Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

BEHAVING

OUTFIT

NOT SUSPICIOUS

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN HALLWAY

MENTIONS

HELLO VAS

INTERACTS

morcetyx

BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.

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HERETIC BOY,

you should know: hate misshapes even the most woodland into something that would rather die in captivity than domesticate.

CHAPTER ONE.

It’s his nature to withdraw from crowded rooms and find respite away from the churning tumult. Developed from youth when the only problem traits inherited were restless bones and hungry eyes, the same boy has grown to disfavour being nudged around like malleable driftwood.

It swims across skin and consumes the tepid current in his body; not all rivers are made to be safely crossed, and this one can feel his mood curdle sour at the fourth, fifth, sixth disturbance; can feel his joints instinctively pull away from the seventh, eighth, ninth brush of shoulders.

It is not their fault, some rational part knows this, but the anger still settles baited and unsated, settles on all fours and is bleeding a waspish static that seeks to throttle bacon fat necks by tight frilly collars. Even someone like Ren must stop to contemplate if bloodying his fists on drunks is worth the retaliation that was sure to ensue, and even someone warm and conversational must slip away from his love of company to find solace in colder, quieter places. Knows the weighted risk of lingering and chooses to step outside of the mess hall for this very reason. Doesn't trust those aboard this ship to temper his hate of crowds with alcohol so soon; doesn’t trust his own temper to stay tethered and well-mannered and keep him out of trouble.

A warm bread roll taken with the residue practice of a criminal was just the comfort Ren had been looking for, as it was easy to forget that he, at face-value, was allowed to linger and soak in the splendour of the boarding night celebrations. This fact does not purge how he still careens the borders of affability and corruption, crests naturally with his conversational nature, crooks naturally with his dishonesty and arrogance.

He was here for the King, he was not lying, but failed to specify he was not here by being personally appointed through a nicely wax-stamped letter, but by the drive of his own sour motive. For the King in the way of gladiatorial pollice verso where the thumb turns to signal their fate, For the King in the way an axe cleaves clean through an exposed nape and wets the sand in red.

He is a well-travelled man that comes from a respected family, he was not lying, yet failed to specify it was he and he alone who respected his mother and father. Respected in the way a boy hates to upset his mother, respected in the way a boy wants to make his father proud.

He’d spent time at sea with a crew that still wanted him back, he was not lying, yet failed to specify the stint of piracy with the carmine corsairs and how their wanting was less of admiration, more of a looming death-threat. Want him in the way a cruel-beaked eagle perches outside a gash in the soil where a meadow mouse cowers, want him in the way vultures pull till vinegary meat snaps away from sun-baked carrion.

It is the only failure he will actively engage to have, always dishonestly honest. Glass half full or glass half empty, one only thinks the latter if they are not aware there was once more in the cup. If they take the glass as a whole fruit, the core and pit and skin and fail to notice it has been hollowed and weighed with sawdust, they expect nothing else in their short-lasting beliefs.

Risky, maybe; though what there was of flintlock decisions and running on instinct in his life, it is all he has ever truly had.

If only it had not been, If only he had not been at all. Who knows exactly whether this veneer was marrow-made in womb or learned as a necessary tactic in Zenith alleys.

Who knows if he is much different, for when young the only frame of perspective is close to the ground, and keeping wary vigilance would require a line of sight above juvenile height. Fickle things such as stature or status does not stop a thieving child from tearing across bridging piers till he collides his mother’s leg. A hand latches the back of his shirt before he has the haste to scurry and escape— the plan is foiled! —and the child is lifted just enough to scrabble along by his tiptoes as she marches him right back to apologise for the stolen bread held in his mouth.

He tries to imagine what he’d tell his mother if he ran into her here. Reasoning would be only half formed, weak with connective tissue needed to communicate much sense. Uncertain how to articulate being on a royal vessel with not-so-royal intent, he is not sure how his mother would feel about what he expects to be his final misguided decision.

Part of him hopes she will just think he settled somewhere nice.

Here on the Leviathan at the peak of both height and freedom, his mother cannot hold him like a handbag. Embraced by an illusion that consequences or attachment cannot rise to meet him like a rocky shore is a temporary comfort, his temporary sawdust fruit. It is an illusionary faith that if he does not acknowledge what mistakes have him casting looks over shoulder with the frequency of a criminal, then he can spend his time onboard the ship as a pious man. Somebody new, somebody free of mistakes and unaware of the familiar faces he is yet to recognize.

As he leans on the wall of the hallway and turns the butterscotch metal over in his hand in calculation of how much this weight would be worth, the hairpin is to prove a reminder that it is difficult to unbind the past from the present, unbind care and motive. Risk having it marionette bone and tendon through thieving motions with atavistic reflex, risk having the same past turn the corner and stand within his estimation.

Two truths and a lie:

He planned to give the ornate hairpin to his mom when he next saw her.

He legally obtained this hairpin from a Zenith market stall.

The owner of the hairpin was scorching him with an accusatory stare.

Hang on.

That's unfair.

Before he has the mind to hide it, what looks to be horror and insult inches up and steals away to his face. An unspoken, Why you?!— He recognises the blonde no doubt, for even with the yolky alloy and ruby gem in his hand, they rival like a golden constellation, hair wreathing curls like wildflowers and features carved like marble blades fresh from whetstone.

The past is a revenant haunt, and it has been only hours since Ren boarded the ship with an oath to be good only to have that aspiration crumble like rotten foundations at the sight of his latest victim; now a threat to his longevity on this vessel. The saying that someone can never escape their past resonates like a painful echo.

Artless as only a movement crafted out of guilt could be, Ren sheepishly pinches the rim of his hat to pull it lower, and turns his head to rub the same hand against his temple in an inconspicuous attempt to shy his face from view.

If he does not look at them, they are not real.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Mypilot]

Interact: Evelynne


It had gone like this.

Shipment is the same no matter where you go; crates go into carts, carts get hauled by men onto ships, and those ships will bring the cargo to their destination. Bec knows he is not cargo because people cannot be shipped like that, but that doesn't stop him from thinking he can hide away in the crates regardless.

Zenith is far more particular than Kestyr ever was, here he has to be careful not to be caught. Bec isn't sure what the punishment for crime would be in a city with such glittering guards, and in truth he isn't keen to find out. Coming all this way only to get caught on the first day would be disappointing. He cannot let it happen.

The guards watching the ship are attentive, if lenient. The overall air of the docks is festive, people are excited to see the mighty vessel launch, and it has become a celebration of sorts. The guards must ensure everything goes as planned, but they spend time to smile pleasantly at locals and pretty faces, to chat amicably at those passing by.

The cargo has almost entirely been loaded at this point, and Bec only slips in with the luggage of the crew, the guests, the kingsmen. Suitcases and crates of fresh food for the underbelly of the ship, wine and spirits for the first night of celebration. He walks closely behind a trio boarding the ship, workers of some degree, as if he is with them, and then slips quickly away to join the working men bringing those crates below decks.

He is weak looking, he knows, but he has a wiry strength earned from years of grueling outdoor labor, and he utilizes this to pick up a crate and carry it onto the ship. No one questions him, and a harried looking steward simply ushers him to the storage area for new food and snaps their fingers to encourage a faster pace.

Bec scrambles to work hard, and when the work changes into preparing the ship for departure, for tidying up rooms and the kitchen and the mess hall, Bec ensures he is there too.



The ship departs, and with it goes any chance of changing his mind. Bec, of course, had no intention of doing so. It isn't in him to ignore the call of a whisper, and the intrigue that comes with The Leviathan is impossible to ignore. There is a story in this ship, a promise of adventure and disaster. Bec has lived a simple life thus far, or at least he thinks so, and now he intends to see how things will truly play out.

The party is in full swing, the ship rocking in the gentle waves and the wine-drunk passengers rocking with it. Bec does not drink, and indeed as he pretends to be but a simple crewman, he is sure it would be impolite to do so anyway. The paying patrons of the ship, however, do not so gently hold back.

Bec slips among them, a fresh uniform over his frail frame, and happily cleans up spills and gathers dirty dishes. He will need to find a better "disguise" come the following night, for he cannot (will not?) clean up messes for the entire voyage. Being cramped up in this mess hall, even one so large as this, was enough to set his teeth on edge. Too many keen eyes, even if most of the rich folk didn't look twice at him.

Finally, Bec manages to slip away, to shod his uniform and wander the deck in the grim silence of the night. Here, the stars were a smear across the sky, clouds wisping across them like a lover’s trailing touch. It was strange to see the sky so vast and beautiful; in Kestyr, the horizon was always hidden by the litany of trees and foliage that covered every surface.

Taking a moment to study its beauty, Bec tilted his head back to admire the view. His hair briefly fell out of his face, and the chilly night air brushed against his skin. His eyes roamed over, catching sight of the ropes that trailed about like spiderwebs. He wondered what it would be like to climb them, and then it occurred to him that he could simply find out.

A quick glance to ensure solitude, and then his hands were gripping the rough material of the rope. It dug harshly into his skin, but Bec found he didn't mind. How much different could this be, really, from climbing trees, vines, pipes? If anything, it was made easier but the uniformity of the rigging, by the rough grip the rope provided. Bec was lost in the euphoria of being able to climb, of disappearing high above the ship, and did not hear the approach of the girl until it was too late.

the urchin

bec.

• aaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaa

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

• Rosaline
• Parrat

• 
  
  mood :

  a bit put out but flirty as hell
  
  

  location :

  the deck

  outfit :

  mentions :

  the captain (insert heart-eyes here)
  
  

  interactions :

  pending junshi morcetyx

  Enamored

  ;; rosaline

  Rosaline Touchard considered the layout of her life to be a series of revelations, none of which was the all-too-obvious notion that her beloved was simply never going to look her way. She was deep in denial, an emotion a harlot like her was not privy to feeling at any time. And yet, she was wading through the thick of it, determined to stay by her beloved’s side despite the fact that he had never looked her way. Although she was quite confident about her beauty and the power of her particular occupation and the skills it had imbued her with, she was not at all confident that she ever would feel his gaze upon her, as affectionate as she wished she could be with him.
  
  There were certain cons, as there always were, to being in love with a ship captain.
  
  Thanks to her efforts, there had been no trouble at all boarding the Leviathan. The guard stiffened as she passed, the embarrassment of being so easily used finally catching up with him, but he kept up his end of the bargain anyway. She could not help the smug smile that lifted her painted lips, but her fan hid it easily. Considering she had been allowed onto the ship by such a careless guard, Rosaline had expected more challenges to her presence. It appeared as if her attire had successfully tricked her audience into thinking she was a lady of wealth, rather than a lady of harlotry. Really, her moving to Sirocco Sands had truly been in her favor.
  
  She had set about to find the captain, not to talk, but to reassure herself that he was in fact here, and that she was not about to set sail on a possibly perilous journey for no reason. After hours of searching, she had come up short, and the departure festivities had begun. No matter. Rosaline figured she would try again tomorrow, pending that she did not give herself a hangover from all the alcohol she was currently consuming.
  
  And who could blame her, really? She had debased herself to get on this vessel, and the recipient of her affections wasn’t even visible. So, yes, she downed a glass of whatever alcohol was available in one gulp. And yes, she may have unsteadily made her way out of the mess hall and onto the deck for some fresh air. Thankfully, that had sobered her up just enough to achieve her next task: finding someone’s bed to haunt.
  
  As if that was hard for someone like her. All she needed to do was subtly lean against the railing, fanning herself gently, and right on cue, a drunkard appeared. Not her intended target, but at least good for a good laugh before she considered throwing him overboard. She hid half of her face behind her fan, not wanting to give him any particular, expressive reason to make a mistake. Of course, that still, apparently, gave him license to lean in close enough to expose her poor nose to the scent of the meal he’d had minutes before. “And what’s a pretty thing like you doing out here alone?” he slurred, clearly eyeing her bodice.
  
  Really. That’s your opening line? Ah, well. Not like she had other prospects at the moment. “I have my reasons, of course.” She angled herself to give him a better view and to get her arm as far away from his roaming hand as possible. “It was far too… crowded in there.”
  
  “I’ll say.” The drunk man burped, and Rosaline wrinkled her nose as the stench wafted her way. Ugh. He better have decent coin. “Fancy yourself needing some privacy?”
  
  “Indeed I do, sir. Are you offering something more secluded than where we are now?” Rosaline hinted, knowing very well that she was going to either break some fingers or, for the thousandth time in her life, debase herself for money.
  
  Theoretically, either situation was a victory. So let the game commence.
  

  coded by reveriee.
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  The Cat

  (Affectionately named "Parrat.")​

  
  The kitten could not recall how long his ears had been pinned to his head. Loud. It was all very loud. Not to mention the smell. Alcohol was pungent against his scent glands, and so he had refrained from opening his mouth. His nose burned with the acidity of it, and so the kitten sought refuge in the gathering place where the humans on this strange wooden creature ate. Sniffing along edges of the room, he managed to find scraps to consume. He went largely ignored by the occupants of the room, and that was just how he preferred it.
  
  Having found enough food to fill his belly, the kitten maneuvered out of the room, only narrowly avoiding the puddles of alcohol. He relied on mainly his hind legs to navigate such turbulent circumstances, a method he had painstakingly learned after the amputation of his left front leg. Once out of the room, the kitten shook himself, fluffing out his coat before washing his ears.
  
  Now, the kitten craved the fresh air of the sea, and so he made his way to the open space where the humans often congregated and spent their time leaving or boarding the strange vessel. Glancing around, the kitten noticed a figure to his left, waving a wing-like object in front of her face. The kitten tilted his head, considering approaching the human for ear scratches.
  
  Instead, he curled up by the door leading belowdecks and buried his nose in his tail. The breeze coming off the water lulled him into a light nap.
  
  

  Dedicated to you all.​

  
  

  Coding by AnimeGenork ​

 

[NiftyNat]

MOOD: Curious and yet dutiful.

OUTFIT: All black clothing. With a silver necklace.

LOCATION: Leviathan, Dining Hall.

basics

MENTIONS: Genevieve, Tarin, Parrat

INT: sunshineysoul

tags

TL'DR: Found a stowaway. Might snitch to Tarin later after she’s done questioning the pretty lady. With a hint of the red string of fate theory.

tl;dr

The Scourge

DOLORES THORNE

While the afternoon sun rose, casting its golden glow across the rolling waves and illuminating the vast expanse of ocean before her, the newly christened ship Leviathan sliced through the calm waters with an elegance that belied its size, its sails freely billowing in the swift breeze.

The purposeful, well-practised steps of busy feet moved efficiently on Leviathan’s newly polished deck. The melody of seafaring life was created by the creaking of ropes, the flap of sails, and the sporadic shout. With the deck alive with activity and guests, Dolores Thorne asserted herself with a few duties before the evening celebration could begin. Only the satisfaction of having a safe and productive voyage can ease the branded woman’s mind with a passive purpose.

Her steps led her to her first task: ensuring the ship’s inventory was safe and secure. The leather clicks of her ebony boots echoed through the empty hallway where she made a turn, leading her down a flight of stairs, the ship’s lowest storage space.

Calloused fingers grip the list as her gaze analyses the items safely tucked in the cargo. Gunpowder, freshly polished canons, scrubbing equipment and an enormous supply of wax for deck maintenance. Her eyes focused on the list and the items she was assigned to manage. From the satisfying row of checks, everything is in order.

Retreating footsteps echoed throughout the room. With only a few more steps, she could’ve easily gone on with her next task, but an invisible tug halted her pace to a stop. She surveyed the room one more time, and she saw something from the slightly hidden crevices. Dolores barked a loud ‘hey’ towards the frozen lady.

Her steps were nearing her figure. And finally, to a complete stop.

The curly-haired maiden’s brow twitched in reflex as her umber eyes gazed at the lady with the breathtaking golden eyes. Something about those eyes jolted a faded memory she failed to recollect, and she rarely forgets anything. The longer she stares at her, something annoying and mysterious crawled deep in her chest. It was as if the ribs that caged her heart continued to poke and fiddle with its invisible strings—puppeteering her heart as it pleases. Whatever it was, she forcefully shoved it away into the depths of her mind.

Being lost in her mind, Dolores pulled herself out once the golden-eyed maiden parted her lips, and a gentle yet fidgety voice rang out. She assessed the delivery of her speech and remained quiet for a moment before politely presenting her with her name. After all, she would only do this for the sake of civility.

Ah, of course.

Sweet civility.

While the footsteps of guests continued to echo above, the branded kingsman couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at this ‘acquainting’ Genevieve was making with… the lowest section of the ship. Guests would typically stay in the comforts of their rooms or even explore above the deck, enjoying the peaceful cruise Leviathan currently offers. If it weren’t for the noticeable dampness of her hair or the tangy scent of the sea lingering on her clothes, Dolores would’ve assisted her gently above the surface, just like any compassionate kingsman would. But Dolores is neither a ‘true’ kingsman nor a compassionate one, not to a stranger at least.

To confirm her intuition, Dolores said, “May I see your papers?”

From a fraction of a second, the branded maiden saw the confirmation she needed. Her heels swiftly turned, prepared to tell the captain as per protocol. “The captain or his first mate will deal with stowaways.” Her voice was icy and unfeeling.

Hands reached out to her own, and she froze. Dolores’ fist tightened at the physical touch, and the urge to pull away strongly enticed her; if it weren’t for the voice telling her to listen and the thin barrier her sleeves provided, she would’ve done it with ease. Leather boots remained reluctantly planted. The branded maiden’s face slightly crinkled with evident dissatisfaction at the stranger’s hold on her clothed arm. However, it gradually dropped the more she absorbed the frantic disposition she was given.

When Genevieve finished with a ragged breath, all Dolores could do was stare quietly as conflict slowly brewed in her mind like a silent storm. With one empty look, she shrugged her touch away and turned her back.

Metal cogs mechanically ticked as her mind pondered the new information she was given. The woman’s delivery provided her with enough insight to be aware of the truth of her story. Despite her fractured memory, the woman still managed to pick her most recent events in place and provide a hesitant yet honest response. A part of her felt a slight hint of sympathy: If the world weren’t such a cruel and unsafe place, scenarios such as these would cease to exist. Someone out there must be weeping at the memory-fragmented maiden’s disappearance.

Her thinking soon shifted towards her mysterious white-cloaked hunters. A stowaway with a mysterious history with peculiar individuals is like inviting trouble and chaos onboard the ship.

The kindest kingsman would’ve assured her that she was in safe hands, but she was neither of those things. She knew what the stakes would be if she disobeyed, and an unwanted memory drifted past her mind, a cruel reminder of the first time she disobeyed orders. She found her fist tightened in that moment, and her once nonchalant expression now creased with a frown. Her nerves and compromise steeled at that moment.

Dolores will notify the captain and his mates, therefore leaving the lost woman’s fate in their hands. After all, it is within the executioner’s nature to only carry the verdict, not proclaim it.

Until then, she must gather enough information to present and leave the judgement of fate to them.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Flickering lamps illuminated the hall with its warm light. Under its gleam, melodious music flowed perfectly, and dancing feet tapped the floor with enthusiasm and rhythm. Amid the crowd, there is a young woman carefully maneuvering through the bodies she desperately tries to avoid and touch. With eyes searching for a specific kingsman, she darted around her surroundings, analysing each face her eyes briefly gazed upon. While Thorne isn’t fond of celebrating, she was obliged to come due to the news she promised to bring. She hoped the captain and his mates would join the festivities, but her search proved uneventful.

With a complete lack of self-awareness, Dolores didn’t bother to dress for the celebration and maintained her earlier clothes. Except her unruly hair is now tamed with a bun with ebony curls cascading over her forehead, framing her delicate face.

“Achoo!” She sneezed loudly and was reciprocated with a few stares and raised eyebrows. The urge to pull a finger on them becomes overwhelmingly strong, but she behaves herself before doing something irrational. It reeks of fur in here. Fuck this. She thought to herself. No doubt, an adventurous and perhaps dubious furry creature just passed by her feet.

As her heels turned to leave, away from the source of her bane, a familiar tug left her to pause and turn. There, a surprising sight met her gaze. In the farthest and once again slightly hidden part of the room, she was met by the stowaway she had seen earlier.

Her leather boots began moving before she knew it. First, her heart began to be puppeteered, and now her feet? The sea breeze and the new environment must be messing with her senses.

The bronze woman greeted her with a nod before she found herself standing next to Genevieve with her arms crossed and her icy facade littered with not a single emotion. The woman next to her broke the floating silence, and Dolores followed it up with a quick reply.

“Captain and the first mate are busy.” She breathed her lie. Whether or not they were, a curious and totally harmless part of Dolores wanted to keep her a little longer despite her better judgment. “Third mate might be free later on. I’ll inquire him when he’s free. Until then, I’d advise you to stay out of trouble.”

The branded woman let an awkward air pass by before speaking again.

“I must ask, what are your plans for recovering your memory?” After a heartbeat, she continued, “The faster you recover them, the easier it will be for you to plan your next action.” While her words carry the tiniest semblance of tenderness, her monotone delivery says otherwise. The rough translation of her words is as follows: The faster you retrieve your memories, the easier it will be for you to craft a proper defence if you were summoned for a trial.

Perhaps this is her own unique way to help, or perhaps she can see the use Genevieve could bring. Either way, one thing is for sure: the strings of her heart are puppeteering her to stall.

code by valen t.

 

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

HATE YOU HATE YUO HATE YOU HATE Y

OUTFIT

FLUTTERS BY

LOCATION

MESS HALL

MENTIONS

DEVANA HIII

INTERACTS

ILYA @qunqun

MERCY DOWN — S. JAMES.

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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.

CHAPTER ONE.

All things considered, the botanist must give the stranger his dues. One for not reacting with a fist to the jaw, two for not disengaging and walking away. Anchored like iron and ever willing, tolerating, to weather the storm; Rat thinks he could make a game out of this, prying for displays of animosity from those that stow emotion in the warchest of their skeletal cage.

Dearest Rat, they echo.

“Ya, ya. We is the one and only.” Impatience caters to the easily reactive, but it’s not uncharacteristic to shy from the gray of the proasic either. Unthwarted by how steady they are, lack of riposte from Ilya has raised both stakes and purpose. “Don’t goes two-timing with another.”

Despite a womb-made hatred towards having to wait for anything, Rat knows patience can be a virtue. Reap the best rewards from what does not offer itself so freely, delay harvest till the crop is ripe and bask in the amusement of inciting the anger of a man whose composure seems fool-proof (but if Rat is lucky, not pest-proof).

Doctor Ilya Jovanović.

Rat no longer enjoys this game.

Rat actually never liked him.

Fuck this guy.

Amiability disperses and leaves annoyance to pool the lacuna, a feeling now fated to associate with this man. Meeting suppurating sour, Rat’s jaw sets and he tries to ease its salted hinge to return into the comfort of a practised mask. Shake it off like water, like sleets of ice.

Handshake extended, attention snags enough to counter it with a casual high-five. No need for hellos, no need for formalities, no need to fraternise with these types. A Doctor is impressive in their own right, but Rat would rather eat broccoli than let them know that.

There is a smile from Ilya, how fucking dare he. It is not mocking, but it is something Rat doesn’t quite recognise. No charity, but for Rat it is akin to the throw of a gauntlet between them. No kindness here. No extensions of patience permitted, not when it has been rendered obsolete in his severance from the Cascade walls.

Oddity is overlooked for the specifics of his name. Ah, Rat decides, Ilya is officially the worst person on this ship.

“Nay, ditzy muttonhead.” A bite is flush at the teeth. Mean, heinous, cruel. Do the most harm. He tries to gather momentum for something quick but must opt for what arrives faster. “Marmalades the family name. Ratthew Marmalade.”

Yeah. Not his best work. But he has been sent a degree off-axis, pulled into a game that Ilya never agreed to play.

“Don't mind me asking this—” the botanist always hates the sound of that. It is always overstepping, always minded, mind your fucking business “—but are you feeling alright?”

Bite him. Something rabid urges. Bite him now. And Rat would have been wiser to satisfy that impulse than be within their assessment. Brows are crimped and Ilya is troubled, and for a moment Rat feels the air is dead and stagnant. Like salt dissolving the inner walls of his trachea and lungs and sloughing him away till there is nothing but seafoam.

He is no stranger to guesses on his character (not at all kind, not at all accurate) and would like to believe it is a question geared towards his mental state, but given their occupation, has no trust in that faith.

“Am not okay,” he sighs. “Stucks here natterin’ with a ginge.” His voice verges on emotional word-pour as he dabs away a single, invisible tear. Always levity, never admitting the particular weakness as if that is relinquishing a win.

They share space like the entry to a catacomb, stood in the median unable to pick a side, and a cruel part of Rat wishes to efface the hope and care within Ilya so that when the world inevitability pivots to rip it from bone, the blow is gentler. Care is lost on Rat, will be lost on many when the mirth of the ship dies and is replaced with the godforsaken desert of grief and seawater.

Tools and gentle stares will only fix so much.

But maybe there is something quieter, nestled away beneath sheaves of vapid skin and brittle bones that would like to steal that figment of hope and keep it for himself; if I cannot have it, nobody can.

“If the doc spills falsehoods, may haves to warn your patients. Lying to them would be cruel, Rat bethinks.” There is danger there, the smallest of accusations, but a man named rodent who spits in people’s cups is the last person to have the mental capacity of flaunting passive-aggressive cynicism towards the occupation.

He is just a little guy, after all.

The return to small-talk is welcomed by Rat, yet he gives no inclination that ease has sandpapered rough mood into smooth marble.

“‘Fraids a bit glum! Not even a measly fight or fire, ay ay, boring this is.” He swivels on heel to stand shoulder to shoulder beside Ilya, watching the milling people. While the Doctor had been speaking to him, there was something outside of both of them that caught attention, a tall dancer that rendered civility obsolete.

He’d complained there was no fight, but based on the feral style, he supposes that this is not so different. Rat observes in a silence that feels awfully judgemental for a man of his nature. One part confused, another part impressed that he is not the weirdest one afoot.

“Ay.” He drags attention away only briefly to continue his original objective. “... Hows Ilma feel about cats?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

XVII

the

star

"the heart"

mood

DONT EVEN BREATHE AT ME RN.

location

Party. Hallway. Yay.

mentions

Elera. Ren.

interactions

Elera Harrowhark
Ren Gao

XVI

the

tower

vasariah "nightingale"

Laughter and chatter, a cacophony of voices mingling with the clinking of glasses and the distant strains of music. Nerves burn under pale skin, dancing about with each spike and dip in the music. A heartbeat that settles just underneath his ribcage. A sickening pulse that only grows faster the more attention he pays to it. Golden curls cascade down shoulders, following the loss of the pin dear to him. The centerpiece.

Stolen. Calm. Thief.

You have been more social than usual.

Silence.

It would appear not anymore. Skittish.

“Are such parties truly necessary?” A whispered tone, blunt. Rhetorical. No answer provided would convince him such an event was anything other than…foolish, brainless, the list goes on. They would be forced into close quarters for much longer than he would like. What was the point in forcing the strangled formation of connections through the guise of a party?

Vasariah stood in a corner, his back against the wall. Arms crossed, head tilted towards the ground ever so slightly as he looked up with jade eyes, scanning the room. Much too many drunkards. Much too many anyone.

Beside him, the blind follower, engaged in their newfound pastime of people-watching. Despite their many differences, he admittedly had to admire her insistent need to comment on other people’s lives, behaviors, and appearances. It made for a great study. Conversation he would have written within his journal, if he had not foolishly left it lying on a crate in the follower’s room.

She has offered her room to you. Be grateful and use her name. You would be with the rats if it were not for her faith.

Elera was proving to be a…surprisingly bearable companion. She talked enough for him as well, though he was sure to find it getting on his nerves in the wrong environment. An environment like this gathering, for example.

Vasariah watched as the drunk workers began spilling their drinks as they turned to ogle at woman. “Such a horrid display. To be so distracted by a bystander you allow your drink to soil your clothes.” Another tripping over his feet to harass a woman. “Is there a male version of harlot…? No…I suppose that would just be pervert. It seems common here.”

He turns his head to glance at Elera, briefly studying her sharp features before the sound of a glass falling to the ground pierces his ears. He jumps, eyes honing on the genius who dropped his glass as his hands fly to cover his ears. “Stars…”

Not here. Not here. Not here. Leave. Not here.

Vasariah winces, hearing the loud disjointed melody from the star mixing with the noise of the party. Wretched experience. Not the star, but everything else screaming into his ears. He feels his blood boiling, heat rising within him to a much too uncomfortable temperature. With no breeze to cool him. Trapped in a room with sweaty bodies pushing against the other. The wood of the wall behind him starts feeling like sandpaper on his back, and the swaying of the boat begins making his stomach turn.

If he does not leave, he will make an unwise decision and scream loud enough to burst an eardrum. Hopefully his own.

“Air,” is the only thing he can gag past his throat towards Elera before he hurries out of the room. No regard for where he was going except out.

As Vasariah turned the corner, his breath caught in his throat. Muscles stiffening under pale skin. Eyes switching between the thief and his pin.

Here. Here. Here.

There he stood, tall and thin, his silhouette sharp and angular in the dimly lit hallway. He wore a baggy black outfit that seemed to swallow his lanky frame, yet complimented him the same. The seams were well constructed, though he could see the fraying at the ends. The fabric was horrid. The large buttons on the shoulder only made it feel ridiculous. A neat, lace fastening would have complimented the outfit better. The wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow that shrouded the figure’s face. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t see how…questionable…his outfit was.

Vasariah’s eyes narrowed as he watched his tan, slender fingers deftly twirling an ornate golden pin. Vasariah’s hairpin, the one he had stolen. The intricate engravings and ruby gemstones caught the light with every movement, a stark contrast to the man’s ragged attire. An wave of anger and determination surged through Vasariah as he watched him, his treasured possession in the hands of a thief.

Oh, this was unexpected.

A run in with the very person he swore he would sink his teeth into if he were to ever meet them again. He didn’t feel like tasting blood tonight. He wondered if he even had the energy to open his mouth. Lithe figure standing in the hallway, curls cascading over stiff shoulders. Frozen. Glaring. No time to waste with something as trivial as blinking. What to say…

Hands off.

No. Weak. No one is taking their hands off.

I believe you have something of mine.

Overdone, cheesy. He had read that line countless times.

Did your mother never teach you to keep your dirty paws off what doesn’t belong to you?

Yes, that was a good one. If delivered in the right tone, it would paint him as competent with the longer phrasing, yet with a bark to him. It would be perfect to…to do what exactly? Thieves hold no remorse, and have surely learned the difference between bark and bite.

The figure stood pulling hat, turning away from him. It put his pin out of view. Rude. Idiotic.

Is that what you want?

What?

Is that what you want? Is that what you want? Is that what you want?

Insistent chanting. Small, thin hands reaching to gently press against his brow bone. He pretends it eases the pressure.

Is that what I want…?

Before he can let his mind forward, he forces his legs to move. One step at a time. Apparently, we feel that confrontation is the most direct path today.

Vasariah does not need to dip nor bend in the knees to find himself a moonlit view of obsidian eyes, volcanic glass brighter than he had ever seen the night sky. He does not believe those who claim to find the smallest details within secrets hidden beneath irises. When he gazes into pools of ink, he feels nothing but a soul. No tells, no gives, no guesses. A soul familiar.

A soul that stole his hairpin.

Why…?

He manages to untie the string keeping his eyes locked on the thief’s. His leer traced from the dark red tint settling under his eyes down to the bronze skin of his nose. It is in his nature to study the way it concaves neatly at the bridge of his nose, only to have a slight bump a third of the way down from his eyebrow that curves beautifully to the tip of his nose.Not sharp, nor flat, simply an alluring roundness. Vasariah had drawn this nose before. He would know, it was his favourite to draw. A feature that would compliment any face, yet it had found a seemingly perfect home on the face before him.

Unfair, life was, to create such a being that could rival the alluring sight of the stars resting in the sky only to give him such…bad habits.

Jade eyes following the curve of his nose down to his lips. Darker than the skin around them, with a tint of crimson to them. No color could have complimented his skin better. Vasariah is not one for smiles, yet he finds himself wishing to see how the thief’s lips curl to reveal teeth. He oddly remembers the way lines form. He wonders if they are as soft as they look.

Unnecessary thoughts.

His eyes quickly glance down to his hand, where gold rests in slender hands.

Oh…

Without a word, Vasariah reaches for his ornate pin.

II

the

high priestess

"the seer"

card

eight of swords

This Post's Tarot Card​

In the context of this post, mentally stuck and overwhelmed. It’s a need to shut down mentally. In the imagery, both persons are blindfolded – a sign of tuning out and turning inward. A more general reading and understanding below:

"A card of entrapment. The mental constraints we find ourselves in, often created by our own hand. You may be over-thinking things, creating negative patterns or limiting yourself by only considering the worst-case scenario. The more you think about the situation, the more you feel stuck and without any options. You surrendered your power to an external entity, allowing yourself to become trapped and limited in some way. You may feel that it isn’t your fault – you have been placed here against your will. You may feel like the victim, waiting to be rescued, but is this energy serving you?

The Eight of Swords reversed suggests that limiting self-beliefs plague you, preventing you from moving forward. You may tell yourself that you do not deserve to be wealthy, preventing yourself from receiving financial abundance even if it’s offered to you. Or you might conclude you are too old to lose weight, leaving you unhappy with your body and your health. You are more prone to negative self-talk and suffering at the hands of your inner critic. You feel trapped because every time you try to do something, your inner critic tells you why it’s wrong or not good enough – so you give up trying altogether. The beliefs you hold about yourself are preventing you from achieving your personal goals."