Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[ComplexDragon]

THE ERUDITE.

scroll

MARTEL

COSETTE

ㅎㅎ

mood

Exhausted, excited, nervous, feeling all the things

OUTFIT

Cosette's Usual

LOCATION

EMPYRA STREETS > COSETTE'S BEDROOM

MENTIONS

NONE

INTERACTS

NONE

Would That I - Hozier

scroll

ROMANTACISM

And she gracefully
danced on the fine line
between a hard mind
and a soft heart

PROLOGUE.

Six hours.

Six hours Cosette had spent in the library, buried in ancient texts. Pouring over her incorrectly answered questions looking for every hole in her arguments and flaw in her logic. It had only been six hours yet she was forced to step outside when the pages started to look like someone had smudged the ink.

Stupid brain that was prone to fog, and weak eyes that failed her. Stupid flesh and bone body that got exhausted and shut down when she had important tasks to finish. Perhaps she’d one day find a cure for human fragility.

But until then, natural light was the only immediate cure for fatigue. If she hadn’t stepped outside, she might have passed out at the tables, marking herself a disgrace to all things scholarly. An academic napping in the library? Clearly, she didn’t care enough.

And her exam scores said the same. Because for the second year in a row, she was still behind Claudia. Still not good enough. It didn’t matter that she had still made the top percent. It didn’t matter her score had improved from last year, if only barely. She was still just Claudia Martel’s less adept little sister.

She just needed to try harder. But it was difficult when her spirit yearned for something else. A thing she couldn’t quite name. A monster that nagged and pulled at her, demanding to be satiated. Did Claudia have a creature like that? Or was it just a curse bestowed upon Cosette by the gods of the universe who determined she simply couldn't have any easy time?

Who determined she needed to care too much about her parents, and the people around her. Care too much about things that weren’t important - like flowers and moonlight and the sounds of nature and life, like art and music she only caught snippets of from tourists. Meanwhile, Claudia was a machine. Who cared for very little aside from her exams (and her little sister only occasionally).

What was it like to turn off emotions so easily? To be so supremely focused and dedicated to one goal that nothing could distract you? To want and effortlessly achieve everything society dictated was important?

Turning a corner, Cosette stepped out from behind the shadow of one of the clandestine buildings. The sun assailed her. Its rays reached and grasped and blinded. Wind crept up behind her, kissing the back of her head before passing.

Floral scents washed over her in a barrage as laborers hung vines, foliage, and streams of flowers across buildings, on posts, and wove them in between trellises and balcony railings. The Empyra Event would take place in a few short days, so the city was abuzz with activity.
And while she was constantly reminded of the time she was wasting by the numerous clocks built into buildings and towers, the caress of mother nature was a welcome comfort. One she accepted guiltily.

She skirted by a small stand, before slowing. Her breath caught in her throat. Hanging on pegs, and displayed across counters were countless stacks of flower crowns and other hair accessories. In colors ranging from cream to peach, to blush to violet. Ones she never would have been able to afford as a little girl. She used to make her own - back when she had time for such frivolous things. The Empyra Event used to be her favorite celebration. She would run around in dresses, barefoot with flowers strewn in her hair. And the world felt like it came alive in a flush of color.

Before she knew it, she was picking up a crown made from white wildflowers, grass, and green foliage, turning it over.

“Oh, that’s a lovely one. Matches you wonderfully.” The young woman at the stand beamed at Cosette, with a glint that could have been genuine or greedy. She had a business to run, so it was in her best interest to flatter a potential customer. But perhaps she did mean it.

What was the use of making it to the top if you can’t enjoy some benefits? She fished through the satchel strapped around her waist, placing some weighted gold coins on the counter. “I’ll take it.”

The flower seller’s smile grew. “Thank you for your business, miss.”

Cosette stepped away from the cart, placing the flower crown on her head and moving farther down the streets toward the outskirts of the city. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing. Only that she was restless.

The Exam was over, she was exhausted, and the city looked like a greenhouse vomited all over it. Now was a good time to take notes and study exotic greenery brought in from places far and wide.

So she trailed past, running her hands over soft petals and warped vines, muttering the scientific names of each under her breath, and making notes of ones she didn’t recognize. Potential holes in her knowledge. Collecting bits off of street corners that fell from their baskets and weaves, she placed them in her small satchel.

Soon enough she was toward the outskirts of town, where the buildings grew less lovely, and the people looked smaller and sadder. The laborers' district, where those with less academic inclination spent their nights before heading to local businesses and homes to do their work.

Exactly how she ended up there, she wasn’t quite sure, but tucked in between two structures in a little alleyway, a woman stood with a box of books, draped in foreign clothes and smiling. Above her head, white linens hung out to dry and flapped back and forth. Children’s caterwauling rang out from open windows and men shouted at one another.

“You! Girl! You look like you enjoy a good book.” The woman quirked an eyebrow at her.

She swallowed hard, straightening up, as if it would help hide the way her heart pattered in her chest. “Yes. But I’m at the library from dawn to dusk nearly every day. I can assure you that any books you possess I’ve either read or are found within the shelves of the archive.”

“So sure about that, eh? Well, I can promise ya that these books will not be found in no silly little archive here. Come. Take a look for yourself.”

A few thoughts rattled around in her head. Firstly, the fact that she should be back at the library studying right now, not cavorting around in the laborers' district talking to a woman who clearly wasn’t taught basic manners. Secondly, walking over there could very well be a trap, resulting in her getting kidnapped or worse. Thirdly, and most importantly, if those books were truly foreign and not a part of Empyra’s archive, they could have knowledge and information that would put her ahead of nearly every single one of the city’s inhabitants.

And what kind of book would Empyra’s archive decline to carry? An extremely rare book? Or a book they didn’t want people to read? But what kind of book would be off-limits?

No, it was more likely the rarity of the book just made it impossible to find.

Cosette worried at her lip, contemplating her choices, and the merchant’s grin grew larger as she extracted a book from the wooden box and held it out. Like someone trying to entice a stubborn animal with a sweet treat.

And god damnit it worked. Big time.

Finally, she shoved her doubts aside and strode forward, taking the book from the woman and turning it over. The worn brown leather practically thrummed with energy. It was begging to be opened.

But before she could crack the cover another book jumped out at her from the corner of her eye. It was bound in blue leather with faded gold lettering and pages slightly worn from use. The merchant followed her gaze before pulling out the tome. “I’ve been wantin’ a good home for this one for some time now. I’ll give it to ya, free of charge. You look like ya need it.”

“No. No. I couldn’t that’s not-” Cosette’s eyes widened and she grasped for her money purse. No one just took something. Not without earning it rightfully.

The merchant took the brown one before placing the other in Cosette’s hand. “No. I insist. Ya just gotta promise me to read it. It’s magic.”

“But I can’t-”

“Either take the book or leave it here. But I won’t be accepting no cash for it,” the woman snapped at her.

The younger girl tucked it close to her chest and tried to smile. All this talk of magic and good homes was starting to unsettle her and no charge was starting to unsettle her. But she was too curious to leave empty-handed, so she filed this away as a one-time grievance she could pay penance for later. “Thank you. I will.”

***

Later that night, while the fireplace crackled, she sat on her bed, book in her lap. Flower crown left on her nightstand. She’d spent the rest of the day thinking about her encounter with the foreign woman. And the gift she’d been granted. She wanted to read it right then and there, but she couldn’t bear to give away her secret until she knew the knowledge she was about to possess.

But now, in the quiet of her room, she could finally find out. She flexed her fingers, grasping at the corner of the cover hungrily. The book opened easily, and she leafed through the first few pages before her eyes landed on lines of text, centered on the page and written in old script.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Something in her prickled with excitement and another emotion she couldn’t name. The prose, the structure, the wordplay. It was brilliant. She flipped through a few more pages with more text like the first. Some of it longer in sentence and structure, and some even shorter. But with each page, it became increasingly clear.

Her chest tightened. She snapped the book shut. This was not a collection of works written by an ancient learned scholar.

It was fiction.

Her stomach dropped to her feet.

Cosette Martel had acquired an illegal book. She had broken the law.

She should have known when she picked it up that the book was not in Empyra’s archive for a reason. Yes, it was beautiful. Yes, it made her feel things she hadn’t felt before. Yes, it was unlike most things she’d read in her life. But it was illegal. And she would soon be punished.

How could she be so silly? So foolish.

She stood, clutching the traitorous tome in her shaking hands, and strode toward the fireplace. The flames danced and crackled, begging to consume. She should throw the thing in the fire before anyone could discover it. This was wrong.

And yet.

A tiny voice in her head revolted. This book was something new. Something beautiful. Something ancient, magical, and more exciting than any of the facts she consumed day in and day out.

And what kind of monster would she be if she burned a book? It was an even worse grievance than having an illicit text. And truly, what was Empyra doing banning books? The very essence of their existence. The thing Cosette had built her entire life around.

No. She could not burn this book. And she couldn’t turn it in either. Otherwise, she might be punished for not thinking first and taking a book from a stranger.

So here it would have to stay.

She turned her back on the fire, glancing around her room, digging her bare feet into a shaggy carpet before dropping her eyes back to the blue book.

And perhaps… perhaps if she kept it, she could study the writing. As a side project. Something to take her mind off the stress and agony of preparing for next year’s exam. No one would have to know.

Besides, it wasn’t all fictitious. Some of it was just a creative way of talking about real things. Not really fiction…

And excellent writing was excellent writing, no matter what it talked about.

She pulled out a small box from underneath her bed and slid the book inside before collapsing on top of her bed. And while her head was racked with worries and guilt, for the first time her heart was calm and the restlessness from hours before quieted just a bit. As if the inky words upon parchment had somehow penetrated her soul and satiated the great beast that demanded more than academic texts and literature could provide.

Perhaps the foreign woman had been right. Perhaps she did need this book.

And perhaps it would be the key to her success.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

scroll

RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

WHITE GIRL WASTED

OUTFIT

GRANNY VEST

LOCATION

HIS ROOM.

MENTIONS

ROSALINE, GROG.

INTERACTS

NADA.

WHITE DEMON — THE KILLERS.

scroll

YOUR JOURNEY IS

to be short-lived, and there’ll come a time you no longer search for a remedy, but a soft place to bury your bones.

THE INTERLUDE.

His room is still the whiplash after a wreck when he seats himself on the floor to gather shards of pottery clay and scattered soil he'd earlier deserted in favor to surmise the status of the crew.

The motions are methodical but slow, has not yet sobered from the drowsy torpor to render himself actually efficient.

To say he’d been distracted from the dream of red, distracted by the torment and authority to ignore it, by Rosaline and her shirked clothing, by the split linkages of bone and skin scattered down the swathe of Algol sand, is an understatement.

Carefully takes a curved shard into his palm and strains to divine the return from isle to ship for all but the asinine interest to paw his hand over the side of the dinghy. Some frantic swats from crew spoil the attempts, which Rat knows he returned with a swipe or two or seven of his own.

The ship was sodden with activity and humans made for terrible inconveniences when trying to stumble to a cabin with balance off-axis. One step, two, three, recalls a meticulous grab of a shoulder to manoeuvre someone to the side in a disgustingly posh (and rude) manner, four, five.

He’d think himself not prone to folly but he’d accepted the tea like some nonsensical idiot. At last he can see some sliver of sense, understands not to open his mouth unless he wishes truth to unravel in words to match his countenance.

Had all but fallen into his room, half-trips, half-sits himself down on the stable floor in desperation to find something that is not wavering, waxing and waning with oscillating gravity. His hands had barely started collecting the perimeter of soil into a little heap when it slithers out of hiding like a dust-mote of white. Of course the commotion would stir the beast, this extension of hate.

Landon stares at the cat, his audience of one, but cannot bring himself the energy to warn it elsewhere. They share this interval in silence without their usual pressed ears or hooked spines, and that quietude seizes his throat like rust, woven like wire that seeks alkaline saliva.

What he has become warms over and is exposed to boil, they’re beasts of kin; both cannot have what they miss most. Comes around in a flurry of painful clarity like corrugated iron:

It is unfair.

His hand reaches like a lead weight to comb unsteady fingers through fur. Down-soft contorts this bruised sadness that echoes in the absence of a brother he cannot visit, a damning thrum of his pulse that stutters and shrugs away the greatcoat of indifference.

A wave breaks the shoreline, surges and converges to a single point.

He is trembling when he gathers the cat in his arms to hug it close, and his eyes are wet when he cradles his face into its fur.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[CrimsonInk]

THE OPHIDIAN.

scroll

YASMINE

LAVIGNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

IT IS WHAT IT IS

OUTFIT

BACK TO THIS

LOCATION

THE SHIP LEVI

MENTIONS

CASSANDRA

TAGS

N/A

KILL BILL — SZA.

scroll

POWER IS POWER

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

THE INTERLUDE.

The sun couldn’t come any sooner for them to get off this beach. Rays of light had the graymaws scatter before they burned, and to Yasmine was an unfortunate thing she only wished to see. Ugly bastards they were. Her focus changed back to Cassandra who had calmed from her oaty behavior the night before. Morning was here and all she could see was the misery they endured in the night.

People were wounded, ashamed, and mournful. Death seemed to have taken the lives of a couple of passengers in the process, one of them being very close to her otter baby. The serpent woman would be honest that she didn’t necessarily care to meet or get to know him, only that the man treated her canal sister well. Cassandra’s well-being was the only thing that mattered to her. That, and what she intends to do for the King.

Getting back to the boat with the others was interesting to say the least. It was her duty among the rest of the other kingsmen to help the passengers to the safety of the Leviathan. She had taken priority of Cassandra out of the rest. Her eyes always watching and ears perked for any utter, whimper, or sound that came from the woman. She had made sure the woman was to be bathed, dressed, and be given food and drink. Orders were being scattered one by one in the middle of her taking care of Cassandra.

“We are to head to Antares-”

You’re

Fucking

Joking.

“The stars like to have a laugh, don’t they?” she muttered to herself, “it would be that ring of hell out of all those near Algol.”

Jesters were funnier. The joke would at least have the room amused by the whimsy humor, not dead silent with crickets echoing that would lead them to wear a noose. She had given her and Cassandra some space from coddling the woman so much. An act that was rare and bothersome to Yasmine. Caring was an act of kindness that didn’t come naturally to her. Kindness was a stranger. Yet, it seemed she was capable of it. Locking herself in her personal quarters she allowed the exhaustion to kick in. How long has it been since she had slept? 16? 18 hours? Or was it more? She couldn't even recall anything past the storm other than the imaginary hotel. That fucking bitch Helga....the damn tea....

Stripping off her gear and shoes, she began to stretch every muscle and tendon in her body. Her eyes glancing over to the small mirror with seething anger. Yasmine Lavigne cannot be out and about like the privileged woman she had been. It was time for Yasmine to rest and Jade Roman to take over. The mask of Jade Roman now must sink into her skin before entering the port of Antares. She was at least welcomed there. Hopefully the damn Baron wasn’t home.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[sollie]

THE MUTINEER.

scroll

SAAR ENNES

ENNES

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Elated

OUTFIT

click here!

LOCATION

Algol; Outside the Leviathan

MENTIONS

Magnus

TAGS

Pepsionne

arsonist's lullaby - hozier

scroll

DIVINE VIOLENCE

All devotion turns violent.

INTERLUDE.

Divinity had touched the Leviathan that evening. Purging the ship of its putrid guests, leaving their bodies forever to rot and remain with the Earth. Those whose lives had been spared would be reminded of great holiness on that day, and those who were not… They would surely face their judgement in the coming months. Though a melancholy attitude drifted about on the solitary trek back to the familiar ship, a lightness embedded itself in Saar’s heart. Her journey was full of uncertainty, but this was a sign from her Saint Ilja that her righteous quest was still yet the divine path. While she would cleanse the Levithan, her Saint aided in her journey. In her solitude, she allowed silent joy to creep its way onto her hollow face.

On the horizon, she can see bodies moving, dragging themselves back to the ship, desperate for its warmth and comfort. Fatigue and heartache made the crew and passengers susceptible to open arms and easy solutions. Why had they ended up in such a wretched place? The storm could be to blame. But at the end of the day, the Captain was in charge of the ship. As his first mate, Saar found it her responsibility to find the issues Lexis perpetuated and dig her dagger into their core, twisting it until it pierced Lexis’ flesh and made him nothing more than a man. A mighty captain? Perhaps for a day…

The angry waters lapped at the receding shorelines, luring weary travelers into her sweet embrace. Heal your wounds with the salty sea. Rest your weary bones and float above it all. There would be a time for Saar to succumb to the temptation, but filled with vigor from the tragedies of Algol, she pushed ahead.

Black eyes bore into a figure paces ahead of her, jaunting back to the ship. A passenger with no name. A passenger with no ticket.

She did not recognize the back of the man's head. The murky light of Algol did not lend itself to clear images and correct memories. She did not recognize the man. That was an abnormality. She was the first mate. She knew every passenger's name, their port of origin, their purpose for boarding. She scouted these individuals, with detailed information as she learned it. They were documented in her holy journals. Yet this one, walking with such surety that the Leviathan was the ship he was to board, could not have been documented in her writings.

A silent prayer began to form on her lips as she continued the long trek, sand rubbing against her skin, irritating the pale, waterlogged flesh and turning it pink and angry. “Saint Ilja, may you guide me against treachery and evil. Find my hands and use them to create your divine image. Purge the sin from this wretched Earth, create divinity of your nature.” She mumbled these words over and over, leaving bootprints in the sand, and unnatural creatures, which were perhaps agents from Ilja, in her dust.

She neared the stranger, eyes pointed and never leaving his form. Like a loyal dog following her master, she never let up, staying 20 paces behind, never making a sound, never calling out, never making her presence known but always watching.

“The watchful eyes of my blessed Saar.” Her mother, the Saint, would always coo to her as she would hide and observe the filth of Antares. “Those eyes know good. Those eyes understand righteousness. Use them to guide you to justice.”

The sun rises and kisses the bloodied sands of Algol, washing away the wickedness with a few beams of piercing light. This is Saint Ilja smiling down on her daughter, blessing the path that she walks. Saar basks in the sun, allowing herself a small faltering moment of pure bliss, without plan, without scheme, without holy purpose. Just a child in the loving embrace of her mother, holy and pure. But as sunlight filters through thick eyelashes, burning the darkness that churned in her iris, her sights are set on the unnamed passenger who she has trekked dangerously close to.

He would either board the Leviathan at her mercy or the shores of Algol would take another body into her stained sands. “Have you suffered?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

MILO STAFFORD.

scroll

Milo

Farmboy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Heartbroken

OUTFIT

Suspender My Heart

LOCATION

Cargo Bay

MENTIONS

Tallulah, Dahlia, Ilya, Lexis, Arata, Kuku

INTERACTS

N/A

TAGS

ComplexDragon CrimsonInk qunqun Gao AnimeGenork

GOOD THINGS — DAN + SHAY.

scroll

IT IS ONLY

the farmer who faithfully plants seeds in the Spring, who reaps a harvest in the Autumn.

THE INTERLUDE.

Perhaps it is the fortitude of a farmer’s son that does not lend the same amount of trauma the others have endured this night. Guilt and grief and despair wracks the bodies of those around him, but Milo remains untouched by them, even with a bandaged wound from a woman he could not remember offending. He tried his best to comfort both Tallulah and Dahlia, though he knew that his words meant very little in the grand scheme of things. That is all he is capable of, this worry. Compassion in a heart so big it would burst if his own frame was smaller. If only he could do more to help everyone. If only he had done more at the inn—perhaps his friend would still be here.

Ah, perhaps it is a lie to claim Milo was left without trauma, though it’s not fair to say the disappearance of his friend is a trauma, necessarily. After all, he lost all of his friends twenty years prior—what’s one more? But deep down, Milo feels the sting of loneliness, the feeling that he was unworthy of friendship, that maybe he was cursed.

There was no time to think of that, however, as Milo brought it upon himself to help the good doctor back to the infirmary. He had fallen unconscious on the shores of Algol, and Milo’s attention had been too diverted to assist then. Now he makes sure the doctor settles back into his place of work, though the look upon Ilya’s face sticks in Milo’s mind. There is something there, but he can’t put his finger on it, probably won’t until it’s too late.

So he wanders, freshly bandaged and no longer in pain, eyes unseeing as he passes the other passengers who did not experience what they did on the ship. His feet take him to the cargo bay, which would not be a refuge for most, but for Milo, it is a place full of promise. Or, it was, before the storm.

He sits upon a crate, staring aimlessly into—the void? A barrel? Another crate? Unclear. Milo remembers the day his favorite cow fell ill. He was four years old, and his tiny little body was worried that she would perish. Back then, he was so small, so unhurt. This was the worst pain he’d ever felt. Until two years after.

As he sat crying, he gradually felt the air around him shift, and when he looked up, his friends were there. Arata sat with his back to him, facing out toward Freymoor. Abby had her head on his shoulder, and he knew she was empathetically crying with him. Gabe and Bruno faced him, their faces worried and bright, ever optimistic even in dire circumstances. “It’ll be okay,” Bruno said finally, smiling with all the gentleness he could muster. “We’ve got the best farmers around—they’ll save her.”

Bruno was right then, as he usually was, even when it seemed unlikely. Milo was never quite worried after that, whenever one of the cows got sick. Instead, he would nurse them back to health, staying up all night if he had to, ensuring their comfort. Had his friends survived, he would have done the same for them.

So naturally it hurts that when he makes a new friend—someone he would nurse back to health when sick, someone he would comfort when they’re in pain—they run away. After what happened on Algol, of course he understands. But just because you understand someone’s reasons doesn’t mean the pain lessens.

Milo hunches over, folding himself protectively over his bandaged arm, salty tears streaming down his nose to the floor beneath his feet. He’ll have to apologize later to the captain for crying all over his cargo bay, but for now he sits in the memory of opening a crate and finding a person. A person who became his first true friend in two decades, a person he wanted to show the Stafford family farm to, someone he thought would maybe break his curse of all of his friends leaving him.

The act of mourning is not new to Milo, but this particular brand of heartbreak is. Not quite the ache of having lost parts of your heart, but the stabbing pain of knowing you lost someone with whom your soul would have found rest. It is through the crying and sobbing that Milo realizes the truth:

He’s doomed to live out his days with fractured pieces of a heart, rather than a fully functioning one.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

MADELINA VOLKOVA.

scroll

Maddie

Decoy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Undeserving

OUTFIT

Dainty Murderess

LOCATION

The Brig

MENTIONS

Tallulah, Knox

INTERACTS

N/A

TAGS

ComplexDragon picklemouse

WOLF — FIRST AID KIT.

scroll

A PRINCESS

always takes care that her words are honeyed, for she may have to eat them.

THE INTERLUDE.

Content Warning: Suicidal-ish ideation, graphic-ish imagery of death, listing of execution methods​

She cannot sleep, for she only sees the blood on her hands. The moment she closes her eyes, she sees the woman falling, the rock, the water tainted red, and the reaching hands of the monsters, the graymaws, covering up the evidence of her crime but making it that much worse. Hours pass fitfully as she rolls and rolls, whimpering as the yellow eyes pin her in their glare, reminding her of the monster she has become in the span of a single night.

When she finally stops trying to sleep, she sits up, met with her dreary cell in the brig. It is the first time since becoming the decoy that she has not slept in a bed, but she is thankful for the lack of mercy. Having returned to the Leviathan, it was determined she be moved to the brig, at least until the events on Algol can be sorted out. As a precaution.

They need to take precautions in case she kills again.

Perhaps that is the most painful part. She knows she’s at fault for the woman’s death, and yet she’s also aware that her mind was not entirely hers. That she, like the others on those shores, were manipulated into doing things they wouldn’t normally do. Or perhaps they would. But not she. Madelina Volkova did not have the hands of a killer. Or, she didn’t, until this night.

At least the quartermaster was some modicum of kind to her. She did not speak to the man as she was led to the brig, as her feet trod over the slimy floorboards and her nose twitched in the presence of so much mold and wet wood. The only words she managed were, “Thank you,” in a tiny voice he might not have heard. Since then, she had been left alone, and though her stomach yearned for sustenance, she could not feed it. She refused to feed it, lest her nightmares simply make her empty it all over again.

Will they execute her, she wonders? Are they going to take her straight back to the princess, declare her a failure, and burn her at the stake? Or will it be the guillotine? Hanging? What method of death does she deserve for this crime, for killing an innocent woman and tarnishing the princess’s name? Madelina curls deeper into a ball with each new, stark scenario she conjures up. Her muscles ache from being so tightly wound, but she will not give them respite. They don’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve it.

She wonders how everyone else is faring. There had been blood and a gunshot, she knew that much, but otherwise, everyone had seemed alive. She was the only one who had taken a life in the midst of the graymaws’ manipulations. And she would have to carry that guilt and shame with her for the rest of her short voyage on this vessel.

At least the pretty lady made it out alive. Madelina could take some comfort in that. Even if their interaction was a dream, even if none of it was real, she knew, of the two of them, the woman with the brilliant eyes and beautiful hair deserved to live. She couldn’t save the innocent woman whose blood now stained the waters of Algol, but at least this woman would be free to live and laugh and maybe even love if that was what she wanted. Perhaps, after the execution that was sure to befall her, Madelina would be able to live vicariously through her. A life not locked in the palace, a life outside in the sunshine. That would be perfect.

Though Madelina would never be okay again, at least perhaps her death would mean that someone else was given a chance to live.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Shadow]

The Drowned

scroll

""??""

Romello

...

MOOD

In pain + confusion

OUTFIT

This, but ragged

LOCATION

The Sea (Algol)

MENTIONS

...

TAGS

...

Endure - Ka$tro

scroll

How can one Live

With heartstrings unwound,
and nothing beneath?

Has a ghost ever overcome despair?

Interlude.

CW: Non-graphic death + injuries, near death by drowning

The deck lurched and wavered beneath a prone form; lost at sea, lost in the storm of a concussion competing with his hangover.

Dark, murky skies pressed down into the seam of the horizon, forming a world where there was no distinction to be made between sky or sea, up or down. A separate dimension had formed just for the sake of tormenting those who dared to think themselves masters over the waves.
Their foolish hearts and ambitious dreams were nothing without the deck beneath their feet, and so it was taken from them in one colossal CracK of the ship's keel, upending every soul aboard and leaving them with no haven from the outreaching expanse of the sea.

Romello was not special, and so, he was not spared.
The cold arms of the water took him in, and it was his choice to find comfort in the embrace, a twist of his own mind that regarded the black abyss with gratitude, as pain faded into numbness.

He sank, and opened his eyes to stare up into the nothingness, watching the world come to life in brief flashes of lightning that marked the outlines of his captors: scattered above him and flailing strangely, before each one slowly lost their resistance to dying.

A loneliness swept over him, and within the sudden realization that he was about to die entirely alone, he could almost find regret for the deaths of those who had stolen him away from the malaise of Antares, into this particular nightmare: even their company would have offered some relief from the fury of the storm, could have eased the sensation of being tiny and insignificant in every possible way.

Romello's jaw clenched and the instinct to breathe rose up, but he held onto resignation: he had neither drawn in a breath nor held it as he fell, and his body finally relaxed into the crushing weight of the water squeezing his chest: accepted its promise of oblivion.

As his eyelids fell across his vision, his mind painted echoes of his past onto the reflections of the waves above: from his childhood to the most recent transgressions of adulthood, his tether to the earth was stretched out and swallowed by the sea.
Under the weight of it all, a bittersweet ache burned its place into his throat and grew more painful as scene after scene collapsed into stillness.
At the center was the death of the woman he had doomed, a reminder of Aurora's impossible quest to protect him while he had abandoned all concern for such an endeavor.

The final strike that ended her life looped itself within every cresting wave overhead and stung with a viper's fury, building a sob in his chest that was wasted without oxygen.

In the fringes of his vision, relief stood on the coattails of a black mist closing in, purer and deeper than any abyss, swallowing his window into the world.
What lay after it, he could not bring himself to care, so long as it would bury the thorns of his past so deeply into his skin that they could never be seen.
With his resolve wearing out, the pressure of instinct became overwhelming and the cool flood of saltwater into his lungs became a mere sensation, barely registered by a mind fading from consciousness.

| | V | |​

The swell of the waves crashing over the shoreline was a ceaseless fury, willing to play ambiance to any fleeting distraction upon the shores, for they would inevitably become lost to time; another passing moment soon to take their place, while the sea kept her eternal rhythm.

That cosmic entity was just as ambivalent toward the sopping sack of cargo it carried: the deliverance to sandy ground not a mercy or a gift of intention, but merely the chance fate of one in a hundred.
The price of passage was another inevitability, pulling from the aching core of his mind the faintest remnants of an entire lifetime and dragging it to the depths without remorse.
Divine greed, seeking to fill a constant ache of hunger...
The memoir of one half-lived life could hardly satisfy it, but there was no sense in restraint for an immortal collector, having seen and stolen so much while the keen gnaw of emptiness persisted through it all.

The cargo was spun over inside a wave then toppled onto the sand, face down and motionless enough to match the frozen poise of the sinister grey beasts who stood within the water near his feet.
He continued not to move, and would have found it easy if he had been conscious to achieve such self-awareness, but he was not, and his eyelids did not flicker for several long moments.

The first sign of life lay within his throat; a slight twitch of muscle trying to regain its purpose and suck air into the sodden pools of his lungs. In a torrential gasp, his stomach contracted and he was suddenly up on his knees, choking on the water spilling from his mouth and gagging against the painful daggers of air as they took the water's place.
With one great heave, the last of the water was coughed out for absorption into the sand, before the returning wave swept over him and knocked his limbs out from under him, dumping him further up on the beach.

More salty liquid invaded his nostrils, but his body had taken its brush with death personally and he immediately coughed and spluttered again, defying the incursion with a solid retort.

Arms and legs scraped clumsily against the ground as he lofted himself up toward the invisible line where the sea would not reach, sensing safety only when the water barely brushed over his feet in the next moment.
He collapsed again, face pressed into the sand while painful breaths scratched in and out of his chest, filling his ears with nothing but his own sounds of being alive.
But what could it mean, to be alive?
He couldn't tell the difference between waking and unconsciousness, aside from the simple distinction that one had caused him rather significant discomfort and the other...
He was already beginning to forget what lay within the consoling darkness before he had awoken, falling irrevocably into the waking world against all protesting urges of his worn out mind.

Dark eyes opened again and squinted across the expanse of grey sands to track the distant movements of blurry silhouettes, grasping without comprehension for any meaning in the sounds being made. The longer he watched, the foggier his mind felt, but his hands clasped around a gritty hold of sand and leveraged his legs underneath his body until he was sitting upright.
His head instantly began to pulse and his stomach swirled intensely, as if those sensations could offer the only clear indication of just how alive and corporeal he was.
He was not grateful, but he didn't know to be ungrateful either, and so, he waited passively for the vertigo to subside.

Yet there was more to attend to than just his own disorientation, and the booming voice that rang across the sands was turned into a command that he didn't know how to ignore, as every other soul on the beach retreated from the water's proximity and gathered together. The weight of his legs worked against his attempts to move and the searing bite of salt articulated every edge of the wounds strewn across his body, giving him far too many reasons to hold still.
But he regained his legs and managed to balance before the stiff ache of dehydration immediately took its grip and tightened it, blurring his vision at a rapid pace as he stumbled over barely two paces of sand before collapsing: once again relinquishing himself to the determination of fate.

| | V | |​

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[jones573]

THE COOK

scroll

Lara Crane

The Cook

ㅎㅎ

TIMING

Several Years Ago/Present

LOCATION

ZENITH/LEVIATHAN

MENTIONS

N/A

INTERACTS

NPC's

scroll

why are you full of rage?

because you are full of grief.

THE PROLOGUE.

Several years ago.

Lara woke to her arm slung across a familiar weight in her bed. Familiar, maybe, but foreign as of late.

This had been a mistake, she thought to herself as she pulled her arm away and rolled onto her side so she faced away from her bed partner.

It was always a mistake. But one she’d developed a habit of making.

From here on the top floor of the Lowry Inn, Zenith was quiet. Her tenants were asleep, and only the rare noise from the neighborhood interrupted the silence.

The man on the other side of the bed made a soft noise in his half asleep state as he rolled towards her, his own arm searching for her warmth beside him. Not finding it, his eyes fluttered open only to see the brown skin of her back bared to him in the moonlight.

“Lara,” he said, his voice quiet. It sounded so loud to her, in the stillness of the night. “You know I don’t mind.”

She stared resolutely at the wall ahead of her. Maybe he would decide she was asleep.

The silence from the attic room above them, where two single beds had sat empty for years, was always tangible to her. A weight pressing down on her, stifling the air in her lungs. She wondered if he could hear it too, or if he had stopped listening.

“If you don’t want me here, all you have to do is say the word,” he told her. “Tell me to leave.”

She wasn’t going to do that, and they both knew it.

“I’m selling the Lowry,” she said instead, and felt vindicated by his short intake of breath. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“Why,” he asked after careful consideration, and she rolled over to face him.

“It’s time,” she said simply. “I’ve been offered a lot of money for it. More than I’ll make running the inn until I die, which I hardly want to do as it is.”

“Oh,” he said, taking in this information. She had expected him to be angry with her, or sad at least. She was selling her business, yes, but she was selling their home as well. Instead, he gave her a soft smile, reaching forward to brush a strand of gray hair behind her ear.

“All right,” he said. “I can get a bigger apartment and-”

She laughed harshly. “What for- So I can move in with you and your new daughter and you can pretend we are a happy family? No, I don’t think so,” she told him.

The soft smile fell. “I only meant- That if you ever needed someplace to stay, I would be happy to provide-”

“I don’t need you to provide for me,” she shot back. “Didn’t I just tell you? I’m making good money from this sale. I can get my own apartment if I want.”

His empty hand lay in the cavernous space between them.

“Besides, I’ve decided to leave Zenith,” Lara said. It had been something she’d been thinking about, but hadn’t actually decided on it until now, just to see what his face would do.

But it stayed the same, dark eyes looking into hers unflinchingly.

“Where are you planning on going,” he asked. His tone was passive and gentle, the way it often was in recent years. Like she was a wild horse who might spook if he spoke too loudly.

She hated it.

“I’m going to get a job on a ship,” she said, more definitively than she actually felt. “Travel the oceans and see Solas.”

“I didn’t know that was something you wanted,” he said with a note of curiosity.

See?, she thought. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.

“It’s a very dangerous lifestyle, Lara,” he cautioned. “The rise in piracy has been exponential, and even ships that might not have been targets in years past are being attacked,” he began his lecture.

“What do you care?”

At that, his face did fall into sadness. “I care about you. You know that,” he reminded her.

She did know. She hated that he did. Or maybe she just hated that she knew that he did.

If she was being honest with herself, she might be able to admit that she wanted him to care. Maybe even that she wanted to care back. Or even that she already did, and always had.

But she was rarely honest with anyone these days, least of all herself.

“Then prove it,” she challenged.

Show me you still love me, she dared, after everything I have done to us.

“Lara,” he began with a sigh, but she cut him off with a soft kiss that turned decidedly less so as it continued.

If it was a mistake she was in the habit of making, then she might as well make it a few more times.

__________

Now.

As she woke, Lara’s hand reached out to her side, grasping for warmth. She found nothing except the wooden wall of her tiny cabin, barely big enough to fit a narrow bed and still have room for her traveling trunk.

The knocking continued, and she forced her eyes open.

“Miz Crane,” the voice came again. “We need you in the mess! Please,” was added belatedly.

“Not my shift,” she said through the door with obvious annoyance. “Find Mister Fiocchi.”

“...He left the ship,” the cabin boy said. “I don’t know if he’ll return.”

That was… A strange thing to say, Lara thought. Surely, those fools were back by now?

Lara opened the door, and the cabin boy didn’t flinch to see the old woman in her dressing gown.

“Please, Miz. Captain’s orders,” he added. “But we are to be rationing water. Even for guests.”

Lara eyed the boy for a long moment, but he did not cower. Nor say anything more.

“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll need to dress first. But I’ll be there shortly.”

He nodded, then scampered away to his next errand, whatever that might be.

Lara let the door swing shut with a sigh from them both. Time to get to work.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

THE HUNTSMAN.

scroll

MAGNUS

MOOD

CURIOUS

OUTFIT

Black obvs

LOCATION

ALGOL SHORE

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

sollie Saar

MEMENTO MORI — NICHOLAS BRITELL.

scroll

DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR

"Live," he says,
"I am coming."

CHAPTER FOUR PRELUDE.

Death was a pungent smell in memory, but nothing compared to the fresh scent of it poisoning the seaswept air. Magnus’ breathing was steady, far too steady given the chaos and violence that had erupted on the Algol shore. What monstrous intent lurked behind his pale skin to allow for such an indifference?

The black fabric of his attire was smeared with streaks of gritty sand. Ilya’s blood had begun to crust over on the edges of his sleeve as a reminder to his contribution to this wretched day. Yet his hands have never been steadier.

A spasm of his muscle, briefly, fingers flexing on a phantom blade. Celine’s memory was sour in his mouth with a much more recent flavoring than he was used to. Delusion or not, she had been there. Her smell, mannerisms, features. Like a ghost whispering into his ear--she had been there.

Sand crunched under his boots, carrying him to one of the boats that the survivors had begun to gather around. A tickle, faintly, at the back of his neck. Magnus was being followed.

The bounty hunter paused, dark hair pasted to the pale canvas of his skin by saltwater and sweat. Hunting as long as he had came with the unmistakable recognition of what it was like to be on the other end of the blade. The object of someone else’s fascination, burning ill intent onto unmarked flesh.

He continued walking. Ren was far too forward to pace behind at a distance for this long, this was someone new. Why wait until now, when the chaos had died down? The cold bite of steel burned through the hidden pockets that lined his person. He had plenty of weapons left to handle whatever laid behind the face of their intent.

“Have you suffered?”

Magnus turned to the voice that addressed him. Grey eyes widened a fraction when they registered the face before him. This woman. The dark kiss of shadow was latent in her features--a look he had only seen briefly in a mirror. Who was this woman?

Her question surfaced once more in his mind. “Have you suffered?”

Innocent enough given the circumstances, but the words felt heavy. Has he suffered? Physically--no, but something in those vacuous eyes told Magnus that her inquiry stretched past the simple realm of physicality.

Has he suffered? Yes. he wanted to say. And so have you. Instead, Magnus cleared his throat. “I have not.” He answered. His tone was flat, matter of fact, but the look shared between them spoke a different language. There is something fundamentally wrong with you, His eyes seemed to say. I know it because it's also in me. “Have you suffered?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[eebeevee]

The Jester.

scroll

Hermes

Dodd

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

oh this has a kick to it

OUTFIT

sleepy boy

LOCATION

Somewhere in Zenith

MENTIONS

n/a

INTERACTS

N/a

клетка — молчат дома

scroll

Cogito Ergo Sum.

I think, therefore I am.

The Interlude

TW: light non-graphic harm, physical sexual harassment (forced kissing)

“Where am I?”

Hermes spoke softly almost in a whisper tone so as to not disturb the silent emptiness he was now surrounded by, but how did he even get here? Clearly he wasn’t engulfed with darkness since he was able to look down at his hands and legs, still visible to the human eye as if he was the sole light in the middle of this empty void.

“Where was I before this?”

Asking out loud this time, trying to recall his last known memory before arriving at such a place. Perhaps he was asleep and his mind couldn’t fix in any dreams so it sent him into some kind of brain limbo? Surely that’s it?

“Well if that’s the case then I’ll just wake back up.”

Hermes closed his eyes, letting his restless body be overtaken by a cloud of sleep, until a sudden sharp pain stabbed down his spine.

Screaming out in pain, he opened his eyes once more but no longer in emptiness yet in…

“No. No no. No No No No.”

He muttered out in panic, taking in his surroundings and wishing he was back in the void he had come from. Looking down at his hands, now seeing he was chained down the ground, only confirming where he was located.

“Now, now Ruse. What did I say about screaming too loud? Wouldn’t want to disturb the others as they did their daily tasks.”

A long forgotten icy cold voice cut through Hermes’ ears calling him out with a name he hasn’t heard in years, whipping his head fast enough to steal a glance up towards him. His blood grew stale as he observed the Lord; just when he was sure he would have forgotten what he looked like, here he was, hovering over him.

His eyes were glowing in hunger, looking down at Hermes like a prey ready to be devoured for his own pleasure. The fire pit beside Hermes was cracking and yelling out close to him as individual metal rods of all sorts of dimensions and shapes were lined up against one another, letting the fire heat them to a bright orange glow.

His eyebrow frowned together, feeling his entire body start to give in to the fear. He hated this feeling, he hasn’t felt it in a while but this, he doesn’t want this again. Lord’s voice sliced through the silence, kicking Hermes out of his mind.

“You look like you missed me, mouse? Aren’t you glad you’re back?”

Lord kneed down, slipping a glove off one hand and using it to lightly caress Hermes’ cheek. The two stayed quiet before a small echo of a spit sounded through the room. Hermes was still staring at Lord as the man used his free hand to wipe Hermes’ spit off his cheek, he noticed Lord was wiping it towards his lips. A disgusted look creeped onto his face, turning his face to look at the fire, inviting Hermes to jump in. A strong hand pulled his view back and he was now mere inches from Lord’s face.

“That’s not how you greet me. You know better, Ruse.”

Placing a forced kiss upon his lips, Hermes pulled his face away only for Lord to tighten his grip on his cheeks, causing him to whimper out in pain. After the longest minute of his life, Lord finally pulled away and tilted his head to the side, his eyes admiring Hermes’ face down to the smallest details.

“Such a precious boy. My precious boy.”

“You disgust me. I am not yours. I am not for anyone. I am for me.”

“Don’t say-”

“No. Let me tell you how much I’ve come to hate you since the moment I laid my eyes on you. I’ve lived many lives since I’ve left you and met many people along the way, if there was ever a single thought in my mind that taught me to hate humanity. It would not equal one billionth of the hate I feel for you. Hate that I feel at this very moment.”

Hermes rolled his eyes over at the fire, trying to keep himself calm after doing something that would surely get him punished. Yet the more he stared, the brighter the fire seemed to call out towards him. It looked strange. Then it clicked in his head, completely hypnotized by the glow that was being reflected onto his eyes.

“Ruse, Stop saying nonsense.”

“Cogito, ergo sum.”

“Ruse.”

“Cogito, ergo sum.”

“RUSE!”

“COGITO, ERGO SUM”

“THAT IS ENOUGH!”

Lord grabbed onto one of the metal rods, pushing Hermes down towards the stone cold floor. The instant he felt the heated rod on his back, Hermes broke through the ice of his nightmare and flew forward in his bed.

A hand running to hold onto his chest as he stared out into his empty room, breathing in a rapid manner. He kept looking around in his room, making sure everything was in its place. Everything was normal. Once he felt a bit more relaxed, he stared off at the window, towards the dark night sky. The thought of the Lord still lingering on his mind, Hermes shut his eyes and whispered to himself.

“I won. I have my voice and I must scream.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

font callfont callfont call

IN-CHARACTER

PURSUIT

ROGUE WAVES

ANTARES.

CHAPTER FOUR

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑.

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟓𝐭𝐡, 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬.

In late October, there’s a reason for their stop in Antares and it is not to flirt with infernal iron.

Accidents, infections, dehydration, even a course of bad luck is the final fate of many expeditions, but the grandeur of a ship this size now must apprehend the currency of stories, of half-truths, of rumor that has diffused under and over the ridges of Solas.

Survivors of Algol, the realm has not yet decided it to be myth or candour. Onboard with the subjects of this gossip is a sobering that has worked into the grooves of the ship like a salt crust of residual laughter. Celebrations have been quiet as of late, mouths scorched with drought and a sun that is sea-light sharp. Days spent dimming energy with eyelids that bat like weak fins, flesh is coveting for water when sapped of vitality and the ugly ravening is beginning to stir itself into ferity.

A constant thirst, it had been a month spent scrounging what water they could trade from passing merchants and rationing it thin, not much else is to be found in the desolate salt.

It is not a comfortable decision, this one. The crown’s jewel has sailed outside of the safe Zenith region, bathed in the sun and been nourished by civilian adulation, met the early October storm and fractured her hull, found the haven inn and bloodshed of Algol, and now limps itself dry to the only location that can serve them salvation.

Lingered like an animal who held their flinch low in the gut, waited till the basin of the sky haloed pestled shades of orange and red. The port is a matte flush of yam, and half-fathomed in the dying sun is no sight of the Baron’s ship. No doubt red corsairs are present, a wrong assumption on this matter will deceive, place you at the end of their gun or sword, and smaller ships of their fleet are tethered in the dock like silent warnings.

A place that strikes like a punch, all fire and rum and knuckles burgeoned boysenberry bruises. Anger has a home here, basalt shadows the eyes of many, and the sight of a royal vessel cutting the breadth of a pirate oriented harbor is an apprehensive one. Consequences follow trespassing, and no doubt clamor will be churned for an audacious intrusion such as this.

The Leviathan pulls slowly into Antares, a goliath that brushes past like a prey-shudder for vessels that permit themselves inferior enough to slip by. Merchants, unaffiliated pirates, royal ships that are either crooked in their dealings or as impudent as The Leviathan itself, the sight of her dredges stares as she reconstructs shadow over Antarian waterfront and settles into moor.

A curious turn of events, gliding into the scarlet-hearted fester of the baron’s port, the squalling dynasty of these streets rises to meet them and some flavor of feeling— not trust, but the passive entry and arrival lightens the threat of her presence, convinces those along the dock that there is no malicious intent to decimate the port.

The crew has been depleted of souls since Algol, pairs of useful hands lost in the maws of the storm or those that did not wake on the bloodied sand. The Leviathan will repair and resupply both inventory and crew, and those onboard are permitted to roam Antares till their departure at dawn.

Don’t fight anyone.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

 

[qunqun]

TW: Description of a Depressive Episode​

THE BUTCHER.

scroll

Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

...

OUTFIT

Not as much Effort

LOCATION

His Cabin

MENTIONS

Rayna/Flora

INTERACTS

lyn. picklemouse

Muzzle — Destroy Boys

scroll

Fuschian Purgatory.

Not calm enough for purple, and too gentle for red. Do you even exist or are you just a concept as well?

Chapter Four.

What are you doing, wasting your life away?

The grain of the wood above where Aurelian’s bed lay was grooved, the dark mixed in with the pale colors. It was calming, in its own kind of way. He was counting the ridges in each little divet.

Why aren’t you getting up. Get up you fucking lazy ass piece of shit

His limbs were locked into place as he tried and failed for the fifteenth time to muster any kind of energy to crawl his way out of bed. One missed shift had turned into one day. One day had turned into two. Two days turned into two weeks, he heard from people talking outside his cabin that they were due to dock soon. In Antares.

This is what everyone already expects of someone like you. You need to get up.

Piece of filthy shit, at least he wasn’t expending that many resources with his week of nothingness on the horizon. Eventually, muscles contracted and began to push himself into a sitting position. A deep void opening within him somewhere in his breast as he began to move. His legs shook as he stood, his joints cracking and popping as they got used to supporting weight again.

There were tremors in his hands, maybe he was sick. That’d probably be a good explanation for why he couldn’t get himself to leave his cabin. Wasn’t good for shaving, or for chopping vegetables.

What’s the point of doing anything if you can’t do it properly

The deep ball of weight that had settled into his empty stomach wasn’t good either, the cotton in his mouth and head as his hands shook progressively worse the more he reached for the door handle. Breath began coming in gasps as the dread moved from his stomach to his throat and his legs gave out.

The floor had nice grooves as well. It was cold, and the gentle sway of the ship led to a nice rocking motion. If he closed his eyes, he could envision maybe being held, melting and becoming one with the hull of the ship, losing his individual consciousness. Empty nothingness, no obligations, no stress, no expectations or burdens… A ship rocked gently by the waves.

With great effort, he pried himself off the ground and stared at the closed door. The three planks of wood latched onto with gray steel. It seemed new. Nicer than any other door that he could think of from his childhood, no nailed on cloth or basic use of glue. No shattered bits of glass.

He didn’t want people to see him like this, terrified of leaving his cabin, shaking, weak, vulnerable… easily exploited.

That’s just telling them what they all already know about you.

Dante was the worst kind of demon, the kind that weaseled his way into your brain and your heart and uprooted the worst parts and told you they were okay, before killing the softer parts.

It was stupid anyways, most of them seemed too self-absorbed to even notice how much the idea of escaping seemed to terrify him.

Why not? You know that you’re just one violent outburst away from hurting everybody you love.

That’d been proven already. Some poor fucker that desperately wanted his mommy to save everything, and when he was presented with her, he immediately reacted violently. Stars, what a despicable monster.

Right.

He had to get up. It was bad. He’d grown a beard. He needed to shave and get to work and start working out again and practicing and doing all of the-

He was laying on the ground again as the tightness wrapped around his chest and he was struggling to breathe once more. What was worse, the stress of keeping himself upright and shambling through his routine or the clear depression he was suffering through not going through with it.

There had to be an easier way of doing things. There just had to be. But the schedule was the most optimized way to keep himself looking the way he wanted and keeping his skills in their top form and it all just seemed…

… it just seemed….

He didn’t want to get up off the ground. He didn’t want to socialize. He didn’t want to be constantly vigilant and on guard ready for the next fucking person that was about to take advantage of him or attack him. He felt too tired, too exhausted to really keep his eyes open, much less stay on top of everything — his head too full of cotton to feel the need to get up once more.

Out there was nothing but pain and humiliation and people that didn’t know how to stay in their own fucking lane. In here, he didn’t need to put up so many airs to get people to leave him alone.

There was a thumping on his door.

His heart picked up in its struggle to get out of his chest, tightened and disgustingly weak. The noise reverberating against his skull in a painful manner.

… If he stayed quiet maybe they’d go away again.

A new anxiety entered his mind very suddenly, what if they weren’t going to leave and they bust the door down and caught him lying on the floor helpless and in two weeks old clothes.

Sufficiently motivated to not be humiliated in such a manner, Aurelian forced himself upwards once more and threw the mess into a closet, forcing some loose clothes on- he smelled rank, he tried to brush imagery of the clean clothes immediately sullied upon unshowered skin out of his mind.

A deep breath inwards. And then out once more. The adrenaline spike had his heart going once more. He opened the door, trying to not let the stale air waft out.

Dressed in slightly oversized clothing, the massive frame was hidden beneath soft textures and wild dark hair that hadn’t been styled and hung over red-rimmed eyes with these dark shadows beneath them. There was a slightly spaced out look to his countenance, the intensity vanished and replaced with this terrible air of trying to appear as normal as possible when someone was in the middle of an emotional breakdown. His hazel eyes darted between the two, amber pounded into the submission of a softer honey.

“Heyyyyyyy” His voice was hoarse from disuse, he had taken to leaning against the doorframe in a posture he’d probably assumed was casual, but never used before… screaming overcompensation with the strange not quite smile that was somehow the most unsettling expression that he could've offered. Never mind the fact that he’d probably never used the word ‘hey’ before. There was a small throat clear. “... What do you want.”

The demand lacked the normal bite that he kept at the forefront.

…

Someone asking something of him. Again.

… Well… Going into town… might not be the worst thing. He could go into town.

…

It’ll be a more effective use of your time than whatever the fuck you’ve been doing.

Aurelian rubbed his chin as he mulled it over and drew his hand back in shock as he felt the beard stubble scratching against-

Oh fucking stars he’s really let himself go oh he needed to get this shit off he needed to get it off right now he-

There was a small throat clear “Let me… Let me just go shave really quickly and I’ll-”

He needed to wash up oh my stars how was he even tolerating this he needed to be functional he needed to be so functional right now WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Aurelian retreated from where he’d stood as the most casual not at all freaking out sentry in the world to immediately start using the rationed water that he hadn’t been drinking enough of to simultaneously drink, wash, and shave at vaguely the same time in an almost manic flurry of activity.

He choked almost immediately, spewing water everywhere and let out some shuddery hacks onto the ground like a sad wet cat, but the other two actions went marginally better… and he immediately went back to chugging water anyways.

Clothes thrown on, spittle cleaned up, his face was red with embarrassment, not quite making eye contact and unused to people seeing him as disgustingly human and prone to error.

“We are never talking about this again.” The bite was a little back, though not at the level of antisocial that it usually was as Aurelian visibly put the resting bitch face back into place in order to take the first couple steps out of his room.

He stood still as he stared at the hallway that seemed to be getting longer and longer the more he stared at it. Wrenched away from what could only be described as hallucinations caused by breathing the same air for two weeks, Aurelian perhaps stood a little closer to his new traveling colleagues than he would’ve normally as he let them take the lead.

♡coded by uxie♡