run again.

“Hey babes,” she smiled at her, moving the pieces of hair and sand off her face, “why look at ya….the same as ever.”

She knew she had to be quick with her thinking. The woman was sure acting oaty right now, and an oaty otter was unpredictable under the algol spell. How to get her out was beyond her. All the sayings about Algol felt superstitious, and here she was experiencing their damn myths to become living facts. To buy her some time or at least until the effects wear off, she needed something to keep her occupied. Knowing Cassandra well, she has the energy of a kid drunk off candy.

“You know what babes….isn’t it turtle season?” she cooed softly, her lies dressing her words true, “how about we help the baby turtles?”

Where was that damn doctor?

Using the rest of her strength she helped pull Cassandra up away from the water, holding her hand reassuring her the way back to the people. Her eyes darted everywhere searching for the man, looking around and thankfully seeing other people help the other weird ones. What a fucking day this was.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[floralmoon]

THE PERFUMIST.

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CALANTHE

MOOD

DISTRAUGHT & HURT

OUTFIT

'add sand and water'

LOCATION

SHORE

MENTIONS

Cassandra & Tiberius

INTERACTS

@picklemouse Nifty

Giuseppe Verdi - Messa di Requiem.

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"what are you?"

"to define is to limit."

CHAPTER THREE PT III.

Heat radiates through Calanthes cheek, the scratch from Cassandra had sent the blonde spiraling even further in her anger. Tears welling up in her eyes, causing her vision to blur, but she was determined to eliminate the threat before her.

With an unsteady hand, she raises the gun, aiming it in what she believed to be the direction of her attacker. Using her free hand, she tries to wipe away the tears and sand from her eyes, but is unsuccessful.

Her finger pulls back on the trigger.

BANG.

The gun goes off.

Calanthe's ears immediately fill with ringing, causing her to drop the gun, but also be released from her hallucinations, allowing her to quickly scan the beach. From a distance, she hears someone scream out.

Without thinking, she breaks out into a sprint, sand fighting against her feet, not allowing her to travel as fast as she would like. Her hand gripped tightly on the skirt of her dress, lifting it away from the ground in hopes that it would allow her to arrive sooner.

After what seemed like eternity, dodging others fighting or harmed, Calanthe arrives at the person she injured. Kneeling down, she looks the man in the eyes, memories flood her mind, the sounds of cheering roaring around her.

Tiberius.

Panic fills the girl, how could she hurt the man that she has been enamored with since the day she first laid eyes on him in the arena? What are the coincidences that the two were on the same ship? Was it fate? Destiny?

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts away, Calanthe finally gets the nerves to speak up, "Don't worry. I will save you, just like I should've when you were in the arena."

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE CAPTAIN.

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LEXIS

THE CAPTAIN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

G U I L T Y.

OUTFIT

THE ZESTY VESTY

LOCATION

ALGOL SHORE

MENTIONS

MALTY!

INTERACTS

escapist

FUNERAL — TIGERCUB.

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WHEN GOD TOOK

the rib out of man
he left him missing one bar
a deliberate half-closure

CHAPTER THREE PART III.

What humanity does not understand, they seek to destroy; a cautionary reminder of those that react with violence instead of a caring hand. Their trajectory changed the moment they lowered dinghies to the water, fate set the moment they noticed the yellow lights in the distance.

With eyes a thousand years old and caught all those miles afar in the desolate chill of Umbra, it occurs to Lexis that the body sheathing the bullet and hitting the snow— sand? is not the same as what he shot.

The tendrils of smoke coil like warped glass, and that boundless white cracks and fissures with dissonance. The sound of the shore and others around him is shafted back into the present as if surfacing from water, siphoning noise and murky sands like haemorrhaging chiaroscuro. In the growing shadows of Algol and contours of the night, he’d somewhere dropped the smoking gun, felt its heavy body collide with the sand and be left forgotten.

This scene feels like he has lived it already, trapped in a sliver of time where a body hits the snow and roils with pain, and the dawning commotion skewers a focus through him unlike any other. If this were a ballroom, an interview, somewhere he had to forfeit his weapons and make use of verbal words, he’d have lost any sense of his mind to the squall of apprehension.

But now in the throes of what he handles best, he does not have the time nor care to expend on delicate wording or looking approachable or discussing the weather. Much like his home, the dangerous disarray is familiar, and he slots himself into the situation with a certain flavor of nostalgia.

Shoes find give in the crumbling sand as he rushes to the curling form of a face unlike any other. Wrapped in the shroud of their coat like a disgruntled bird, Maltke Cycek. They are shouting and Lex cannot be entirely surprised: the man has many skills, making noise is one of them.

There is nothing to obscure the unabashed tension in Lex’s jaw, rigid posture common but now flickering with unease. He feels guilt when he drops to a knee beside the man, that silent simmering shadowing the space between his brows as he surveys the damage.

"Why...?"

Lexis does not answer. Discomfort twists at the tone of his voice.

"Do remain still, Maltke.”

Lexis does not answer because how is he to speak of what he saw without painting himself as hysterical? And what would the crew do in this instance if they witness a Captain who is not entirely all there? My mistake, valued crew member. I perceived you as a threat and decided to shoot you.

That does not sound sane.

Instead he communicates what will absolutely assure Maltke that he is in good care, and is trying to be careful in how he peels back the layer of their coat to check the seep of blood.

“Bullet.” He calmly observes. Good! Well. Not good! Bullet is not good! But observation is good. To observe is to obtain information. That is good. He would like to assume nothing fatal has been hit, but Lexis is not a Doctor.

"If only I threw pepper in yer face..."

The blonde’s head turns so pointedly one could almost assume a strict lecture was astir. How shrewd of the usually stoic Lex to find insult in a remark from the man he just shot. He can still feel it vividly, blinking salt out of his dull stare, perhaps that is just the sand in his lashes.

“That is not thoughtful nor kind.” The Captain had taken the comment just like Maltke had taken the bullet: personally. “I request we save resentment until after we have stopped your bleeding.”

Shedding the layer of his blue vest, he utilizes the inside that isn’t layered in sand to press it against the injury. Gleaned only simple medical care from expeditions, from the gory field instead of a sterile library, but knows that digging fingers through the meat of their shoulder is a welcome invitation for infection. With no forceps, alcohol, thread for stitches and no sign of Ilya in the periphery, he decides the little he can offer must suffice: safer to leave the bullet in and stabilize the bleeding for now.

“Do not fall asleep.” The disorientation of the older man is a concerning topic, and if not occupied with both hands impelling the fabric against the injury as if to seam the divide of skin and linen, he may have chanced a little slap. “I need to rip cloth for a bandage. You’ll have time to question my aim later, Mister Cycek, but for now you must hold this against your wound.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Mypilot]

the urchin—

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bec

the boy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Filled with divine purpose

OUTFIT

Working those rags like he owns them

LOCATION

Algol shoreline

MENTIONS

Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

"godhead" — cloud boat

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BROKEN BIRD,

or just broken in?
that sickly skin
still torn and too thin

CHAPTER THREE.

A knife would have cut cleaner.

Ren's words slice through skin already paper thin, leaving Bec feeling beaten. He had already been physically tackled, Ren having sent him to the floor, and his chest ached enough from that hard impact and the bruising of his jaw. But, oh, the sea. Even now it whispers to him, filtering in like a melody. A melody whose harmony was ruined by Ren speaking again, discordant words that make Bec's skin itch muscle deep.

"No," Bec groans, clawing at the sand as Ren drags him bodily away from those rolling tides. Words slice through him as he is shoved back, the ring of awful truth clammering in his ears. Nothing is his. But the sea is telling him-

Ren shoves him again, and Bec tears wild eyes away from the water. Ren stands before him, imposing and something like desperation dancing in the fine lines of his facade. What is this creature, this being, this man? Who is he to stop Bec from doing this one thing right? But no, Bec shakes his head. Think of that cold truth—he knows nothing is for him. Why would the sea say such a thing?

Knelt in the sand as if in prayer, Bec groans a ragged pained sound, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching his head. He curls into himself, bowing to that knifepoint of pain. "No, no, no," he murmurs, trying to make sense of it. "How do you know?" It was a softer question than what he wanted to ask: what do you know? But that was not him, he knew it was not.

What was he?

Bec. A boy. The whispers had called to him long before, but they were not like this. What was this? A lie, an illusion. Deceit. What was the truth, then? Nothing is for you.

Yes.

How could he forget?

Bec's breaths came easier, eyes wide open as he stares at the dark little pocket of peace he has made with his body. This was real, this was here: sand, grit, damp clumps of beach. Something simple to make sense of, and he holds it in his mind with a vice grip. Ren must be real then too, despite all odds. That oil-slick strangeness of his too abnormal to be anything else. Trust in Ren, for now. For now.

Turning his gaze up, Bec peers up at Ren in his bird-like fashion, eyes as dark as the sea that still calls to him in its muted tones. He defies that call, stares at Ren. See what the strange man does, for Bec cannot trust his ears.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

THE ACROBAT.

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PERCY

GRIFFIN

MOOD

CONFUSED, ANGRY

OUTFIT

Velvet King

LOCATION

ALGOL SHORES

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

floralmoon Kader

CUT — SWEET PILL.

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WHO AM I WHEN I FEEL?

What dies in me when I am me?

CHAPTER THREE PT. III.

“Posture up! Limbs long, graceful. I’m training acrobats here--not stagehands,” A melodious voice wrapped itself through the small tent. “If you cannot perfect this move you will not be featured in our next show,” The Siroccan Troupe’s choreographer drew out each syllable while the small bodies around her struggled to achieve the level of perfection she sought.

Percy executed the move with ease. He held his mark with the practiced obedience of someone hungry for the spotlight.

“Jasper!” The Choreographer’s sharp voice cracked with the sharpness of the whips they used in the lion acts. “You’re out! You cannot miss your steps when you’re hanging twenty feet in the air. I shouldn’t have to keep telling you this.”

Performers struggled to suppress their giggles throughout the tent. Percy maintained his show stopping smile, but a smugness bloomed wide in his veins. Circus life wasn’t for everyone, after all. What a joke that a runt like that would declare himself Percy’s rival. The smile on his face slipped slightly at the thought. Jasper could try to keep up with him all he’d like, but he’d never end up a starting act. It just wasn’t in his nature. Jasper would never replace him.

Percy coughed. His lungs burned from the inhalation of a fine misting of sand. The smell of salt was heavy, overwhelming every sensation as he pulled himself upright. Clumps of sand clung to his clothes and skin. Where the hell did the inn go?

Pieces of it manifested in split chunks across the beach. A bed buried in sand to his left would appear on his right if he dared to take his eyes off of it long enough. The table set of the common room rested delicately in crashing waves, undisrupted.

He hauled himself upright, body groaning in protest. What the hell happened last night? He had just been--he had just been back at the circus, practicing his routine. But that was years ago, he was a child then. Was he dreaming?

The figure of someone approaching him derailed Percy’s thoughts. He turned fully to face them. They were wearing white, their pale eyes trailing over his figure with the whispers of concern.

He blinked, and their figure twisted against grey sand, shifting and blurring until it was Jasper that slipped into their space. The memory of him stepping up to take Percy’s act the night of his accident danced through his mind. The image of Jasper’s silhouette against the spotlights was something he drank to rid himself of. But--what the hell was he of all people doing here?

Percy’s features were slack. There were so many questions and retorts thrown around in his brain that they clashed together violently, and in their wake, emitted a dead calm. It took several moments for his voice to gain enough traction to spit something that had festered silently for months. A feeling with no name, rotted so significantly that its shape became unrecognizable.

“You did this to me,” He said quietly, almost as if apologetic. “It was no accident.”

The acrobat stalled momentarily. He cupped the foreign feeling within his hands, squeezing together the crumbling pieces until he had fashioned something he could recognize. Now, held up close and tangible, what his subconscious had been cradling so gently for months--it was rage.

Features contorting, Percy took a step forward towards Jasper.

“You sabotaged me, didn’t you? You absolute bastard. I knew you were always jealous of me.” Percy spit. His voice was pointed, the sharpness of it cutting through the thick sound of crashing waves and screams. “Putting in the hours of practice was too much for you, huh? You needed to play dirty to win yourself the spotlight? You could have killed me,” The sneer that decorated Percy’s features was unrecognizable to the playful mask he worked so ardently to maintain. The stage Percy was joyful, fun, amiable. But now--there was no facade strong enough to hold back the anger that rippled down to the bone.

“Do you know what you took from me? You took my life from me! From my family!”

His expression suddenly calmed. A realization dulled his agitated rage, sharpened it until it was able to wield the fine point of resolve. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” He said. “I won’t miss my chance again.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Nifty]

THE SCOURGE.

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Dolores

THORNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Angry at Anon, Desperate for Lulu to be okay

OUTFIT

Boatswain Slay.

LOCATION

Waters of Algol

MENTIONS

Ren, Ilya, Lulu, Anon, Grog

INTERACTS

Wyll CrimsonInk

Little Pistol — Mother Mother

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Bronze Beauty,

you are strengthened by feminity and pain. You hold your shattered pieces close and your inertia even closer.

Chapter Three, Part III.

Like a treasured artifact, her eyes glazed with elation once presented by her pristine dagger. There was a slight hint of blood on its tip; however, with a firm brush of her thumb, she erased the stain with ease.

Umber eyes reflected against the cold steel, perfectly matching her lack of emotion. The least effort she could’ve at least portrayed was a simple smile. And yet, when her gaze lazily analysed her bored image, all her eyes saw was a person worth leaving. The thorns of inadequacy tightly coiled themselves around her throat as Ren’s words went straight through her—a mere echo that not even a simple apology could snap her hypnotic descent deep into her mind. Though I suppose it would ease the barbs from digging, however, since it failed to reach her ears, silence was her only answer.

When another pair of presence stood too close for her comfort (about an arms-length), her attention was dragged away from the blade to meet the ship’s physician’s lanky figure. Her head tilted to catch a glimpse of a boy with a shaggy ebony mane—a stranger.

Her middle finger was itching to make an appearance the moment the physician swore at them. However, it halted the moment her eyes caught the sight of flying sands behind Ilya. Each grain gleamed as the moonlight graciously bathed them with their light. Her appreciation soon halted as the prickles of insufficiency wrapped around her throat were now replaced by a sharper, thicker, and bigger barbed wire that messily sprawled around her chest the moment a mere realisation hit her. Heart lurching, recoiling into each sharpened point as a defeated sigh escaped the woman’s lips.

She breathed Lucrezia’s name in dubiety. Her feet moved faster than her mind. Soon, she found her steps pacing well with the doctor.

No, no, no. I’m not ready to let you go yet—not again. Her hands trembled with discomposure as she ran. Her mind flashes with images of her beloved father. His gentle and calloused hands lead a cute father and daughter dance in the comfort of their humble home. The paper cranes that would always be delicately placed next to her plate at each breakfast. And finally, and the most cruel of them all, is his decapitated head rolling with a smile on his face. It taunts her inadequacy even more. Why do the good ones always leave first?

Lucrezia is more than her dearest friend; she considers the woman a doting mother, a supportive sister, and the very woman who held her together during the most arduous chapters of her life. The raven mother is essential to her bruised yet mending heart. Dolores’ platonic devotion to her is the ultimate testament to her blooming will to befriend and form her own connections. However, as the pale figure lay motionless and sands sullying her beautiful scarlet and ebony attire, that will of hers withers.

Unfortunately, before she could impale the man with a completely justifiable stab in the chest, he seemed to realise the gravity of his action and swiftly jumped back from the woman. She could still do it. However, before she could draw her steel, the doctor summoned all the strength he could muster and struck the man. The resounding noise of flesh meeting knuckles echoed deliciously in her ears. Right there and then, she found herself swelling with a brand new respect for the physician whilst birthing pristine cinders of hostility to the man who bore his hands to the sweetest woman Dolores had ever known.

Her feet swiftly shifted in the sand to turn to Lulu, kneeling over her figure. Vicious threats were thrown in the evening air; however, Dolores was brimming with concern to notice. Analytical eyes swept over other potential damages that the man could’ve done. If he had done anything else other than what she had seen, even Dolores’ reason would most likely not prevent her from letting the man breathe for another second.

Gloved hands held Lulu’s cheeks, gently easing her friend to wake. When no response came from the raven mother, her fingers physically trembled in fear. She was prepared to plead to god, the stars, and any other omnipotent beings out there to bring Lucrezia back at the cost of her soul. If not, then the whole world can burn and wither alongside her. No amount of ultimate justice could ever quench the frostbitten hatred she harbours for the man who hurt her friend, the man who made her a weapon, the world of men, and herself.

Orders flowed swiftly out of Ilya. Yes. Good. With proper instructions, she could focus on something else other than the ways to torture the man who bruised her pale neck. “Understood.” She replied swiftly and immediately fell on a mechanical instinct. Orders have been given. And it must be followed as always. That's what she does best.

The pendulum of justice typically sways within the beats of law and order. However, as time stills in the confines of her reason, it sways along the faint pulse of Lucrezia’s heart.

As long as there is a chance for her dear friend to be alive, then retribution should be put on hold until… Dolores shook her head, erasing the thought. Lucrezia will live, and if the resuscitation fails, she will drag the doctor by the collar if she has to, damn whoever else that needed him (sideeyes a bleeding Tibby).

Clammy hands wrapped around each other fell into a machine-like rhythm, ensuring that each pressure of her palms was precise and perfect.

Clothed fingers are itching for the sweet pleasure of an execution, a delight she abandoned when she left the Cascades. However, as it stands at this very moment, the scourge is eager to shed blood and pluck nails for the woman who became a victim. It’s a revengeful torture she will thoroughly enjoy. Her seething umber gaze perfectly relays her cold resentment for the man in front of her. The moment words came out of his mouth, a nasty scowl entered her facial features.

A sneeze rattled her rhythm. A cat sat next to her, nuzzling Lulu. As much as she finds the action rather sweet, it is still a dangerous proximity for someone with a dander allergy. She shifted her gaze at Anon, finding a purpose in his presence. However, her loathing seems to overpower her delivery.

“If you can fuck off with that creature, that would be delightful.” She remarks as each word rolls with a new set of venom. Even though her delivery contained a particular layer of hostility, Dolores would have been more efficient if there had been no fuzzy creatures within her vicinity to activate her allergies.

“Lulu, stay with me, love.” She softly cooed, hoping it would help along with the resuscitation. God (CRIM), please let her live.

♡coded by uxie♡