Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[Gao]

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IN-CHARACTER

PURSUIT PART II

ROGUE WAVES

ANTARES.

CHAPTER FOUR

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬.

Should anyone have been sober enough to look close enough, should anyone have watched from the Leviathan’s deck as the spools of heavy mooring lines were gathered in, they might have noticed the spitting scorn from a neighboring ship.

The cuts of red sails may be bundled tight in their masts, but hateful looks and jeers emblazon their identity without need for introduction or color. They could make real provocation out of it, sanctify the Leviathan’s departure with a cannonfire farewell until she caves in on herself, but they know not to touch her in the congested port of Antares.

They do not move into her orbit as the goliath eases slowly from the dock, sails unfolding in slow sequence. Apprehension for what touch would bring to them, the great catalyst when the leagues of her body are lined with artillery. She could level the waterfront of Antares, and without the space to manoeuvre out of her crosshairs, The Reaper would quickly meet the barometric pressure of sinking.

It would destabilise the uncomfortable peace that held dominion these early hours, or more accurately, the mutual evasion of violence. As her hull begins to carve past the corsair ship, there is a moment of uneasiness that echoes in the little space lapping between them.

From the elevation of the Leviathan’s larger build, they are granted a vantage point onto the narrow frame of The Reaper, its blade-like prow and wood burnished to a roach black. She is sleek for predatory speed, with sharp lines made for quick strikes and quicker getaways. From the railing a bearded figure spits phlegm over the side into the waking foam below, a showcase of contempt for the King’s vessel.

Tension is thick as they are parallel, before the distance grows and the friction is finally untethered in trade for open water. Many crew and guests are soft with exhaustion, booze a torpid lead in their skull and joints, barely able to harmonise with the rhythm of the sea and working on instinct rather than intention.

Come 8AM the main deck is sparse and the morning sun is warm. The thick quiet they had come to associate with in previous weeks has returned, and in all directions splays an endless blue. The comfort of distance has claimed many, and once her sailing is smooth, many retire below deck to reclaim the hours of slumber they’d lost in Antares.

Calm is before every storm, and in that empty horizon resides the Reaper with a belly of teeming souls. Stolen away from the morning’s warmth to be encased in a dark cell, damp wood and cold iron bars. The air of the brig smells of mildew and infection, an oppressive stillness which is amplified when the occasional red corsair, eyes cruel and disinterested, comes to check on them.

The lamp they raise casts oily terracotta against the features of prisoners in varying states of disarray:

Sonya Nimbara, Ephraim Prokopiou, Knox Hood, Devana Acindius, Calanthe De Braose, Lizbeth Jessup, Willow Farchill, Adrian Bishop, Cadence Valiente and a quaint Toska.

Only one thing remains certain in this fragment of rust and wet planks, and that is the sound of boots tendering the ceiling above and the muffle of the sea enclosing them from behind.

The Reaper is sailing with intent towards something.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

 

[Aviator]

THE HORN.

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Macklin

Lowe

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Scheming.

OUTFIT

Outfit.

LOCATION

Antares alleyway near the bazaar.

MENTIONS

Lara

INTERACTS

Violetta & Monte Daddy Dream

FLEEZ —
YEAH YEAH YEAHS.

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This is the end of us

Sleeping with the moon and the stars
I know where you been, oh
You can see the sun far from near.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Macklin churned through the Corsairs’ ranks like a scythe, if the ragtag formation of six thugs armed with dull knives and improvised weapons could be called ranks. The benefit of fighting outnumbered in an alley was that, at most, two of them could squeeze through and rush him at once, but after one man took out his comrade with an ill-timed swing of the chain he was wielding, they tended to avoid this approach. Macklin’s mind was on autopilot, inhaling and exhaling in time with his strikes. At all times he kept the door to the adjacent tavern in his peripheral, unwilling to make the same mistake that had cost him blood again. A neat turn as a stiletto stabbed out at him. A roundhouse kick to the skull that dropped his opponent. Ducking beneath a length of pipe swung high. Capturing the man’s legs behind the knees and taking him to the ground. A wrench and a satisfying pop! as a shoulder dislocated.

The slaughter continued in such a manner until only the slender man with the ruby jewelry was left. He was the only one properly armed with a long, well-kept hunting knife, but when Macklin’s gaze locked onto him, separated only by the sea of fallen Corsairs strewn about, he turned white. Macklin started toward him, and the stock-still man burst into motion as if just remembering how to control his limbs, turning on a heel and fleeing. He managed only a few steps before a five-pointed shuriken had embedded itself in his left shoulder. The throw was off-target, having been aimed for the small of the retreating back, but the momentum was enough to topple the bejeweled ringleader forward onto the ground.

He tried to pick himself up with clawed hands, but like the shadow of a hawk, Macklin was already upon him. He seized the ringleader by the back of the neck, flipped him over, and planted a knee on his diaphragm. The smaller man scrabbled against him, and Macklin pounded a spiky fist into his sternum. Another pathetic wail echoed off the grimy stone. “For fuck’s sake, cease that ghastly racket,” Macklin growled. “I have questions for you that require lucid answers. Are you feeling cooperative?” A quick glance over his shoulder told him that the brawl around the duchess and her man was still raging, occupying their attention. But there were now only three Corsairs grunts left standing, not six. Macklin would have to make quick work of this.

The man’s screech choked off into labored breaths, his respiratory system working overtime beneath his captor’s weight. Still, he mustered the bravado to try to stare Macklin down, his dark eyes blazing like coals. “Who are you?”

A regretful smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Macklin backhanded the man across the face, the spikes on his knuckles rending bloody lines in skin. By this time, the platypus venom was thoroughly depleted, but his ability to make a point had not. “I’m not certain you understand how this works, friend. I’m the one asking the questions. Now, what is your purpose with the duchess?”

The man’s only response was a bloody-lipped sneer. Macklin made the motion of punching downward at his face, pulling it at the last milisecond, and the man’s subsequent flinch seemed to erode what was left of his defiance. “It was a kidnapping job!” he yelped.

Macklin snorted. “No shit. I kind of gathered that when you said, ‘take the lady alive.’ Why, pray tell, do you want the lady alive?”

“She presumably knows… how to work… a device,” his captive panted. “A potentially invaluable one.”

“Keep talking.”

The Corsairs man narrowed his eyes. “I’ve told you all I know, I swear.”

Wordlessly, Macklin opened the inside of his coat, revealing an impressive array of knives, pistols, equipment originally intended for surgical use, and a coiled whip. He made a show of selecting his next weapon.

“The Red Baron’s men intercepted a shipment of hers three weeks ago,” the man said so fast it was almost incomprehensible. “It was mostly full of winter supplies because her duchy is known for harsh winters, but within it was a piece of new technology. According to the correspondence of hers that we’ve been monitoring, this device has the power to alter soil so as to expand the lifespan of crops, or conversely, obliterate them prematurely. A literally groundbreaking thing.” He smirked up at Macklin, seeming to revel in the cleverness of his pun.

Macklin pursed his lips. A hypothesis was forming in his mind, but he wanted the man to confirm it. He asked, “Whyever would the Red Baron be interested in such a device?”

The haughty ex-noble looked at Macklin as though he was stupid. “Why, to bring devastation to Zenith, of course! If the duchess’s shipment actually has the power to do what she thinks it will, the Baron intends to sabotage Zenith agriculture and ravage the city with famine. It will provide enough of a distracting force to destabilize the monarchy while we move in to take what is rightfully ours. May rats strip King Rowan’s carcass to the bone.”

Macklin ticked off a little mental checkmark next to his hypothesis. His lips parted to fire off another question, but just then there was the clatter of a weapon against the ground. The brawl at the other half of the alley had grown conspicuously quiet. He darted a look over his shoulder to see the duchess’s man withdraw his sword from the body of his last fallen opponent. The white knight's eyes connected with Macklin’s, and he started down the alley toward him and the last living Corsairs member.

Macklin whipped back to his captive. He’d have to wrap this up quickly. “You said the duchess’s shipment was intercepted. Tell me, where is it now?”

“I can’t— I mean, I don’t—” The man’s voice crescendoed into a howl as Macklin stabbed a knife through his other, uninjured shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

“You don’t lie to me, is what you mean,” Macklin corrected. He was Rowan’s newly-appointed Chief of Intelligencers, the youngest ever to achieve the position. Collecting information via either stealthy or violent means was his job, and he excelled at it. “I’ll ask you again. Where is the shipment and in whose possession is it in? Tell me now, or I will continue this conversation with a blind man.”

The footsteps were approaching at a resolute stride, and Macklin had yet to hear the scrape of metal that indicated the other warrior had sheathed his sword. But what he did hear was the secret the bleeding man breathed as a pool of crimson formed beneath him on the dirty cobbles. A secret that could be leveraged. A secret that could be used to turn the Corsairs’ strategy against them if the Kingsmen could acquire this mysterious device and figure out how to operate it. Macklin imagined it, an Antares subservient to the Crown, wrestled under Zenith’s thumb under threat of starvation. Disrupting the supply chain was how most wars were won, after all. Killing off resources usually took a lot less effort and bloodshed than killing off men.

The footsteps drew nearer. The duchess’s protector called out to them. Macklin’s time for chatter had expired, but so had his captive’s usefulness. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said politely. “Conversing with you has been most illuminating.” The last words the ruby-wearing Corsairs thug would ever hear, as the knife that was previously in his shoulder was thrust through his heart. And now Macklin Lowe was the only living soul in the alley who knew the location of the duchess’s missing delivery.

He climbed off the latest in his collection of corpses, moving slowly so as to not startle the other man into attacking. Fighting was not Macklin’s intention. He wanted to speak with the duchess. Pick her brain. Figure out how much of what he’d been told was truth, and not a lie spun under duress.

“Thank you for coming to my defense, although as you can see, it was unnecessary,” he said with cordial arrogance. Pain lanced through the knife wound on his back, and Macklin hid a wince as he rose to his feet, ensuring that his coat with all its concerning contents was closed. He briefly considered punctuating this statement with an easy smile, but decided that his bloodsoaked state would lend more of an unsettling air than a friendly one. “I see that your lady employs the best bodyguards in the business. Would I be permitted to speak with her for a minute? I saw her engage in combat and wish to ensure her well-being and extend my gratitude.” He saw the man’s hesitation to allow a stranger with obvious capability for violence in the presence of his mistress. “You can trust me, friend.” Macklin produced the badge that marked him as an officer in the King’s military. “We’re on the same side here. Brothers in arms now, yes?”

The White Knight—as Macklin mentally thought of him with just a hint of derision—was dressed in a stately coat and cravat that it would be easy to mistake him for a regular member of high society with no affinity for combat. He had a young, unblemished face with almost feminine features, full lips and a nose that sloped upward and a powdery complexion. His head was crowned by a halo of golden curls, which were in disarray and damp with sweat. They were within an inch of each other’s height.

The man eyed Macklin warily but finally relented. Perhaps it was less because he trusted Macklin and more because his liege was not giving him a choice, as she had begun wobbling down the alley in wildly inappropriate footwear for a fight. The White Knight sheathed his sword, but Macklin could sense the tension in his body like a drawn bowstring as he observed Macklin for any minute signs of a threat. Wanting the blond man to feel at ease, Macklin deigned to walk ahead of him on his way to meet the duchess.

“Good evening, m’lady,” Macklin said when they drew within earshot of each other. Torchlight painted her milky skin in fiery shades, smoldering her dark hair to embers. She was a slip of a woman, short and almost painfully thin. That she’d been able to hold her own against two of the Corsairs aggressors made Macklin tick a brow up in appraisal. “As I was telling your vassal, I wish to express my regret for your exposure to such danger. Have you been hurt?”

From what he could tell, she had some minor scrapes and bruises, but if she was wounded beyond that, she was good at hiding it and omitted it from the conversation.

Macklin nodded. “I don’t know how much of the Corsairs’ plan you overheard, but apparently their goal was to kidnap you. Is it true that you’re a duchess, m’lady?”

Behind him, there was an intake of breath as if the White Knight was on the verge of objecting to her sharing this information, but Macklin could tell just from her posture that she was a proud thing, as noblewomen born into the title tend to be. She brazenly told him her name was Violetta Frankfort. “Violetta.” He let the name tarry on his tongue like a piece of candy. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of you before.” A lie; he’d never met Violetta in person before, but it was Macklin’s job to know things. The gossip around the Zenith court was that she was a witch destined to age into a spinster, that she was a too-young girl playing dress-up at taking over her father’s properties and finances. “Can you tell me about your duchy?”

At this, Violetta’s face slammed shut like a bank vault. Seeing her trepidation, her vassal drew near her, interposing himself between the duchess and Macklin. Knowing that small talk would get him no further, Macklin decided to reveal his hand. “It’s a damn shame about those missing supplies. I suppose you and your charges are in for another devastating winter without them.” His mouth sharpened into a smile. It was a test.

And it was a test the well-dressed pair failed. Quick as thought, the White Knight’s hand flashed to his belt, but Macklin was ready for it. The sword was drawn only halfway from its sheath when he received a left jab to the jaw. It wasn’t a particularly hard punch, a warning shot, because Macklin wasn’t interested in fighting. Just in confirming whether the ringleader’s intel had been accurate, and clearly it had. At least to some extent.

“Stand down,” Macklin commanded. “Unless you want you and your lady becoming fugitives of the Crown for attacking one of its agents.”

But this did not deter the White Knight, who clearly thought the immediate threat that Macklin posed superseded the latent one of the Crown. The duchess’s man drew his sword and lunged, stabbing out for the center of mass, a killing shot if it hit. Instead it was a glancing blow as Macklin flattened himself against the alley wall. White-hot lightning burned against the backs of his eyes, and blood leaked from the torn fabric over his left bicep.

“Fine, then,” he snarled, rolling along the wall before the White Knight could fully recover from his monstrously long lunge. His first priority was to get in close and disarm his opponent; otherwise he would be a pincushion for that sword. The laceration across his back protested against Macklin’s burst of speed, but when his choice was either to fight through it or die, adrenaline spurred him on. Needing to close the distance before his opponent could get off another swing, Macklin moved low and fast. He drove his shoulder into the soft part of the White Knight’s stomach and was rewarded with the whoosh! of breath vacating lungs.

The duchess prudently jumped back to avoid getting crushed beneath roughly four-hundred pounds of combined weight as her vassal fell backward with Macklin on top. The next best thing to disarming his opponent was preventing him from lifting the blade, and Macklin jumped to the side, pinning the sword arm beneath a knee. He rammed his shoulder into the White Knight’s throat and locked his forearms behind, cutting off the flow of blood from the artery. It would have been counter to his goals to kill the duchess and her man when they could be sources of insight as to the workings of the agricultural device, so he was reduced to nonlethal tactics.

The blond man gurgled against him, struggling. Macklin sensed the thrashings growing weaker, the fight dying from his opponent just as the blood did from his face. Unwilling to take any chances, he didn’t let up. He whipped his head around to get a glimpse of the duchess, to make sure that she wasn’t about to stick him with one of those pesky knives—

The White Knight shot out his free arm in a very coordinated attack, the meat of his palm striking Macklin in the temple with dizzying force. Macklin gasped and loosened his chokehold, his head feeling as light as an escaped balloon. His opponent gave a vicious upward thrust that unseated Macklin, knocking him back against the cobbles. They scrambled to their feet at the same time, and once again Macklin found himself staring down the wrong end of that wicked sword, at just enough distance for his opponent to get a swing off with it.

The duchess’s man cleaved downward in a mighty overhead arc. Without proper time to dodge, Macklin threw up his hands in desperation, fingers carefully curled in—he’d lost enough fingers for one day—and the blade clanged against the metal of his brass knuckles. They remained locked in a battle of strength for a few seconds, the White Knight pressing down with surprising force for one so posh and pretty. But he had the considerable advantage of gravity on his side, and Macklin was driven to one knee. The White Knight disengaged just then, going for a killing stroke while Macklin was on the ground, and Macklin did a quick, tight spin, whipping out one ankle to hook around his opponent’s leg. The blond man flailed for balance but wasn’t downed until Macklin, in a moment of improvisational brilliance, stretched laterally along the ground, seized up a crate, and swung it as best as he could from his compromised position. He felt a spurt of warmth as his newly wounded arm scraped along the ground, and he hissed between his teeth.

The crate caught the White Knight in the side of the knee, and he crumpled among a hailstorm of flying splinters, one of which nicked Macklin along the cheek bone. He choked on the cloud of dust that rose into the air, reducing everything around him to dark, hazy shapes. Instinct powered him to his feet, his clothes plastered to his skin with blood, his hair to his forehead with sweat. But it didn’t stop him, and he went to slam a boot down on the swordsman’s wrist and end him. He didn’t need two functional hands to explain the clandestine details of his duchess’s delivery.

Instead, a ragged cry tore from Macklin’s throat as a blade bit into his calf. The strength fled from his leg, and slippery liquid spilled over his gloved hands as they went to stanch the wound. Then there were powerful hands on his shoulders, forcing him back until his shoulder blades smacked into the alley wall. Macklin was halfway between standing and merely pinioned by the White Knight’s grasp, his wounded leg stretched out gingerly.

Unable to physically overpower his enemy, he played his last card. “Kill me, and you have no one who can locate your lady’s missing goods. I just hushed the last bastard who could tell you where to find them.” As he spoke, the muscles of his throat grazed against the swordpoint that had been wedged under his chin. His world was tilted on its side and he was leaking lifeblood and his heart was pounding so hard it felt ready to explode, yet Macklin managed a cold, superior smile. Blood from a split lip dribbled down his chin. Belatedly, he remembered the old crone’s offer of medical attention aboard her ship. He had shrugged her off at the time in pursuit of higher goals and she’d disappeared during the brawl with the Corsairs, but now her suggestion seemed to hold some weight. Could her ship be the Leviathan? Odds of that were slim, but Macklin was unsure he had much time to consider alternative solutions.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[erzulie]

mood :

plotting

location :

the bazaar

outfit :

mentions :

n/a

interactions :

open

Acindius

Devana

The air in the brig was thick with the stench of salt, sweat, and despair. Devana stood motionless in the darkest corner, her silhouette blending seamlessly with the shadows. The faint creak of the ship’s timbers and the distant murmur of the crew above were the only sounds that reached her ears. She had been here before—not in this exact cell, perhaps, but in situations like this. Captivity was nothing new to her, a soft smile settled on her face at the memory. She had been locked in her family’s crypt many times by her sister, with no one to keep her company save for the statues of past family.

They had taken her in the Bazaar, a place teeming with life and chaos, where the clatter of merchants hawking their wares and the laughter of drunken sailors created a symphony of disorder. She had known they were following her. Their eyes had lingered too long on the intricate embroidery of her gown, the glint of rare metals and gemstones among her belongings. They had mistaken her for a noblewoman, a delicate creature ripe for plunder. How wrong they had been.

Devana’s lips curled into a faint, predatory smile beneath her mask as she recalled the moment they had struck. She had parted ways with Lady Lucrezia intentionally, steering their conversation to a natural conclusion. Lucrezia was fascinating—elegant, mysterious, and touched by an air of death that Devana found oddly alluring. But she was no fighter. Devana had seen it in the way she carried herself, in the way her delicate hands fluttered like moths in the moonlight. She couldn’t risk the woman becoming collateral damage. And so, Devana had led her pursuers into a darkened alley, a place where the noise of the Bazaar faded into a distant hum.

The fight had been swift and brutal. Her attackers had been confident, their eyes gleaming with greed as they closed in. But their confidence had shattered the moment Devana unleashed the beast within. Her laughter of delight had been drowned out by the chaos of the Bazaar, her movements a blur of violence and precision. The alley had become a slaughterhouse, and Devana its butcher. Those who had glimpsed her true visage—the mask slipping just enough to reveal the fury beneath—had died with terror etched into their faces. Pitiful souls, cursed by their own avarice.

Now, in the brig, Devana surveyed her surroundings with a calculating gaze. The cell was cramped, its walls slick with dampness, and the faint glow of a single lantern cast flickering shadows across the space. A mass of other captives in different cells huddled together, their faces drawn with fear and resignation. Devana paid them little mind. They were irrelevant to her plans.

Her thoughts turned to her stolen belongings. The pirates had taken everything—her weapons, her trinkets, the rare artifacts she had painstakingly collected. The loss of her possessions stung more than the cuts that marred her skin. Her dress was torn, the fine fabric stained with blood and grime, but she wore the damage like a badge of honor. The wounds would heal, leaving behind scars that would serve as reminders of this battle. Each mark told a story, and this one would be no different.

Devana’s mind raced, formulating plans of escape and retribution. She had no intention of remaining in this cell for long. The ship would make port eventually, and when it did, she would strike. But patience was key. She would bide her time, observe her captors, and wait for the perfect moment to unleash chaos. The pirates had made a grave mistake in targeting her. They had underestimated her, and soon they would pay for their arrogance.

Her gaze drifted to the heavy iron door of the brig, her fingers twitching with anticipation. The thought of breaking free, of tearing through the ship and reclaiming what was hers, sent a thrill coursing through her veins. She would leave a trail of destruction in her wake, a warning to anyone foolish enough to cross her path. After all, it was one thing to attack her with the intent to kill—but to steal her precious belongings? That was unforgivable.

Devana’s smile widened, her teeth gleaming in the dim light. The pirates had no idea what they had unleashed. Soon, they would learn the cost of their mistake. And she would savor every moment of their downfall.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Daddy Dream]

THE DUCHESS

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공작부인

VIOLETTA

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Tired and Annoyed

LOCATION

ZENITH

MENTIONS

N/A

INTERACTS

N/A

The Skye Boat Song— MALINDA

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Be Yourself,

you don't make history by being liked.

Chapter 4 - Aftermath

Another scuffle, and this time Monte was not gong to listen to simple words. This stranger, named Macklin, had tried to use her missing goods as a bargaining chip, and that set off her knight. She was much too tired to find herself in the middle of their spat right now, so after distancing herself a bit, she observed. It seemed to be going in Monte's favor, though Macklin was putting on a well enough fight given he was already injured. After what felt like an hour, it seemed that Monte had finally pinned him down with his blade to his throat. At the mention of ending the mans life, Violetta's eyes darkened and she walked over next to Monte, cold eyes staring down at the feeble man at her feet.

"You overestimate your usefulness, Kingdom Dog. You may possess the location of my goods, but you are not the last one I can find who has such information." She reached out her hand and grabbed Monte's arm, firmly removing the blade from the mans neck. With a glance from her, Monte sheathed his weapon and stepped back. She took the stage, from and center of the slowly dying man, and smiled eerily. "I was kind enough to hear you out, especially after you took out the man who wanted to kidnap me. A generously kind gesture you made towards him if I do say so myself. However, you have attempted to blackmail me for your own gain. And while I will not end your life so...quickly, I will gladly extend it for further entertainment."

She reached into a small pouch and pulled out a thin needle, barely visible to the naked eye, and kneeled down to jab it into one of his pressure points. It didn't take immediate effect, but soon the bleeding would stop and she would return to her standing position. Looking over her shoulder at Monte, she nodded her head toward Macklin, signaling for him to pick him up and carry him to the ship. Violetta was a mix of dangerously annoyed and determined to handle this man who wanted to blackmail her. Her aura of rage rolled off her and cleared a way down the street as she walked elegantly back towards the ship. She smiled politely at the crewmen who cast concerned looks her way, reassuring them that she was going to perform emergency treatment on him in her quarters.

A few crew members tried to stop her, however, she only requested that they bring her all the medical supplies they could and to keep this matter quiet. While she still got doubtful looks, they still listened to her in hopes of finding out more of what actually happened. In the mean time, Monte had carried the nearly dead Macklin into their shared quarters, dropping him roughly onto his own bed before turning to Violetta.

"Madame, I dont think this is a good idea to treat him personally. Your methods aren't quite...medically sound."

Monte spoke, worry etched into his words more for his master and less for the man. He has watched her patch up prisoners before when a medical doctor wasn't around, those individuals recovered with massive disabilities, but recovered all the same. This though was not someone she could leave with any sort of extra disability, especially if they were an agent for the king. Sensing his concern, Violetta waved him off and grabbed the supplies from the crewmen delivering them, shutting the door behind her.

"Worry less for the outside problems and more about making sure he stays alive, okay? As long as he is breathing and has a heart beat, he will be useful for something in the future." She spoke, sitting at bedside and setting up the supplies. "I will attempt to save him, but it will be up to him if he wants to stay alive."

With that, Violetta didn't speak anymore and started cutting off his clothes around the most severely wounded areas. She sterilized her tools with fire and the wounds with alcohol before diving into the hours long process of patching up Macklin. There was no pain killers or things to bite down on, so he was essentially feeling every bit of work she did. In the mean time, she had a smug grin on her face, one filled with intrigue and delight before it was interrupted by a gentle tap on her shoulder by Monte to bring her back.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[floralmoon]

THE SOOTHSAYER.

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KADER

MOOD

STILL IN SHOCK, BUT ALIVE

OUTFIT

yoga time!! (head scarf)

LOCATION

SHIP > BAZAAR > ALLEY WAY

MENTIONS

Ratthew

INTERACTS

Gao

The Healing Pool - Paul Landry.

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"prophet child, chosen by the sun.."

"do you hear the gods whispering those silent stardust words?"

CHAPTER FOUR PART II.

Waves softly lap against the exterior walls of the ship, signaling that the departure from Antares had long passed, no longer was there sounds of music and chatter seeping into through the vessel. Kader lie in bed, staring at the ceiling of their room, questioning once more if escaping from the Cascades was the right choice. Twice now they had witnessed violence, something they had never been subjected to while living at home. Perhaps some fresh air would relieve some of the anxiety they were experiencing at the moment.

Feet stretch out towards the ground, sending a shiver up Kader's spine, nothing compares to a good stretch after a night's rest. They could hear rustling pass by their door, signaling that other people were awake and venturing towards the galley for food. Slipping out of pajamas and into day clothes, Kader quickly stretches once more before stating a few affirmations. "Today is a new day. I am blessed. I surround myself with those who have good intentions. Every thing I desire, I acquire." Looking in the mirror, they give a warm smile to themselves, and walk out the door, ready to seize the day.

Entering the dining room, Kader looked around, admiring all the people, though some looked worse for wear after the stop in Antares. Slipping through the patrons, they make their way through the room to retrieve two cups of hot water in order to make morning tea for themself and their guest. They fill two small sieves with an assortment of leaves & herbs, placing it into the cups to steep, while waiting for the tea to reach completeness, they become curious as to if anyone would like to join their morning yoga session.

Their eyes search the room, glancing at each passenger who had made their way there, stopping on each for a second or two before deciding whether or not to risk inviting them to their routine. Unfortunately, nobody was deemed acceptable, as it seemed they were all preoccupied in whatever they were doing at the moment. Kader stood and thought, who else was there?

Rat.

Poor lad seemed to be struggling with making positive connections with other passengers, so perhaps having a yoga session with him would help him with becoming a more likeable person. With a slight nod of their head (aka THE ORB), an agreement amongst themself was made. Carefully gripping the mugs in their hands, they leave the dining room again in search for their new friend.

Eventually, they do find the room Rat is boarding in, though it was quite the journey as there were no signs pointing to where exactly he was located. Situating one of the mugs into their left hand, careful not to drop it, they knock on the door, hoping that the man inside was awake, or at least could hear the tapping. A symphony of cold, quiet voices in the back of their mind starts vibrating, repeating something over and over. They weren't sure the what was being said until the door in front of them opens, revealing the tall, lanky body of Rat.

"Oh. You are dying."

Kader pauses for a moment, only just realizing what they had said, without skipping another beat, they speak up once more, "I apologzie, that was completely inappropriate. Would you like to join me for a yoga session on the deck?"

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE CRYPTKEEPER.

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GRAYSON

B. MOYER

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

OH HI.

OUTFIT

COATY ON THE BOATY

LOCATION

MEDBAY

MENTIONS

GROG & ILYA

INTERACTS

qunqun

FIRST DATE — SHAYFER JAMES.

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TAINTED BLACK AND BRUISED

A chorus lifts itself onto my mouth’s blade:
dying is an art, so just like everything else
I must do it exceptionally well.

CHAPTER FOUR PART II.

Asking any questions on his current whereabouts would make Grayson Moyer’s status apparent. Not to be mistaken for his social position or wealthy upbringing, but a far more humble situation:

He was lost inside the ship.

It’s the type of disorientation he’d not encountered before. Antares serves a humble environment where no matter what direction you walk, you will find a bar, a criminal, or a concoction of the two. Zenith streets where no matter what direction you walk, personnel are ready to bring aid in the form of a velvet lined carriage or weather deterring parasol.

Now in the labyrinths of the Leviathan from whence he’d collided for occupational relevance merely hours prior, the spiralling wood and levels of stairs have ensnared him with an impatient temperament. Every hallway splits like a grapevine to other hallways that look much like the other hallways and when faced with inconvenience, it's ingrained in his muscle memory to be a little bitch about it.

“I swear to fu–” that lamp looks like the other lamp. That door looks like the other door. He turns to go the way he came from, stops, turns again with diminishing notions of what to do. When a noble couple rounds the corner walking arm in arm, he goes still and gives them a respectful nod as if nothing is amiss.

He waits till they are safely ahead so his behavior would appear less weird before following them on frenetic steps.

Grayson is a man and therefore he does not ask for directions. He must be resourceful in his escape of the Leviathan’s intricacies to protect his honor. What a wise individual to follow people from afar and be freed from this perdition of wood through his quick thinking. What a—

A door shuts. The couple has entered their cabin room. Grayson almost crumples to the floor in emotional agony.

Overcast with this sour ire, he stands alone in the hallway barely tethered to his body as he reflects on his choices. Very little remembrance remains of how to navigate out of here, nor what direction he had come from. Dwindling on hope and resources in the quiet morning of the ship, he is wilting in the soul and ready to give up and sit on the floor when he notices… Them.

A luminescence to be found in the form of four paws and little ears. Its wispy form, isolated and without a nearby owner, has something fluttering in the cage of Grayson’s chest while the scowl dissolves from his stern features.

Ohoho. A celebrity has arrived.

A cat.

A lonely cat.

Perhaps being lost is not the worst thing that could happen. This new, ambiguous arrival calls into question whether his current complication is really that complicated. There’s plenty of impulse in his heels when he sees the animal, barely pacifying the want to leap across the hallway with outstretched hands and menacing spsps noises.

“Oh, hello there.” It’s a levelled, disinterested greeting to the white warrior. Never mind that every syllable of his voice is fighting to stop a high pitched squeal of oo fwuffy wuffykins. “I do not even care that you are here.” Acting mysterious. The cat acts like it does not fw his vibe but Grayson has long mastered the dgaf energy that entices felines.

The white cat is sitting in the middle of the hallway, its tail swishing lazily as it looks up at him with its wide, menacing eyes. Grayson does not move, caught in the mutual stare from which this odd friction has bloomed.

“I have things to do,” he tells the cat as if he would rather be doing anything else than stand in a hallway with them. He has long learned that excessive displays of “I love you” and “I want to squeeze you till you explode to death” are not always welcome. “Are you lost?” Are you homeless, is what he wants to ask. May I obtain you.

Slowly, the disinterested Grayson crouches and wiggles fingers near the floor. Not that he cares if the companion is interested or not. He is very normal about it.

“Hehee,” gravitas gone the second Grog stands and the tail flares to the ceiling like a plume of ivory feathers, they approach on those soft little toes and Grayson lets them nudge their compressed face against his fingers. “Oh you are– yes.” His voice is impossibly soft under the strain to remain calm. “You are simply divine. So precious, so wise, my little marshmallow.”

He leans his face down to boop his chin against Grog’s soft forehead who, indifferent as ever to this noble on the floor, yawns.

The cat marches its arrogant body past him to keep to its schedule, keeping to the sides of the hallway like a determined mote of lint. Grayson turns like the tide to the moon and endeavors to follow, for it is his DUTY to make sure this sad, hungry, lonely cat finds its way back to its awful, neglectful, evil, nasty, rude, mean, abusive, war criminal owner.

He is so preoccupied watching and following the pale feline, that he does not take the time to reconsider that following someone’s pet (the quality of its brushed coat indicates it must be owned— not that he was wondering this at great length) will very likely bring you to said owner.

The cat pauses a closed door and stops, stretches its body up with paws against the crevice in demand of entry. Who was Grayson if not in loyal servitude? Who was Grayson to deny this little sprinkle entry into a random room? Who was ANYBODY to deny Grog anything?

He opens it and the cat enters, Grayson follows. With no knocking and no announcement of entry, he cannot salvage the fact he has just forced his way into someone’s abode and is standing there, crouched creepily with his hands outstretched.

There is a man here.

Why is there a man here.

Go away.

Grayson takes an interval to register this is the medbay, and by the harrowing state of the thin man, thinks this must be a patient.

“Good morning.” He ought to be making a good impression on the ship, not entering places on a whim because a cat put its cute soft little pawsies on the doorsies and—

Focus.

Grayson clears his throat and stands straight, a noble tilt of his jaw to resume a countenance like any other aristocrat.

“My apologies for the intrusion,” he tells the man, “I was–” what was he doing, “following this feline.”

Unabashedly honest at even the most humbling of times, he skims over the stranger for a brief synopsis. Grayson is no doctor but he works with the dead, and the man’s current state almost looks ready to be measured for a coffin. He might look nice with cherry-wood.

“You do not look at all well,” concerned, he still thinks this pale sylph of a man must be sick and searching for medical care. “Shall I find the Doctor? I’m sure they could not have gone far. Given– given it’s a ship.” Yeah. Natural.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Physician.

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Ilya

Jovanović

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Unintentionally fucking creepy man

OUTFIT

Emo Medieval

LOCATION

Medbay Again

MENTIONS

Grayson

INTERACTS

Gao

Melancholia — St. Loreto

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Humanist's Folly.

Extend the self, till all that remains is scattered to the winds

Chapter Four.

Ilya had made it back to the boat with his new bff Arata and, working on autopilot, had gone back to the medbay where he promptly collapsed into one of the cots. He was doing.. Great.

Grog had decided that whatever the fuck was going on with his owner, that guy needed Help. So off the little cat trotted on an adventure to find… someone.

Big round eyes stared up at the strange man who was vibrating with some kind of intense hunger for… him?

He could use this. Yes, come along, human. Come help the poor creature that was his owner.

A couple paws at the door that he’d just come from, and Grog leapt onto where Ilya was sprawled out, staring at the ceiling in a muddled state of coming down from whatever warm embrace that the drugs and alcohol had put him into.

…

Lethean paradise was warm, the weight of mortality had left his shoulders and he could just exist in an empty vacuum, the borders heated by his own conscious. Mmmmm….. He barely registered that there was another person there, the pulls of reality stirring through his addled mind.

“Oh hello.” A super calm response for what was objectively a very strange experience. “Yes he is very followable. His name is Grog. He’s a rescue.”

… Ilya at least considered Grog a rescue. A rescue from Rat. From the painful ache of grieving mortality in a dead owner.

“Shall I find the Doctor?”

“Actually I am him.” A slow maniacal grin that spoke of madness and perhaps human experimentation spread across the usually pliant man’s face. Suddenly he was no longer sickly or sad and moreso disturbed. This, paired with a softer dulce tone said fucking creepy. “Are you injured? How can I help you.”

This man was not here to help, actually, but perhaps cause grievous bodily harm to the tune of medicine. Not that that was Ilya’s intention, but his expression was a little too joyous for the words are you injured to be anything but a threat.

“I’ve done many stitches recently. People get injured with an alarming frequency on this ship.”

The bedside manner was simply just nonexistent right now, lost to the scattered winds of that moment right before the hangover when one is still feeling the lapping recesses of drugs.

“Come, sit. I will put the kettle on.”

He rose from his cot and closed the door behind Grayson, gesturing to a cushioned seat for him to sit in an offhand manner, beginning the process of making tea for his new patient. The cat, Grog, sitting and staring at Grayson from the corner. He was now grooming himself, job well done luring in this victim like a siren to the sailor

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you on this ship before.” The calm almost monotone voice was continuing, the threat lingering in the air. “What’s your name, sir?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Aviator]

THE HORN.

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Macklin

Lowe

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Schmoozin'.

OUTFIT

Outfit.

LOCATION

The Leviathan; Violetta's room.

MENTIONS

Monte, Knox the half-wit quartermaster (indirectly)

INTERACTS

Violetta Daddy Dream

FACING MY DEMONS —
STITCHES.

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Désolé

Désolé contrebande
C'est une longue file d'attente
Tous mes fantômes sont bleus
I'm trying to hold onto you

CHAPTER FOUR.

Macklin awoke in a cold sweat. He was lying facedown in a too-soft bed that smelled like the color pink: fresh-cut roses and exotic sands and fruity cocktails. There was a gentle rocking beneath him that awoke memories of those early days in the King’s Navy, when his life had consisted of perpetual rope burns on his hands and the sun on his face and eating undercooked whitefish for dinner over a card game. Panic twisted his stomach in knots. Where was he? How much time had passed since the confrontation in the Antares alleyway? What had he missed? The flower— Where was the white widow dahlia, one of the essential ingredients for the Queen’s cure?

He pushed himself up in bed too fast, and such a twinge of pain shot through his back that his racing thoughts deadened. He collapsed back into the flowery-smelling pillow with a groan, his body a line of tension like a violin string. Blinking back tears, he slowly shifted over onto one hip so that he might survey his surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was his state of undress, which revealed that the wounds on his arm and leg had been sewn shut, and presumably the one on his back too. The second thing he noticed was that he was in a bedroom with dark polished wood and tapestries depicting scenes from the Stars’ scriptures on the walls. The bed he lay in was considerably plainer than the one that dominated the other side of the room, a four-poster with an elegant canopy and gauzy curtains the color of candlelight. Another thrill of fear cut into him when he glimpsed a rolling cobalt sea through a circular window, not a dot of land in sight. Where the hell—

The third thing he noticed was a woman sitting erect in an armchair with rose-printed cushions across the room from him, next to the door. It was the woman from the alleyway, with her moonlight-pale skin and anthracite hair. The Duchess Violetta Frankfort. She was regarding Macklin with a chilling non-expression. He wondered if she had been watching him sleep for some time or if his awakening had roused her and decided he did not want to know the answer. Her swordsman bodyguard was nowhere to be seen, but it was evident that he shared the room with her. Discomfort prickled through Macklin when he came to the conclusion that it must be his bed that he was currently lying naked in.

“Where am I?” His heart was still thundering, and he struggled for control of his voice, which was scratchy from disuse and dehydration. He coughed and cast about for a glass of water, one of which blessedly rested on the nightstand within arm’s reach.

Without so much as blinking, Violetta evenly replied that he was in her quarters.

“Yes, I can see that,” he drawled, annoyed by her lack of a helpful answer. “What ship are we on, and where is it headed to?” The moment seemed to stretch into eternity as he awaited her answer, and he caught his breath. PleasebetheLeviathan, pleasebetheLevia—

A jolt of relief that made his legs go rubbery like a near miss on the battlefied went through him when she confirmed, against all odds, that they were indeed on the Leviathan, en route to Sirocco. Macklin sagged back against the bed frame. He had never been so overjoyed to hear that he’d be returning to that sandy den of vices, a hellhole second only to Antares.

With this established, he considered his next order of business to be finding his coat, which fortunately was piled atop a chair. Not hanging off the back, because it was no longer in one piece. The tough leather had been sliced and diced as if someone had intended to make a jigsaw puzzle from it, with the arms separated from the body and a horizontal slash bisecting it in the middle of the torso. The horrible possibility that the white widow had been destroyed and he had exchanged one of his own fingers to a delusional witch for nothing made his heart crawl into his throat again. Failure was never an option, but it was far too early in the job to even contemplate it.

Deciding that he needed a steadying sip of water before he could work up the courage to check the status of his coat contents, he reached for the glass on the nightstand. He braced himself for the wave of pain that swept through his back, but he was not ready for that in his arm, where another gash snaked up his left bicep. Macklin bit his lip and resolved to be very right-handed for the day.

The clear liquid inside the cup was warm, which he could detect just from holding it, as if it had been sitting in the sun for several hours. He took a sip— and promptly spat it out over the bed and floor at the foul, stinging tang of alcohol that filled his mouth. “This is liquor,” he said accusatorily, his voice raspier than ever now, and immediately resented himself for stating the obvious. Macklin did not drink and couldn’t discern whether it was vodka or gin or rum in the cup, but all that mattered was that it was disgusting. He did not like being drunk. It made him feel slow and dumb and recklessly chatty. And for someone whose job necessitated an insane level of secrecy and constant readiness for a fight, that was a dangerous combination. “Is it too much to ask for some water?”

Apparently it was, because Violetta steepled her fingers primly and informed him that the Leviathan was currently undergoing a freshwater shortage.

“With Sirocco being at least a week off? That’s mildly concerning,” Macklin grumbled. “The ship was just at port. What half-wit quartermaster wouldn’t think to acquire some then?” In the navy that man would have gone to bed without supper for several nights following a swift demerit. He possibly would have been branded with a D for dunce in a very visible—or sensitive—location too.

It was a mystery as to whether Violetta agreed or disagreed with him, for she did not respond. Just kept watching him with that dark, soulless gaze. Macklin considered the outrageous possibility of spontaneously bursting into a suggestive, lewd dance just to see whether he could provoke some kind of external response from her. He was used to having some kind of effect on people—be it a good one or a bad one—and her utter nonchalance was almost insulting, as if she thought him boringly predictable.

The chair on which his coat rested was just out of arm’s reach, and he gingerly swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed. Despite his best attempts at caution, the fresh stitches on his calf chafed against the sheets, and he fought off a spasm. Dried blood encrusted the brown leather of his coat, making the four tatters of it brittle. A smell like metal and sweat and near-death experiences wafted up from it when he unfolded it. Holding the coat in such a way that Violetta could not see what was of such dire importance that he immediately reached for it, his fingers found the discreet slit in which he’d stashed the flower. Head-lightening relief bled through him to see that it was slightly crumpled but otherwise intact. As a bonus, the vials of octopus and platypus venom that he dipped his brass knuckles in had emerged unscathed, as did his pipe. The folded-up King’s letter that permitted him passage on the ship, however, had been ripped to shreds, the waxy seal of the Crown sliced up the middle. Whatever. A problem to be solved later, especially since Macklin was already on the Leviathan according to Violetta.

He withdrew what other users of the drug affectionately called a dream pipe from one of the untouched pockets of his coat, sprinkled a sugary-looking substance into the bowl, and lit up from a candle flickering on the nightstand. “Violetta,” he said on a puff of vaporous smoke. “Please forgive me for not thanking you earlier for stitching me up. Or having me stitched up, if it wasn’t you who did it. Having awoken in unfamiliar surroundings, gratitude wasn’t the first thing on my mind,” he admitted. Macklin paused to admire the handiwork of the sutures on his arm, which had been done more skillfully than he could have. He had learned rudimentary medical procedures on the fly in combat but was by no means an expert. “Moreover, thank you for getting me aboard the Leviathan. Believe it or not, this was the ship I’d intended to board before castoff.”

Macklin decided not to dwell on this topic, lest she ask him about his reasons for being on the ship. “Anyway, I have a proposition for you. My memory of the events before I passed out is a little hazy, but I believe you accused me of”—his eyes floated up to the ceiling as he summoned the words—“blackmailing you for my own gain.” Ah, yes. Those were the words. “But you misread my intentions. Rather than blackmail you, I propose we collaborate in the name of mutual interest.” He took another drag from his pipe, relishing the way that his battered body seemed to recede from reality. The pain was replaced with a wild fervor to plan, to anticipate, as if he was forming a battle strategy.

“I know where your mysterious… device has been hidden. I know that it has the power to either degenerate or invigorate soil, drastically affecting the lifespan of crops. And I am willing to help you recover it, because it’s a threat to all of civilized Solas in the hands of Antares thugs. However, I could easily take it for myself, too. The Crown would have myriad uses for such an invention. We could lay waste to all the cities that resist our authority until they bend the knee.” Macklin leaned back in the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. He was suddenly acutely aware of the warm, musty air that kissed his skin, the tickle of the dark lock of hair that brushed his forehead. He flicked it away. “If you would like your device returned to you, my services come at a price. And for you, that price takes the form of twenty-five percent of the lands that currently encompass your duchy.”

Finally, almost imperceptibly, one of Violetta’s eyes twitched. Macklin didn’t quite manage to keep the smile off his face; he felt strangely accomplished at having affected this ice sculpture of a woman, even if her reaction betrayed her incompatibility with his offer. “Consider wisely, duchess. What’s better: presiding over seventy-five percent of a flourishing duchy that can probably turn a better profit than the one you have now, or one-hundred percent of a frozen duchy? Will you just sit back and allow your subjects to die when I am giving you a viable alternative? The scholars of Empyra predict an especially brutal winter this year.”

Macklin’s mind raced at the possibilities of what he might do with that land. Perhaps he would build a casino and sit back as desperate souls pissed their money away into his pockets. Perhaps he would manufacture weapons to ward off threats to the empire, both foreign and domestic. Or perhaps he would cultivate and sell substances with a variety of medicinal and recreational effects. But he still had ample time to think on that. The important thing was the change in title and rank. Why be a knight when he could be a duke?

For the first time, Violetta’s gaze broke away from him and drifted to the floor. She seemed to be considering her words very carefully. Finally, when she looked back up, there were black flames of defiance in her eyes. She counter-offered with a piece of undeveloped land at a sliver of the acreage Macklin was seeking.

“No,” Macklin said immediately. “With undeveloped land, I would have to pay for deforestation, the construction of roads, building up from scratch, and any business I manage to create would still suffer just because the area is not trafficked. You need to recognize that, at this moment, you are negotiating from a position of weakness. I have the key to something you need, and you should consider yourself thankful that I’m not asking for—”

Violetta interrupted to point out that Macklin was not the only person in Solas who knew her device’s location and holder. That she could just as easily get that information from the Carmine Corsairs.

Macklin gave a mirthless laugh. “Yes, because that worked out so well for you last night!” he said incredulously. “If I weren’t there, do you honestly think your swordsman could have fended off all twelve of those assailants before he would have been overwhelmed? Violetta, the Corsairs mean to kidnap you because you are useful to them, and once you’ve shown them how to use your device, they will kill you. Plus you make the mistake of assuming any old grunt in their ranks you get your hands on has access to classified information. That’s not how intelligence networks work. It would take someone with a shitload of security clearance to know the details of a top-secret plan that Zenith absolutely cannot find out about for it to succeed.”

Feeling reinvigorated, Macklin took one last hit from his pipe and blew the smoke in a perfect O at Violetta’s infuriated face. Clearly she did not take well to Macklin telling her how the world worked, like a patient school teacher explaining to a wayward student why she could not just bash in a playground bully’s head with a rock. He set the pipe on the bed and stood, taking it easy to avoid reopening his stitches, but devoid of pain. In fact, he knew the idea unwise in his current state and implausible on a ship, but he felt ready to get in the ring with another experienced fighter. Oh, it was a good thing Violetta’s lackey wasn’t around for a rematch.

“Think on it. I don’t need an answer immediately.” Then, as if he owned the place, he sauntered up to the wardrobe on the male occupant’s half of the room, a pretty thing with a trellis of roses carved into it. The clothes he’d been wearing were unsalvageable, and all of the others he’d brought with him to Antares lay abandoned in the inn room he’d never returned to. Excluding swaggering above deck naked, that only left one option. Fortunately, Violetta’s guard dog appeared to be about the same size as him. Macklin threw open the armoire and grimaced at what he saw. It looked like a basket of Easter eggs had exploded on the inside of the closet; almost everything was pastel shades of robin’s-egg blue, raspberry, daffodil, and mint. Colors that would have flattered the swordsman with his alabaster complexion, but would have looked garish against Macklin’s considerably darker skin. “Good fuck, does he have anything in black?” he exclaimed in disbelief.

Feeling like his various reasonable requests were becoming increasingly unreasonable in this cursed room, Macklin sifted through the garments in hopes of turning up something that wouldn’t make him look like a massive flower plucked from a garden. Now the oversweet aroma of the pillow was making a lot of sense. Just when he’d resigned himself to looking ridiculous and undignified, he found something suitable hiding in a corner of the wardrobe, obscured by a big flamboyant coat the color of ballet slippers. The epaulets and flashy gold emblem on the chest made it a touch too princely for Macklin to wear of his own volition, but it combined an aristocratic and militant air. The coat was obsidian, with long tails that fell to the backs of the knees and two authoritative-looking columns of gold buttons. When buttoned closed, whatever hideous shirt he was wearing beneath would be inconsequential. It almost resembled the uniform he’d worn as a soldier in the King’s Navy, if only the black were dark blue and the coat eschewed the fancy designs. He paired it with the plainest pair of white pants he could find.

He unabashedly dressed in front of Violetta and, to her credit, she watched him dress with equal unabashedness, her eerie gaze scanning his tattooed, scarred musculature. “See anything you like?” he quipped with a scoundrel grin. Macklin had had to change clothes too many times in the field to do it shyly anymore, opium coursing through his system or not. The coat was a little snug in the chest and the pants were a little baggy especially toward the ankles, but it was doable. If the pants were a true fit on Violetta’s lackey, Macklin liked to think that the swordsman had gotten his massive calves holding en garde stances during his prissy fencing lessons at a prissy boarding school. Not from doing a real soldier’s work.

Grateful to slide into his own, familiar, knee-high black boots, he made quick work of transferring his belongings and weapons into his new coat. He turned to Violetta. “I’m going to get some breakfast. Care to join me?” He was fairly certain the answer—if she deigned to give him one—would be a resounding no. Having been unconscious since last night and on the move searching the Antares bazaar during the day, it had been almost a full day since he had last eaten. The cloud of painkillers cut the hunger, but Macklin’s body was a fine-tuned machine that shredded calories. It would not do him well to skip another meal.

Violetta’s chair was next to the door, and he had to pass her to exit. He paused and gave her a measured stare. On a whim, he held out his newly disfigured left hand to her, the ring finger a stump. “This is my latest in a long line of sacrifices to the Crown. To my duty to protect people dependent on me. What have you ever sacrificed for your duchy, Violetta? For your subjects? Because right now all I see is a prima donna pretending at being a leader, a girl too blinded by pride to act in others’ best interest.” Macklin held her gaze, gave a little scoff, and left Violetta to her strange brooding.

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[Daddy Dream]

THE DUCHESS

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공작부인

VIOLETTA

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

CALCULATING PATIENCE

LOCATION

ON THE LEVI

MENTIONS

Aviator

INTERACTS

N/A

The Skye Boat Song— MALINDA

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Be Yourself,

you don't make history by being liked.

CHAPTER 4 - UPON THE SHIP

She had awoken before the sun as per usual, bathed, dressed, and brushed her hair when before checking on the man in Monte's bed. Still fast asleep, unmoving from his belly, and if it wasn't for his shallow breathing she would have swore she killed him. Alas, she tracked her slender fingers over his stiches gently, inspecting her work and slightly tugging at them to check their tightness. The man still didn't move, to which she chalked up to his body slowly healing in a near comatose state. She gave another once over his body and inspected his other minor cuts and scrapes, taking he glass of alcohol from his bedside table and refreshing the bandages she had placed upon him. Once she was finished, She placed the cup back down and walked over to a chair at the door that Monte had previously been sitting at.

He had stayed up all night to watch over her and the man, only retiring when Violetta nearly beat him out the door. His stubbornness to protect her all the time suffocated her, and she needed some alone time. She ordered him to send a message via bird to her informants on land and explore more of the ship. She figured it would keep him busy, and she reassured that the injured one would not be of any concern to her safety. After he was gone, Violetta spent the next two hours watching over the man and listening to the waves outside in near darkness.

It gave her time to think about her next few moves. The man had stated he was an agent of the king, and judging by what she found on him while cutting off his clothes, he had to be of great importance. He knew of the device that she and the other province had been creating, but nothing else besides it purpose. Its ability to bring life and death upon the land was why it was named Phanes, the Orb of Life. She found the name cheesy, but as the main one funding the project, she allowed the researchers who gave their life to this creation the honor to name it. Glancing at the man again, she questioned what direction he would go with the secret he held onto. Most people wanted something out of her, either money or property, but failed to live long enough to enjoy any of it. She always made quick work of the people who blackmailed her, and this man would be no different. She would give him what he wanted and end him how she wanted afterward, it was not something he could escape since it was already buried deep in his skin.

She rubbed a locket between her fingers before slipping it into her pocket when she heard him stirring awake. He was quick to move when he awoke, which Violetta watched as it was greeted with pain from his backs injury. She watched him grab the glass on his bed, take a drink, and sputter it out as he discovered it was not water. She subtly rolled her eyes and informed him of the shortage. She watched him move a bit more before their conversation started once more. This time, as she expected, he was wanting something from her and it was a ridiculous something at that. 25% of her duchy? She narrowed her eyes a bit and avoided lunging at him with her knife. No, she had to play along, but not without a counter offer.

"I will offer you a plot of undeveloped land that is equal to 10% of my duchy. It is fertile, sought after by many, and --"

She didn't get to finish when Maclin topped her mid offer. He was not satisfied with the idea of developing a clean piece of untouched land to his liking. He didn't want to put in the work and win over the populace to bring in bigger profits for whatever he had planned. He wanted something easy, and easy wasn't something that was looked well upon in her duchy. As he continued to talk, she turned around and interrupted him back, like a petty little game.

"You are not the only one with the information. I can acquire it from the inner workings of the Corsairs through spies, the social circle of the Baron who wishes to take me as his, or I could just have the device destroyed which would also take out the Baron as well."

However, even after explaining all that, she was only listened to up to getting the information from the thugs from before. Macklin had a knack of irritating people, she could only summise, but she bit her tongue and leaned back in the chair as he seemed to come back to life after his smoke. Her eyes danced over his body as he walked over to Monte's closet, swinging open the doors and proudly flipping through his clothes. At his remark of black clothing, she raised a brow. Monte always carried a few near black outfits, or least ones that were dark in color and lot too flashy as a Royal Knight should have in her duchy. She didn't have a good sight of his wardrobe, but she made note to look at it when she could and find out if he had a change in clothing over the years.

"No, you offer nothing to my benefit when it comes to your body. I suggest working on that, it would be beneficial I assure."

He had finished dressing without much response to her comment and went to leave out the door before thrusting his disfigured hand in her face. She recoiled a bit at the rude gesture, glaring heavily up at him as he spoke about sacrifices and her being a prima donna. The guilt tripping gesture cause bile to rise in her throat and she swallowed hard to push it back. When he left, she took in a shaking breath and leaned forward, covering her face for a few moments before running her hands through her hair and leaning back. Where do these kind of mean spawn from? She groaned again and took a moment to just sit in the darkness of her room.

It took 30 minutes before she reappeared at the table Macklin was sitting at. Hair done up in a high pony, high waisted blood red leather pants covered her legs, a crisp ruffled white shirt tucked in a brown leather corset that accentuated her delicate waist and moderate breasts. Her shoes were mid shin, dark brown leather boots with a thick one inch heal and dull gold buckles. She wore no flashy jewels except for a dull bronze locket choker on her neck and a few small rings on her fingers. She took a seat across from him and crossed her legs, ordering a simple meal before looking at him.

"If you want to bring in profit in my duchy, you are going to have to work for it like everyone else. The undeveloped land is your best bet of not being ran out of the place with fire and pitchforks. You will not get anywhere if you are given a chunk of my property without proving yourself to the people who will line your pockets."

She once again tried her counter offer, attempting to stress that the people are the once he has to please the most. If he once again decided that it was not a good fit, then there was nothing she could do for a man who was about to waste his time on a piece of land that would be avoided like the plague. If he did take her offer, further details of the contract could be discussed, including who he could hire to assist him on maintaining the lands and some reliable sources to help clear it.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

ROSALINE TOUCHARD.

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ROSA

Enamored

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Kindness Is a Drug

OUTFIT

Noble Blue Rose

LOCATION

The Kiss | Dining Hall

MENTIONS

Dahlia | Ravinder

INTERACTS

Ravinder | Pending Cass & Yas

TAGS

jones573 picklemouse CrimsonInk

PUT YOUR RECORDS ON — RITT MOMNEY.

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THINKING OF YOU

keeps me awake. Dreaming of you keeps me asleep. Being with you keeps me alive.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Her mouth was very dry. Dehydration was not new to her, considering the state of the freshwater reserves on the Leviathan, but this was much different. It was the cold fear worming its way through her gut as her unblinking eyes tracked the shape of her tormenter. So no, she did not notice when the aimlessly lost man nearly toppled her. Perhaps she would have found it a blessing to fall onto the ground and feel again.

Suddenly, her view of the Kiss, of her childhood home and yet the site of her nightmares, was blocked, and she blinked. Slowly, Rosaline returned to herself, not Noelle, not the girl she used to be. No, she was the young adult woman who was sought after by noblemen, by kings. Her eyelashes fluttered as she lifted her gaze to the man before her and—oh, hello there, handsome gent.

On another day, she would have started with a line, any line, but her chest was still tight (not in a fun way), and for once, she was not in the mood for such tomfoolery. Not to mention, he was already stripping—though it was just his coat—and laying it down for her to sit. Such kindness was not usually offered to her, and she was touched by the gesture from a stranger. Was this the sort of thing that she’d heard happened in stories? Well, even if it wasn’t, this would surely stick out in her memory for years to come.

Taking the proffered hand, Rosaline lowered to the ground, atop his coat, taking in deep breaths. Eventually, the darkness seemed to dissipate, and she was once again on the streets of Antares, surrounded by brothels and fellow harlots. She was home. The man was still there, but the other man, the one she dreaded, was gone. Thank goodness. Rosaline was sorely tempted to check on the girl she’d seen, make sure that she was cared for, but Madame Yan might take umbrage with her interference, especially now that she was not employed by the Corsair’s Kiss any longer.

Absently, she’d begun fanning herself, and she snapped the fan shut—when had she taken it back from the stranger?—before moving to stand. She crouched and gathered the coat in her arms, folding it over her forearm and dusting it as much as she could as she stood fully facing him. “Thank you for your assistance,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes demurely downcast. Not an act this time. For the second time in as many months, she was quite embarrassed by her behavior. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

She frowned as she realized some of the smudges of dirt would not be easily removed from his coat. “I’m sorry about your coat. I did not mean to ruin it.” Holding it out to him, she lifted her eyes with a tight smile. “Perhaps I can pay for any damages caused?”

And no, she did not mean with her body this time. Character development.

- - -​

Morning on the Leviathan seemed less dreary than it had been the past month. Rosaline stretched her arms above her head and felt a strange lightness in her chest, the antithesis to her panic the night before. Was this what kindness did to a person? Perhaps she would have to practice it more often. Although she’d often denied such accusations, it was tiring pretending she did not care about others, particularly women younger than herself.

A strange elation filled her chest as she dressed in a dress much darker than the one she’d donned the previous night. Perhaps she should have worn this color out on the streets of Antares, but then she would have looked too much like a noblewoman and been a target of pickpocketing. Not that such a thing could happen to her after her years of pocketing extra change.

Nevertheless, Rosaline persisted, filled with a renewed confidence and vigor as she made her way to the dining hall. Breakfast would hopefully be a relatively quiet affair this morning, now that they (hopefully) had water again. She was parched. Allowing herself a larger breakfast to spoil herself and make up for a less-than-stellar return to her former home, she sat down by herself and began to eat. Her eyes stayed fixed to her plates, not straying as they usually would to find a target of seduction.

She wondered if she would ever see the kind man again, after helping him out of the brothel district and finally making her way back to the Leviathan. Had he boarded the ship? Surely she’d be able to thank him one day.

Hm. Thank him. What a strange feeling it was to want to thank a man for something, rather than the other way around.

It was weird.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

ARATA FUKUDA.

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Arata

Cupid

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

NEW BFF

OUTFIT

Drunkie (+ Red Sash)

LOCATION

Tavern > Leviathan

MENTIONS

N/A

INTERACTS

Ilya

TAGS

qunqun

STILL REMEMBERING — AS IT IS.

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MAN

being reasonable, must get drunk. The best of life is but intoxication.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Now, the thing about Arata Fukuda was that, unlike most people, he was not deterred by a stranger grabbing his face. Rather, he feared it was another in a long list of interactions that ended in probably-sex and his definite-embarrassment at not remembering the act. Consent was quite sketchy to remember when entire nights were lost to the rum. That was probably something Arata would have to revisit later. When he was sober. Which was never. So. Yeah.

What was going on, again?

Arata’s eyes lazily sought the owner of the cool, nicotine-scented fingers currently—oh. Oh, they were massaging his face. Why did this. Feel so nice. Ooooooouuuuughhhhh. His eyes hooded as he took in the face of this person who was definitely going to be his new best friend. (That was. Probably not the rum talking? Who could know anymore.) Of all the normal things to say, Arata chose: “I’m glad my skin is flesh textured. I’ve always wondered if it’s more liquid now.”

Two drunks drink drinks at a bar for drinking.

Ah, the man was a doctor. Yes, that meant he could be trusted probably. Most likely not a crooked doctor who would accept money to harvest his organs or some nonsense. Not that Arata had ever received any indication that that was ever true. “Ha, a rock. Excellent.” Yes, because that was the most important thing his companion had said to him in that breath. Not the part about living.

Oh, now their foreheads were touching. Arata saw into the stranger’s very soul through his eyeballs. What an interesting color. He could not describe it, being too drunk to remember what colors were called. But it sure was something!!! Clown to clown communication.

Follicle vomit. What was that about? “Nice.” What else was there to say? Oh, maybe: “Thank you. I like it soft.” Perhaps a gesture of affection, Arata reached up and patted his companion’s hair. “Your follicle vomit is also very nice.”

It was anyone’s guess how this made them best friends now.

- - -​

Somehow, despite face and scalp massages and discussions of hair being follicle vomit, Arata made it onto the Leviathan in one piece alongside his new best friend Ilya, the doctor. Yes. Two very not-sober people managed to not get kidnapped.

Good job, boys!

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

MADELINA VOLKOVA.

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Maddie

Decoy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Warm

OUTFIT

Put Together

LOCATION

The Deck | Dining Hall

MENTIONS

Genevieve

INTERACTS

Dolores | Pending Rayna

TAGS

@Nifty lyn.

WOLF — FIRST AID KIT.

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A PRINCESS

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

CHAPTER FOUR.

Madelina did not feel deserving of kindness, or sympathy, and so when she was faced with the name of the woman whose life she had taken, her breath caught. Genevieve. A name of similar softness to her own, but with as much beauty as she was sure the woman possessed before—she shut her eyes. She was glad someone remembered the name, and that she knew it now, too. Deep down, Madelina knew she would carry the name with her, caged within her heart, for however long she drew breath. Was that what killing someone did, or was it only she that would carry the burden like a rock in her stomach?

Friend. She whispered the word in an echo of the boatswain’s voice, her eyes watering at the admission. Of course. She had taken not only Genevieve’s life, but she had taken someone’s friend, someone’s lover, perhaps, an entire future. A fact that she had acknowledged at least once but had been unwilling to touch so long as the blood seemed unwashed from her hands. No matter how hard she scrubbed, they were always covered in the blood, the grime, the sand.

Did she feel compassion? Madelina thought perhaps Dolores was giving her too much credit. After all, wasn’t it a form of selfishness to not face the ridicule and punishment owed to her? To shut herself away and not face the world at all? This felt an awful lot like a test. Perhaps the princess had indeed found out about what happened, was about to rip her heart out through this woman—

No. It was pure kindness. Madelina turned her face fully toward Dolores, her eyes wide and watery with the surprise lodged deep in her heart. Not… a monster? Could it be possible? Surely she did not deserve such words. Surely this was a precursor to some other scheme.

It wasn’t.

Her chapped lips parted, but they struggled to even say the words. Do not say this of me. It’s not true. I’m not nearly as good as you want to believe I am. In fact, I’m not who I say I am at all. But what had she ever said she was, besides a murderer? And so instead, the words she found herself murmuring were as simple as she was. “Thank you.”

For the first time, she would sleep soundly at night, a warmth filling her chest that had not been there in weeks.

- - -​

It could have been said that the return of water to the ship accounted for the improvement in Madelina’s countenance, but in truth, the conversation with Dolores had much changed her. Well, not entirely. She would forever feel guilty for the murder, and she knew appearing too relieved about a smidgen of forgiveness would send the wrong message, but her head was not bowed, her neck aching from keeping it craned and lowered. Her posture, of course, was still rather atrocious after so long spent cowering away from anyone she might hurt, but she at least dared to venture outside of her room. She was hungry, and she would not inconvenience anyone else to bring her food.

Making her way to the dining hall, she kept to the edges of the hallway, trying not to intrude on anyone else’s space. Baby steps. She would not grow wings in a single day, much less an entire personality. Yet she knew that today was most likely the day she would finally send a report to the princess, detailing what had happened. Perhaps the lack of water and the subsequent near-dehydration would make for a good excuse for the delay. Yes. No need to mention murder just yet. Right?

Standing idly in the doorway to the dining hall, Madelina grimaced. Dread had returned, but it had nothing to do with the atmosphere on this ship and everything to do with the woman waiting back in Zenith for her letter. Oh, why couldn’t she just throw herself off the ship right now?

(Points for character development, negative points for not being willing to write a letter.)

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

???

OUTFIT

ANTARES SLUZZA

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN'S DECK

MENTIONS

TALLULAH, GRAHAM, MILO.

INTERACTS

AnimeGenork

CRY — CIGARETTES AFTER SEX.

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THE RED SEA IS

named for the dead algae within it
maybe I too am red for all the
slaughter carried within me

CHAPTER FOUR.

No matter the protesting and flavorful cussing to deter the curly schemers, it’s the type of cruelty for inevitable things.

A motion his body had identified before he’d even woken up. Not something that can be easily mistaken for hangover sickness when he’d grown so intimate with the roil of the ocean. He is back on the Leviathan, he’d claim kidnapped if he were inclined to the dramatics (he will proceed to blame Tallulah and Graham for their grievous misdeed forever).

Perhaps there can be financial compensation for the emotional expense of making him a hostage on this ship.

At least the hangover is a small antidote to that interval of chaos, anchoring him back to the lifeline that he has to keep himself sensible if he wants to achieve anything. Ren doesn’t think himself so easily drawn to sadness, nor does he think himself easily succumbing to nausea: but it has already been established Ren does not think at all.

Stepping out from below deck as if he’d emerged into purgatory, hands are raised to shield from the sun that gleams off the wood like speckled sand. When bathed in this stinging glow, Ren momentarily thinks he has actually died.

An unhindered breeze signals the deck is nearly empty, a barren plane save for the occasional spottings of guests. It’s convenient when shuffling along, skulking and haunted and still cowing from the sunlight as he moves towards the prow of the ship. His body careens as he finds and grips the railing, grimacing to the disagreeable turmoil of his body and tendering mallets in his skull.

It’s unsettling, the odium he now feels from the movement of water. The rolling motions and turn of the wind does odd things to the climate of his skin, but the residual alcohol does not help. He’d had an awful time of it, the night in Antares and the stress of everything crumbling at its foundations, but when short on sleep and anything that didn’t pour from a tavern, one cannot expect Ren to have energy for much else.

There was sound beside him, and he turned his head to see the blonde man from the storm. The sweetheart with little to nothing behind the eyes. Ren tried to muster the energy to greet the man and maybe Lean and ask if they were single, but managed only a ”hi blondie” from his disheveled state.

There is movement, and Ren is taking a handful of something from his pocket and forcing it into Milo’s palm.

“Eat these,” he orders as he closes the man’s fingers around the handful of peanuts. A gift. The life of a single mother returns.

There is silence and he thinks he should try to make conversation to fill the gaps, but simple things have been feeling particularly hard as of late. He folds his arms on the railing and watches the churning foam below as the ship cuts through the water.

It’s an awkward question, the hesitance for it is easily recognisable in Ren’s voice.

“How are you?”

Everyone on this ship has gone through something, and he’s not sure if anyone has checked on the blonde. Certainly, Ren thinks, those who were at Algol must be bound like a chain to something more burdensome than the smiles this man can afford.

“You always look happy.” He’s not going to call the farmboy a fake, but he lets that comment curdle like milk.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

MILO STAFFORD.

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Milo

Farmboy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Confused

OUTFIT

Just a Guy

LOCATION

Leviathan's Deck

MENTIONS

Knox

INTERACTS

Ren

TAGS

picklemouse Gao

GOOD THINGS — DAN + SHAY.

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IT IS ONLY

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

CHAPTER FOUR.

Milo felt rejuvenated. Although he’d made a fool of himself, at least a little bit, thanks to leaving his money on the ship, he’d still managed to explore most of what Antares had to offer. He was definitely going to return someday as a full-fledged pirate, once the family farm was saved, of course. (There were priorities.) It was great living the dream, or at least one-fifth of it, while he had the chance.

But like all dreams, it had to come to an end someday. And more than anything, Milo was thirsty. He’d needed water stat, so he’d made it back to the Leviathan with time to spare in hopes that the ship had been restocked with freshwater. Thankfully, the supply had arrived after he’d returned to the ship. For some reason, the nice men delivering the water seemed to think he was in charge and took his presence to be a signal that the order had been received. Which was weird by itself, but where was the quartermaster?

Theoretically, Milo, being who he was, would have been more concerned with Mr. Knox’s lateness, but he was immediately distracted by the movements of the crew to prepare the ship for departure. Even though he was technically a guest on the ship and not a part of the crew, he couldn’t sit back and watch when he could be helpful. That was the way it was on the farm: if your hands weren’t working, you weren’t contributing, and that could be a huge detriment to everything. By the time the Leviathan had left the port, Milo had just assumed Knox had returned.

Although he still hadn’t seen the man. Huh.

Perhaps in a bid to look for the quartermaster, or perhaps just to occupy his rather empty mind, Milo made his way to the deck, excited to breathe in fresh air that had no tang of blood or ammonia. Antares was great! Its smell? Not so much.

Instead, Milo was greeted by the sight of a very sickly looking man. It has been previously established that Milo can’t help but be helpful, and so he made his way over to the man, realizing that it was the same one who’d grabbed him during the storm and made him part of the strange huddle. Ren. Yeah! That was it! He wasn’t looking quite so heroic now. What had happened to him?

Ren spoke first, and then proceeded to shove peanuts into Milo’s palm. The farmboy blinked down at the palmful of peanuts, almost wincing as one fell out of his hand and onto the deck. Where had these come from? Were they even safe to eat? Milo wasn’t normally a germaphobe (his best friends were cows, for crying out loud), but something in him was warning him not to just go around shoving peanuts from another man’s pocket into his mouth. At the same time, he didn’t want to appear rude, and so he took one in his other hand and crushed it, popping the nut part in his mouth. Not bad.

He put so much focus on chewing that he hadn’t realized there was silence between him and Ren until another question was lobbied at him. How are you?

Well, that was loaded. Milo wasn’t sure himself how he was. He’d been stabbed by someone, but it didn’t hurt anymore, just left a scar, and new friend was gone, but not dead, probably, but it still hurt a lot, and he was lonely and sad and afraid to make many more new friends in case they, too, left him, and—

There was no good way to answer this.

Why was Ren asking, anyway? Milo should’ve been the one to direct that question to him, considering he was literally draped over the railing as if he was going to throw up. Unless he’d done so already and he’d missed it. He should probably go get Dr. Ilya, although even the good doctor hadn’t seemed to be doing very well lately. Oh dear. What was a simple farmboy to do?

“You always look happy.”

Milo had been thinking too long, which was probably why he tried not to strain himself in such a way. Now Ren had said something that sent his mind into a frenzy, a panic of sorts. Because here was something Milo rarely admitted to himself: he didn’t know what happy was. Not a necessarily dark secret, but a secret all the same. But the way Ren said it, “happy” as in “not actually happy but passably so,” made his stomach twist. Someone had noticed. How long was it before everyone on the ship knew of the tragedy that had befallen him twenty years ago?

The youngest Stafford son had never been a great strategist, his mind more preoccupied with matters of agriculture and ranching. So his only response was this: “Do I? Well, frowns use up more muscles than smiles, so it’s not that hard, I reckon.” He does not want to argue with Ren, tell him that he’s not a fake by any means, because it would sound like a lie, even if it wasn’t. No matter how genuine Milo is, there will probably always be someone bothered by his personality, most of all himself. Happiness has always been secondary. It always will be.

“Besides, you don’t look so good. Can I getcha anything? Water? A bucket? You don’t look so happy yourself. Or at least, you’re not leaning in that way you have.” Yes, even Milo was familiar with the Renjamin Lean. He’d wanted to try it out for himself, but he’d feared falling on his face. How did this guy do it?

Tilting his head in concern, Milo added dumbly, “Will it help if I say I’m not happy now, seeing you look so miserable?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

LANDON ALSTRÖM

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

WHAT IS GOING ON.

OUTFIT

THE OL’ RELIABLE

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN'S DECK

MENTIONS

CAL, LIZBETH, KADER

INTERACTS

floralmoon

HUMAN FOR A MINUTE — SHAME

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YOUR JOURNEY IS

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

CHAPTER FOUR PART II.

Day had returned to baptise Antares into an ashy blemish in the shrinking distance, while a hangover had entombed itself into the sediment of Landon’s blood.

A strange night by the standards of a strange man; the accented woman with nice earrings was impassioned with the need to flee after what Rat would consider an atrocious lie. He’d lost the whereabouts of his blonde sister and thought no more of her (assumed she’d frolicked off to throw exceeding amounts of Solari at other strangers), and he’d decided it is not his responsibility to corral the herd of peculiar women around like a distressed shepherd.

He’d spent enough time veering avoidantly around Rosaline on the ship, the Algol woman with a penchant for undressing— adding to these numbers is not of Rat’s interest.

The return to the Leviathan was without a stray bullet or crescent of knuckles, and it is in the menial hours when a knock sounds throughout the cabin. The soft noise rasping against wood is enough to rouse him from the lazy nap he’d taken on top of his bed and squint towards the door.

It makes him somewhat grateful, being stirred from sleep so that he may spend these early hours partaking in something more productive than slumber. There is a dull ache in his head and his mouth feels like a dry famine, but some are moved by ambition to do greater things than a well-needed rest.

He hauls himself upright and kneads his eyes with the palms of his hands till he has forsaken the lethargy, then shuffles to the door to confront the rowdy nuisance.

"Oh.” They exclaim, a familiar individual who is pale eyed and short with their head bundled in a clay red fabric. “You are dying."

Shaped more like a surprise than a direct insult, if Rat were not already gaunt and pale, perhaps he’d have bled into a translucent spectre before the arrival.

What happened to good morning and how are you.

It is only the soothing tone of their voice that stays him from slamming the door shut. Quavers what iron-wrought indifference he thinks he possesses towards everything, and stops him from daring to lash out with something rude.

They could mean he looks badly hungover, they could mean something else entirely, and it should be terrifying in the way something about them does not feel entirely regular. It is, in the very least, off-putting, and the only response Rat gives to that intuition is a thin-lipped stare. Neither denial nor confirmation, he is too tired to do anything human like make a fuss.

The loom of his thoughts had been severed, and it takes him several moments to regather the frayed edges and piece together a response.

“Yoga.” He echoed flatly and in his disorientation, forgets to make use of his nasally characterization. “You want me to do yoga.” The botanist is not sure if he should explain why that is not only weird to ask, but highly unlikely.

When he recalls this height-challenged orb has well-meaning behind the oddity, he reins the attitude back into a settled simmer.

“Knocksies on the wrong door, we bethinks. Ratsie busy, yes he do be.”

He goes to shut them out but stops when his gaze drops to the cup in their hand.

Ooo.

Ooo hey…

“But, Ratty-kins can makes time for Peanut, ya, ya.” Spindly fingers talon themselves over the top of the cup, taking the tea from Kader into his own cupped hands. He can feel the heat and smell the assortment of piquant additives, and it appears the hot drink has successfully lured the man from his cabin to follow Kader like a mouse seeking treats.

The deck is emptier than anticipated, but the sun is a welcome guest. He sips away at the tea and thinks it would be worthy of several sugar cubes, then realizes he does not know a lot about this surprisingly weird and highly intrusive individual.

"Does Peanut often do," he waves a hand in a lazy circle to the expanse of wood around them, "morning yoga?"

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[lyn.]

THE AMENDED.

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RAYNA

MALLOR

MOOD

?

OUTFIT

mighty fine

LOCATION

DINING HALL

MENTIONS

LEXIS, KNOX, MADELINA

INTERACTS

AnimeGenork

KING AND LIONHEART — OMAM

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PAST THE WANDERING EYES

of the ones that were left behind.
though far away, we're still the same,
we're still the same, we're still the same.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Rayna returned to the ship in a relatively good mood.

She had gotten into a bar fight, stolen a bunch of money, and now knew for sure that Lexis didn’t want to throw her overboard. Overall, it was a good trip, topped off by the fact that they were finally leaving Antares.

Watching the docks slowly fade away into the water released a weight off her shoulders Rayna didn’t realize she had. Everything about that place, the sounds, the smells, the clothes. Even the way people spoke weighed down on her mind. Now with nothing but the scent of saltwater, Rayna was filled with newfound energy.

Call it relief or excitement, she had energy to waste but no way to expel it. It seemed everyone was tuckered out from their own trips to Hell. She couldn’t even find a person to spar with. And when she couldn’t find Knox above deck, she gave up. Maybe a good sleep would wipe this bruise off.

The result was a restless one. Paranoia plagued her thoughts. A rough wave of what-ifs, maybes, and worries that haunted her every night. She shouldn’t have gone out into Antares.

She left that morning feeling worse for wear. Tired, emotional, and hungry. Only one of those had an easy solution, so she decided to kill two birds with one stone. Find some food, and most importantly, find a distraction.

Approaching the dining hall, Rayna’s eyes locked on the first familiar thing she saw, Madelina.

Familiar was a stretch, Rayna knew her as a guest, or in this ship's case, a criminal?

The title was conflicting. In the chaos that was Algol, a death or two was expected. Rayna was surprised it wasn’t her. Attacking hallucinations was more her speed, after all. Madelina was the product of a stroke of bad luck- everyone on the ship was, really.

Still, Rayna’s voice could only influence so much. She never saw it herself, but it was the mental image of Madelina cowering away in the brig that made Rayna’s actions move with pity. Who was she to judge, after all? She’s killed more than she would ever confess to.

She planted her hands on Madelina’s shoulders and lightly pushed her into the dining hall.

“Food is not offered to you at the door, you know!” Her eyes scanned the room for any familiar faces- still no Knox, before they landed on Madelina, one hand still resting on her shoulder.

“Glad to see you out of that hole, hon. I think some good food and fresh water are what everyone needs right now, especially you! Oh, and maybe some sun, you’re looking a bit pale.” Oooh, reign it in, Rayna.

“Never mind all of that. How’re you doing? Anything you need in your cabin? I know things have been a mess lately, I can probably sneak you anything you’re missing ‘long as you don’t snitch on the Captain, of course.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[escapist]

THE OLD-TIMER

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Maltke

Cycek

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

exhausted, hangover, oddly happy, then annoyed, hostile and disturbed

OUTFIT

His usual dirty coat of course

LOCATION

The Levi's deck, a more secluded part

MENTIONS

Knox, Lexis, Magnus

INTERACTS

Magnus, @Pepsionne

No - No

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Walk of...wait, who's that?!

Chapter Four, Part i

The morning was one of those terribly sunny beginnings of a beautiful day after all that trouble the old man had survived. The Leviathan had already left Antares and was now peacefully swaying on the sea, the last, stubborn seagull had stopped following them from the land, when Maltke started his walk of shame. Heavy, unsure footsteps thudded on the deck as he was looking for Knox.

Because...the ship's quartermaster should have been on the ship, right? Last night had been a way too chaotic for the old man to remember anything significant. The remaining memories of flashing lights, loud laughter and the rum's disgustingly friendly taste were swirling in his mind like torn rags of sail in the storm. The more he tried to think back the more his head hurt, throbbing with a dull pain. And yet, even if his body was sensitive and slightly swollen at parts where he had taken the beating, the sceptic thought of "I'm too old for this" evaded him on this beautiful morning.

He took a deep breath to inhale the refreshing air, to taste salty freedom and to get rid of the morning nausea. The warm sun looked down at him with mocking rays as Maltke Cycek bent his head upwards, his lone eye squinting against the piercing, clean light. He rised his arms up in a relaxed, spreading T-pose, his body was boiling with the bitter liquid that replaced motivation and naïve joy in old-timers. The gentle, salty breeze made his black coat to wave slightly around him, revealing his thorn, dirty shirt. An onlooker might have thought the old pirate ascended to a higher level of existence, reaching an otherwise elusive inner piece. In reality, Maltke was ventilating his unwashed body and clothes.

"Right, Knoxy boy!" The stinky pirate opened his eye again, focusing on the most important task on the horizon of this morning instead of following the routine. "Where are ye~" He hummed on a raspy voice as he turned away from the panorama of the endless blue that always washed his heart with the loving illusion of an ever-changing order. Another set of dull thuds sounded as the old man kept walking, looking for Knox Hood but finding someone entirely else behind the next corner.

"Hope I didn't lost ye somewhere ehehhee-"

Fuck! The pathetic laughter was cut short by the sight of a rather unpleasant someone.

Throughout the years Maltke had had a few unfortunate encounters, so he had learnt to recognize one. Maybe he had failed to notice an omen of this meeting yesterday or maybe he had forgotten what that shady fortune teller murmured to him after he had been begging for a little hint too loudly and too persistently. Either way, he instinctively straightened his back, his steps slowed down and his body tensed slightly as if a reaction to the tense of danger.

It was non other than Magnus. The bounty hunter who Maltke stigmatized as one of the most dangerous people on the ship to him. Besides Captain Hawkeye of course. "Fuck-fuck...what is this gaolbird doing here?" The old man was about to turn around quickly but cold, ghoulish eyes connected with his. One of the few advantages of having only one eye instead of two was that eye contact had less power on him. In theory, which now seemed to turn out to be fail and Maltke shivered. It was too late to turn back now. "Just act naturally!" He ordered himself unnaturally and kept walking.

Three another steps.

Now the men were definitely close to each other. Maltke lowered his gaze, focusing on the tip of his boots which despite how dirty they were from meeting with many different body parts, today looked much more friendly and interesting. Magnus was smoking appearantly but it wasn't the smoke what was curling in the air, disturbing the old pirate. The hunter's controlled, analytic bloodlust was easily detectable for a experienced sailor like Maltke. And Magnus was reeking.

The distance between them was only two steps.

"Stop lookin' at me, would ye? This creepy motherfucker can't seem to keep to himself, huh? I ain't stare at ye like a hungry frog-man of the Canals...'kay, let's just..."

With all the politeness of the of a grizzled old-timer with hangover, Maltke rised his head, looking at Magnus again and nodded with an equally discreet. A simple nod that could stand for "Good morning!", "What a beatiful morning, right?", maybe "I would like to talk but I have duties". The pirate hoped the husk had the intelligence to confuse his forced politeness with real awkwardness, so both could move on.

Two last steps.

Then the husk spoke up...

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[celestialbody]

THE MERCANTRESS.

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Sonya

NIMBARA

MOOD

Seething

OUTFIT

This with a plain black cloak on top

LOCATION

Brig

MENTIONS

Knox

INTERACTS

picklemouse

Son of Nyx - Hozier

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Oh, yes, I'm the great pretender

Adrift in a world of my own
I play the game but to my real shame
You've left me to dream all alone

CHAPTER FOUR

She hated it here.

Hated Antares.

It was everything she had expected and somehow less than she could stomach. The port city was a hive of chaos, its disorganized streets constantly shifting like the ebb and flow of an unforgiving tide. The air itself buzzed with an energy she could feel deep in her bones, but it wasn’t the kind of excitement she longed for. No, it was raw, dirty disorder. The streets were packed with drunken bodies, stumbling and bumping into one another without a care. The acrid stench of sweat, alcohol, and unwashed bodies filled the air, making Sonya’s stomach churn in disgust. She couldn’t understand how anyone could live here, let alone enjoy it.

She moved as swiftly through the crowd as she could, her cloak tightly wrapped around her, the swarming figures brushing against her as they moved in every direction but the one she was attempting to move in. Every bump, every jostle, made her tense. Her cloak, plain and simple as a means to disguise her wealth, didn’t protect her from the wayward movements of the drunken throngs around her. She felt the urge to clutch her coin purse as a particularly large man jostled her from behind, his body weaving through the crowd like a bull on a rampage. Her fingers hovered over it, ready to spring into action, but she resisted the urge. There was no need to draw attention to the hidden compartment and let anyone know she had something worth taking. The bag was tucked safely under her cloak, hidden further beneath the folds of her dress—but there was always the risk that one of these thieves...or pirates...or thieving pirates would catch wind of it.

She kept her hood up, her head low, trying to minimize her presence as much as possible. She didn't want anyone to notice the fine clothes and accessories she had on hidden under the drab fabric of her cloak after all. Despite knowing of the chaos here in Antares, Sonya still couldn’t quite help herself but dress up. She was used to luxury, used to the finer things in life, and it wasn’t easy to ignore the impulse to adorn herself with at least a few pieces of jewelry. Even amidst the disarray of the port, she had to maintain a semblance of dignity. She could never bring herself to willingly look drab, no matter the circumstances. But now, amid this infested place, she cursed her vanity. What was the point of wearing anything that marked her as a target in a place like this?

Gritting her teeth, she quickened her pace. There was no use fretting about things she couldn’t change. The small inventory she had brought to Antares was already safely on board The Leviathan, and she’d only left the ships safety to tend to a business meeting with a merchant here at the bazaar to secure a few rare antiques to add to her inventory—trinkets and treasures that would fetch a handsome price across waters. Now, with the transaction done, she was eager to board the ship and leave this wretched place behind. The sooner she was away from this festering pit of pirates and degenerates, the better.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t linger, that she wouldn’t allow herself to be tempted by the goods on display. Some of the items here were undeniably beautiful, and if she wasn’t careful, she could easily spend a small fortune. But even with the allure of the wares around her, she wasn’t foolish enough to stay. Not with pirates lurking in the shadows, waiting for someone who looked like they had something worth taking.

As she turned a corner, a sinking feeling gnawed at her gut, as the heavy sound of quickening footsteps closed in behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She tried to ignore it—was she just being paranoid? But no, her instincts told her otherwise. This wasn’t paranoia. She needed to move, and fast.

Before she had a chance to react to her instincts though, a large, meaty hand seized the fabric of her cloak, yanking her off balance and pulling her into a dark alleyway. Her breath caught in her throat as she was dragged further into the shadows. A rough blade pressed against her back, the sharp edge pressing into her causing her to tense up as she tried keeping still.

"Quiet," the voice growled, low and guttural. "Move."

Sonya’s pulse raced, but she forced herself to remain calm, to suppress the panic that threatened to overtake her. The criminals here were known for their cruelty, and for the way they treated their captives. Sonya’s mind raced, searching for a way out of the situation. But there was no escape—no clever tricks, no quick maneuvers. She was at their mercy.

Fuck.

———

Sonya stood against the cold, damp wall of the brig where they’d thrown her, her leg bouncing nervously as her mind scrambled for a way out of this miserable situation. She glanced around, taking in her new surroundings with a careful eye. They had dragged her aboard their ship and tossed her into a dark, musty cell, where the scent of mildew and sweat hung thick in the air. There were other prisoners scattered around the cell, ranging from those who seemed as well off as herself to others who looked as though they had been pulled out of the gutter. They sat off in their corners, huddled against the cold stone walls, their expressions resigned, weary, exhausted, or, like her own, pissed off.

Sonya clenched her jaw, her stomach turning in fury. Her coin purse, her daggers, all her valuables—gone. The treasures she had painstakingly collected, were lost to thieves, worse pirates, who would no doubt sell them for a pittance. Anger was an emotion she knew well, but even that didn’t mask the gnawing, hollow feeling of vulnerability that she couldn’t shake. She hated it. She hated the feeling of being trapped, of being at the mercy of the same sort of people who...

Her heart raced in her chest, and her anger quickly flared back up overtaking any fear. She was furious, her pulse pounding in her ears, and her forehead throbbing with a dull, persistent ache from the tension building in her head. She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing.

Pacing back and forth in the small cell, her heels clicked sharply against the cold wooden floor with each step as she searched frantically with her eyes for a way out. But the more she paced, the more she realized that frantic action would do her no good. She needed to think. She needed a plan.

Sonya took a deep, quiet breath and paused in the middle of the cell. She couldn’t let herself spiral into a panic; that would get her nowhere. They needed to act. They needed to come together and form a plan.

Her eyes scanned the others again, settling on one man who had been tossed into the corner of the cell. He was unconscious, battered, and bruised, his right eye swelling and his clothes ripped and stained with what could only be a mix of blood and...alcohol? Great. Of course, they threw her in here with a drunkard.

Sonya’s lips curled into a thin, tight line as she stared down at him. How could he sleep through this? They were quite literally being kidnapped and shipped off to places unknown with plans in motion that they weren't privy to. Sure, he looked like he had been through hell, but now wasn’t the time to sleep off whatever hangover he had. It was time to do something. Her first instinct was to dismiss the disheveled looking man but the bruised and bloodied state of his own fists made her think that perhaps he ended up giving as good as he got? At the very least the man could be a useful meat shield if push came to shove.

She stalked over to him, her body tense, hands clenched tightly at her sides. Standing over him, she looked down with narrowed eyes, her voice sharp as a whip.

"Wake up!" she snapped, her tone completely devoid of any of the soothing silkiness she usually tried to maintain, now it was just hard and commanding. "Now’s not the time to be getting your beauty rest. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on waiting around to find out what they’re going to do with us."

Without waiting for any protest, Sonya raised her leg and kicked him sharply on his bottom—hard enough to jolt him awake, but not enough to cause real damage.

She bent down so her eyes were level with his own and reached out a hand, slapping his cheek a few times in quick succession as an added measure in case the kick wasn't enough. "Get up. Get up now."

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE CAPTAIN.

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LEXIS

THE CAPTAIN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FREESTYLING.

OUTFIT

FROLICS ABOUT

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN DECK.

MENTIONS

Rayna, Monte

INTERACTS

Daddy Dream

TRAVELIN' MAN — DEAD POET S.

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WHEN GOD TOOK

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

CHAPTER FOUR.

Even after the stiffness of accepting the item, the underlying question of what to do with it prevails. A problem no more pragmatic or mundane than the man itself, the locale of the lobster pin.

If kept on his desk he may lose it, if kept beside his shelf of bottle ships it may look out of place, if tossed away he’d be rude and ungrateful. The decision tapers to a point when he decides to keep it on the inside of his jacket. He can feel the ridges of the silver against his chest when he secures it to the fabric like a little patron saint of crustaceans.

How swag of him.

On the ship he is safe even when docked in the rum-riddled underside of Solas, and the resolute rhythm of the sea beneath his feet settles the captain with its constancy. The distraction onto land had been welcomed, and if he looks past the guilt of getting Rayna injured and the humbling loss of their prior bet, Lex may be able to define the outing as fun.

But Captains do not say fun, and it would likely take the form of “sufficient.”

He’d hurried back to inspect the repairs on his beloved with surgical precision, did a circle of his desk where the beloathed paperwork was left untouched, and when the morning sun rose, the Captain was just as sleepless as the others onboard.

With concern the sparse crew may embed either her hull into the ocean floor or her prow into another vessel, it is his own hand that steers the Leviathan from the port. He can feel her newly added weight, a gentle goliath of muscle now pampered with repair and eager to disengage from the oppressive pulse of Antares.

The air colors itself cold when they pass the rival ship, and Lexis wants to be correct more than anything else that the silent contention will remain exactly that— silent. Unmoving and without action, hollow animosity that will dissolve in tandem with the shrinking location on their horizon.

He’d not dared to hold his gun since the misfire at Algol, and it seems the ugly barrel conflict was enough to jar the man back to its familiarity. The weight slung over the shoulder is a comfort, and he snags his fingers into it like dog teeth as he overlooks the pleasant sea.

She’s happy.

The ship, that is.

Or perhaps Lexis is happy.

It is hard to divide the two. They are one of the same, both are dense and both like water.

With the encroaching heat of Siroc he knows his mood is sure to sour, but for these few weeks he can finally be grateful they are moving towards a future without dehydration or murder.

He’d be willing to stand there watching the sea forever until he realized he is no longer the railing’s solitary occupant, eyes catching on the well-dressed man with a messenger bird snug in hand. Lexis had long given up on trying to attach names to faces onboard The Leviathan. The rotation of arrivals and departures is a cycle he cannot compete with, and he has settled on pretending he knows who people are if they speak to him with familiarity.

Lexis is not in the occupation of prying, and while the man’s letter holds no interest to the Captain, practicing his recently acquired advice on how to speak with people, is.

“It is a pleasant morning.” A comment dropped like a burlap of rocks, the uncertain silence that envelops after his remark showcases that Lexis does not know how to proceed.

Ah. He remembers the advice from Rayna to ask questions. How foolish of him to overlook such valued counselling.

“Do you suppose birds ever get tired of flying?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE CRYPTKEEPER.

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GRAYSON

B. MOYER

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

BOYS NIGHT.

OUTFIT

COATY ON THE BOATY

LOCATION

MEDBAY

MENTIONS

GROG & ILYA

INTERACTS

qunqun

FIRST DATE — SHAYFER JAMES.

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TAINTED BLACK AND BRUISED

A chorus lifts itself onto my mouth’s blade:
dying is an art, so just like everything else
I must do it exceptionally well.

CHAPTER FOUR PART II.

“Oh hello,” replies the stranger. Mirror smooth as a millpond, Grayson is relieved that their first reaction is not one of anger.

“Hello.” Gray repeats because he has already forgotten his prior greeting. Followable Grog they tell him, and he realizes this must be the owner of said cat.

Unfortunate. He was hoping for a different answer.

We will have to change that.

Grog was no name for a beauty such as he. Worthy of something noble, Grogolomew, Grogathon, Grogson— oo, Grogson, noble son of Grayson. They could have matching outfits—

Focus.

Their smile is a blurry vignette that is sharp at the corners, but it is not the grin that upends the undertaker. The wrong assumption overlooks their position as the ship’s doctor, an oversight he will consider rude even if the pliant man does not. He’d entered the room in a daze and not taken the time to measure what he wished to say.

“Sorry.” A sheepish apology, because how does he kindly say: you look too unwell to help anyone. “You probably look fine.” The immediacy of his speculation cannot be entirely to blame, Ilya has the pale features of a catacomb and even a rogue breeze would look enough to fold him like a lawn-chair.

Grayson is not injured (if one overlooks his dignity to flutter around the ship’s hallways like a moth in mania), and he does not require any help outside of maybe some directions. Before he can assure the man he is of good health (UNLIKE ILYA), they speak again.

“I’ve done many stitches recently. People get injured with an alarming frequency on this ship.”

“That must keep you busy.” Not that Grayson has seen this busy status, having found Ilya lounging in the cot with the productivity of a napkin. “It is a very honorable occupation.” Lazy little freak. The man flutters around with his gentle prattle, akin to seafoam and driftwood, and Grayson finds himself following the peculiar man with his eyes.

The door clicks shut behind him, and without displays of serious malpractice, Gray is yet to find a real issue with the man. Weird, maybe, but Grayson brushes the hair of dead bodies and positions them inside glorified boxes. Ilya cuts up and sews living people and therefore he cannot hold them to higher expectations. Oddity must be adjoined like an iron chain link.

Not that Grayson is also odd.

He is normal. Unlike every other person on this ship. Poor. Spits on them.

“Come, sit. I will put the kettle on.”

“Oh do let me assist, doctor.” Another occasion he’d have allowed Ilya to brew their tea alone, but it feels wrong to have the tired looking individual serving him. “I am very particular about my drinks.” Yes he is important, no he is not in the business of making dying people do things for him.

Have some class. He’d rather pay people to do things for him.

Quick steps bring him to the man, ignoring the invitation to sit idle.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you on this ship before.”

“No,” he affirms Ilya’s observation, “I would be alarmed if you had, I’ve only just arrived as the ship’s funeral director. With those frequent injuries, it seems your Captain thought it necessary.” He has heard public talk of their travel through Algol, not even Antares is spared from the thrall of gossip, and he holds off enquiring about it.

“My name is Grayson.” He thinks to add his last name to communicate he is someone rich and important and oh did he mention how rich he was. He finds and sets two mugs beside each other for Ilya, and realizes that the two of them now share occupational relevance. Skewed to either side of all things People, one with the living, one with the dead, and in the middle ground is their common overlap.

“I suppose we will see each other often.” How intimate! “Not— not like roma— as our JOBS. Professionally. Yes.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[lyn.]

THE CHEMIST.

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MILLY

BYRTHA

MOOD

DESPERATE AND HOPEFUL

OUTFIT

I WOKE UP LIKE THIS

LOCATION

THE LEVIATHAN DECK

MENTIONS

SCARLETT, GRAHAM

INTERACTS

qunqun

SPACE GIRL — FRANCES FOREVER

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SAY WHAT YOU WANT

but say it like you mean it
with your fists for once, a long cold war
with your kids at the front

CHAPTER FOUR.

Though it was a successful trip, Milla was glad to finally be free of Antares.

The place was loud and intimidating, the darker it got, the louder the shouts and fights became, and the louder the warnings about Antares rang in her mind. She had gotten what she wanted, that was what was important. As for other items, ingredients, and chemicals, those were things she could stock up on at their next stop.

Just wondering about where they would go next left Milly excited. Would they go to Umbra? The Canals? There were so many places to see, so many new things to discover, and books to read. Milly could spend decades researching in the same place if she had the lifespan for it.

Joining The Leviathan was the right choice. There was only so much exploring Milly could do on her own, and now, she has access to all kinds of guests on the ship. Regular customers she could sell to, and people she could do favors for. Oh please oh please don’t let me remain broke.

There was one negative that came with traveling on a ship, however. Milly’s options were limited. She had little space to work in her cabin, and could only use the ingredients she already had until they next docked. So as it stood, she had very little to play with.

Most of her luggage was taken up by clothes and finished products- perfumes and lotions she intended to sell when she could. That wasn’t a problem. The real problem was Milly’s new business partner.

Scarlett had done her a major favor in Antares and Milly intended to pay her back. The only issue was she had no idea what to make! She could take the easy way out and give one of her already-made creations to her. But Scarlett helped her out! She deserved something new, unique! But Milly didn’t have the materials for that. Her current ingredients consisted of acids, oils, and a stray flower that caught itself on her skirt as she boarded.

What on earth was she supposed to make with this!?

Her room was a mess, a result of her ravaging through her suitcases for an idea. One that didn’t come to her until after her three designated hours of sleep. Jesus, Milly.

The moment it was open, Milly ran to the dining hall, grabbed a variety of fruits, and ran back to her cabin. Her first hour of the morning was spent squeezing what she could from the fruits in between bites. The juice of a lemon, orange, a few grapes, and a durian were mixed into what Milly hoped would be a smell worthy of Scarlett.

Once her concoction was done, Milly laid one spritz on her wrist, leaned down to smell it, and- oh.

Did… did that smell bad?

Years of working with chemicals have practically destroyed Milly’s sense of smell. She wasn’t the most reliable when it came to scent, but could usually tell the good from the bad. Perhaps her smell had gotten worse somehow? How could such delicious fruits make such a nasty smell? Perhaps she should get a second opinion.

Ah, yes! That’s what she should do. This perfume couldn’t possibly smell like sewage, could it? She expected citrus, or a more fruity smell. Perhaps her nose was more messed up than she thought!

Milly left her room with a mission, one that she hoped to finish quickly. And so she walked up to the first person she saw- a tall man with dark hair. He looked charming enough, surely he would have an opinion on Milly’s new creation.

She tapped on his shoulder and held up the bottle.

“Hello! My name is Milly, could you smell this for me?” She asked, and then promptly sprayed the fragrance directly into his face. Milly.

“Does it smell good, or bad? I don’t have a very good sense of smell, so I thought I’d go get a second opinion. Oh! And if you like that, I also make and sell many other perfumes if you’d like some! They also make good gifts! I almost make other things upon request.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[CrimsonInk]

THE OPHIDIAN.

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YASMINE

LAVIGNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

HUNGRY

OUTFIT

HOT GURL BRUNCH
SIDE PIECE

LOCATION

THE DINING HALL

MENTIONS

LARA, ARI

INTERACTIONS

PENDING CASSANDRA | ROSALINE

TAGS

AnimeGenork picklemouse

GUESS — CHARLI XCX FT. BILLIE EILISH.

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POWER IS POWER

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

CHAPTER FOUR PT II.

The morning couldn’t come any sooner with light already sneaking through the ophidians personal quarters. Irritation still seethes in her cognition like a pool of snakes swimming in her skull. Yesterday’s events have left her anxiety high and for once a man she once valued for companionship. Men. Always the men who left her feeling this irritation and empty void in her heart. She had to purposefully deny herself to view them as human. It was easier on her to give them that respect.

It took a moment for her to pull herself together. Her morning routine was short and sweet. Bathed with rose water, meditated for twenty minutes, stretched, and for now she worked out her body. Set after set she could feel her muscles tighten, heart beating, and sweat glistening her skin. She took in a sharp breath lifting herself.

“13!” she breathed out, her lungs stressing their capacity against her ribcage.

With two more lifts, she slowly descended herself from the makeshift bar and started to get ready for the day. Something easy and flowy for her. She wasn’t scheduled to work the deck so being a passenger for the day was fine. Blowing off steam in her bedroom was one way to deal with her issues, but more kept rising all around her. Yasmine needed a break. A breather. Someone hot to kiss.

Exiting her room with her sword at the hip, she began making her way down the hall out the deck and into the dining hall. Her stomach growled viciously ready to consume whatever Dante’s cute little brother and that gilf made. She was sure to grab an assortment of breakfast items that were healthy and indulging all at once. Her morning alone was about to be broken. Across the room was the very woman who made her heart flutter and butterflies fly in her abdomen. The fact she was here, now, and *alone* was truly meant to be. Rose colored lenses blinded her from the rest of the room as she walked up to the woman. The space closes between them slowly with Yasmine giving her a smirk.

“Mind if I take a seat here?” she asked, her eyes grasping hers with an engaging pull.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[picklemouse]

[TW: Language; Mention of death & funerals]

THE ARCHER.

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Knox
Hood

------------

➵ ➵

MOOD

Very Confused with The Spins™

OUTFIT

Boots; Pants (But make them Dark Brown); Shirt (But make it really dirty and messy); Grey kerchief on his neck to cover his face, Fabric wraps on his hands, wrists, and where his pants tuck into his boots; All extra dirty and some blood woohoo surprise!

LOCATION

In His Dreams! JK He's in the brig of The Reaper

MENTIONS

Maltke, Cosette, Macklin, Sonya, Toska, Calanthe, Devana, Toska, and dead NPCs

INTERACTS

celestialbody & other "brigged" prisoners

Drunken Sailor by The Irish Rovers

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What do you do

with a drunken sailor
Early in the morning?

Chapter 4 - Part 2.

The sun was beginning to peek up over the horizon, and the rum was working its way through his system. Luckily, he and Maltke made it back to the ship in time. Pretty much as the ship cast off from the dock.

Quite fortuitous.

Much later than he was hoping to get back, but just in time to get cleaned up for breakfast. The alcohol must be affecting him still because he lost time between boarding and walking to the dining hall. Somewhere in the middle, he must have bathed himself. Found fresh clothes…somewhere. Odd, because he didn’t know he owned an orange shirt. The book of Antares Folk Tales he got for Cosette was in his hands, tied with a light blue ribbon. Where did he get the ribbon?

It didn’t matter, because there she was. Sitting at her usual table by the window. The sun streaking her hair as her eyes scan the pages of her book. A plate of fruit and bread sat off to the side, her fork hovering absently above while she stayed occupied with the words. She was so beautiful, it nearly took his breath away.

He had thought about how he’d give her the book. At first, he considered simply leaving it outside her door, like he had with the other books he left for her, but the chaos of last night reminded him that life is short. Fortune favours the bold, and whether she would end up liking him back or not, Knox wanted her to know this gift was from him.

He had even practiced in his mind what he was going to say. ‘Good morning Cosette. I noticed you decided to stay on board during our stop in Antares, so I wanted to make sure you didn’t miss out on the culture it offered.’ After a quick thumb through of the book, he determined there was indeed more to Antaren life than pirates, rum, and bar fights. All of which he weathered the night before.

As he walked through the dining hall, a familiar face pulled his focus causing him to turn as he stepped. Was that? No. It couldn’t be Cian O’Donnal? Sure enough, he was met with a wide smile and a wave from his old friend, sitting beside…Impossible, because Patrick Kelly died years ago, and yet he was also waving up at him. His heart stuttered at the sight of red curls on the back of someone’s head. Nora?

Knox turned slowly, taking in the faces of the people sitting at the table. He recognized every single one of them. Grania. Oliver. Kai. Sloane. Friends, his old comrades from home. Late night meetings in cellars planning protests and mutual aid, working towards liberation from the crown, discussing treason. It had been so many years since he sat in on a meeting. Not since the offer from the King. His friends understood - They knew his family’s situation, knew how much they needed money. They also knew it was a hard offer for him to dodge.

“No, I don’t want to do it. No matter how sweet the deal seems, I’m not being the King’s lapdog.”

Her hands were on his face. “You know they won’t stop.” Nora said in a sweet voice, willing him to look into her eyes. “They’re not gonna let the best shot in Solas run around without having them on their side.” They were at his parent’s farm under his favourite tree, having this conversation four years ago. “We could use a good man on the inside. Get your pay for your parent’s. I’ll be here when you’re done. It’s only five years, and then you’ll be back to us.”

With a blink, the setting changed again. Back to the dining hall, but the tables are gone and the chairs turned into pews. Mourners had their heads bowed as he passed through, book still in his hands, eyes glued to the seven caskets at the end of the aisle. Their caskets.

His heart hurt. His head hurt. To his left were a pair of cold blue-green eyes from the only seated person with their head up. The bastard was smiling. Of course he was. There was no man more detestable than Macklin Lowe. A distant voice echoed, “wake up!” Where was it coming from?

New pain.
Someone kicked him? In the arse?

“Oowwahh...?” he groaned. Was he on the floor?

More head pain and the dreaded spins.
And now, slapping? Someone was slapping his face?
“Get up. Get up now.”

“Oi, the fuck?” Who…?

It took a few moments to open his eyes to the dim surroundings he found himself in. Musty. Dirty. Wood creaking, so they must be on a boat, but he had checked out every corner of The Leviathan he could before they first set sail. This was a different boat.

“Where the fuck…” The woman who woke him up stared at him. He didn’t recognize her, but as he looked around he saw some familiar faces. The amnesiac they picked up in Algol, that rich blonde woman who shot Tibby, the scary lady with the mask, and as luck would have it, Cadence Valiente. Well, at least she wouldn’t be focused on her missing necklace anymore.

The necklace.

Panicked, Knox began patting down his torso looking for the necklace he traded at the bazaar, finding nothing. His belt was gone, along with his bow, his quiver, the ship’s supply log, and worst of all, Cosette’s book.

He looked up at the stranger again. Her hair was stark against her complexion with serious eyes. She was well dressed, so he figured he should probably stop swearing at her. It was unfortunate that his head was pounding from last night’s antics, and new bruises were throbbing on his face and all over his body.

“Jesus Christ.” Okay, maybe he was also still a little drunk. “What the fuck is goin’ on?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Aviator]

THE HORN.

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Macklin

Lowe

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Simping for the Vipress.

OUTFIT

Outfit.

LOCATION

The Leviathan; dining hall

MENTIONS

Yasmine, Rosaline, & Monte

INTERACTS

Violetta Daddy Dream

IN THE ROOM WHERE YOU SLEEP —
DEAD MAN'S BONES.

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And if the answer is no

Can I change your mind?
We're all the same
And love is blind
The sun is gone before it shines.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Before obtaining breakfast, Macklin prowled the quarterdeck, admiring the square-rigged beauty with figures of winged sheet-clad women carved into the hull. His hips and hamstrings felt tight, but the waters were calm, and it wasn’t long till he recovered his sea legs. He breathed the salty goodness of the sea, let damp fingers of wind slide through his hair, and relished the feel of the sun on his skin after so long of being cooped up in the duchess’s dark and humid hothouse, where he imagined jungle vegetation would thrive. He marveled at the towering array of masts and sails, which poked at the air sharply, reminding him of the spines of an exotic, colorful fish. Catching the wind, the colors of Solas crowned the mainmast, emblazoned with King Rowan’s insignia. Macklin noted this with approval; every beast needs a collar, a tag declaring its owner. But he wasn’t naive enough to think all the sailors who worked this man-of-war were law-abiding citizens who shared his undying devotion to the King. Like most ships, they were probably just men and women with mercurial loyalties to the captain who paid them the highest.

He was by no means nostalgic for his time in the Royal Navy, but it was pleasant to muse on how far he had come from painting decks, scouring rust, and tying off mooring lines. Somehow, this line of thought made it easy to forget that he had almost been shish-kabobbed on the sword of some nameless nobody in the employment of minor nobility last night. The brown-sugar powder in his pipe blissfully contributed to the forgetting, too.

Macklin wasn’t particularly hungry, but he collected an ambitious breakfast of risotto with mushroom and chicken, a dish of orange peppers and potatoes, vegetable soup, and coffee from gleaming silver vats in the dining hall, hoping that the food would nourish him back from the brink of death. Because of the early hour, there were only a handful of passengers roaming the ship. When someone made eye contact with him, he lifted his chin in a single nod of acknowledgment but offered no words. He settled at a two-top with a white linen tablecloth in a shadowed corner of the room, his back to the wall. He lit a cigar and alternated between smoking and nibbling at his food.

He was considering taking his meal to the top deck so that he could watch the waves churn and bathe in the ocean breeze, because the flowery scent of the coat he had borrowed was overpowering. Macklin was about to get up when the duchess in full, raven-haired hauteur swept into the room. Her eyes zeroed in on him like lasers, and she beelined to his corner table, plopping herself in the seat across from him without asking permission to join.

Macklin was fond of his solitude, but given the fact that he had blown smoke in her face, blatantly insulted her, and then excused himself from her quarters and she was still coming back to him amused him endlessly. He was thoroughly surprised that Violetta would seek his company after all of the aforementioned rudeness, and it was a testament to how desperate she was to recover her lost device of mythic power. But instead of betraying his surprise, he played oppositely. “I knew you couldn’t resist me,” he goaded, barely sparing her a glance as he pushed his risotto around with his fork. Maybe she really had liked what she’d seen. “Are you going to get a plate, or were you hoping to pick up my scraps? I have no intention of sharing, you see.”

Violetta glowered at him, and heat seemed to radiate from her gaze. Macklin smiled, showing that he was just teasing. Their table was right next to a window, and they must have altered course slightly, because where shadow had been before, now sunlight was streaming in, giving the duchess’s fair skin a pearlescent shine. To soften her anger, he asked, “Are you okay sitting in the sun? I would rather relocate than see you burn.”

Violetta gave an impatient toss of her head and assured him she would be all right. In the same breath, she launched into a business proposal. Macklin set his fork down and raised his head with the slow malevolence of a viper, paying her his full attention. Aside from his cigar, of course, from which he took a practiced drag without breaking eye contact. Not the fire and pitchforks! he thought, stifling the urge to gasp and press a hand to his chest in fake shock, as if angry farmers could ever compare to a Corsairs vessel armed with cannons and trained snipers in the crow’s nest. He was sure that mocking Violetta’s proposal would do little to advance their deal.

When she’d finished her piece, he nodded sagely, as if her counter-offer was an enticing, generous one that he was lucky to receive. “I think I understand your point, duchess,” he said slowly, frowning down at his risotto as if its creamy mush held the secrets of the universe. “And I have reevaluated my position and would like to accept your offer. If I need to prove myself to earn your people’s loyalty, then so be it. I do not plan to be an idle leader.” Who leaves them out in the cold and starving because she’s not willing to do what it takes to get her agricultural panacea back, he thought pointedly. Instead he smiled. “Consider it a deal. Ten percent of the undeveloped land you preside over, in exchange for my services reacquiring your device. Of course, the deal is contingent on the notion that the technology is extended to me for use as well. Like you said, I need to earn your people’s respect by serving them well.”

He took a sip of coffee. Swished his spoon around it in a leisurely circle. “However, as with all things, there’s a catch.” Macklin looked around the room to ensure no one else was within earshot and then lowered his voice. “The King cannot learn that you have such powerful technology in your possession. I don’t think Rowan would take well to the knowledge that a nobody duchess in the middle of nowhere can destroy an entire city’s foodstuff if the mood strikes her. You will not have your technology—and perhaps your life and liberty—for long if word gets out.”

And this hunch was exactly what Macklin was banking on for his scheme to succeed. No one knew better than Rowan’s inquisitor how the King’s mind worked. The messes that had been swept under the rug, the men murdered in cold blood, the sordid secrets leveraged in court to corral wayward nobles into line. With an ailing wife and no male heirs, the King knew he had a tenuous grasp on his empire and lashed out at the first sign of a threat to his reign. When Macklin could wield information and influence like a weapon, why settle for ten percent of undeveloped land when he could have the whole duchy? All he had to do was depose Violetta, return the technology to the King, and her lands were his for the taking. And even if Rowan delegated them to someone more worthy of rulership, at least Macklin would have served Zenith. And then when they used the device to bring Antares and the Red Baron to their knees, Macklin would burn down the den of vice and rebuild it in his image. It would be his own pleasure port, and he would be its lord.

To Violetta’s credit, she asked the next obvious, prudent question. Why would Macklin, an agent of the Crown, consider committing treason against his sovereign by withholding vital information? He swallowed his mouthful of vegetable soup and smiled mischievously. “You see, the nature of my work for the Crown necessitates a great deal of personal risk. It is a job that will get significantly harder with age, if I live to see it. Moreover, as you likely know, the King’s continued reign is in an untenable position. If the dynasty falls, it is possible that new management will put my head on a chopping block along with all of Rowan’s other prominent supporters.” He steepled his heavily ringed fingers. All nine of them, he noted with a moment’s distaste. “I am not in the habit of playing losing hands. Tell me, why would I settle for my current, dangerous situation when I could instead be a duke who rakes in a cushy income by pushing pens and sitting on his ass all day? I could be wealthy whilst also—like you—disappear into the background of moderate nobility. Quite frankly, I have everything to gain from pursuing this deal. Hence my change of mind about—”

Macklin broke off with a little gasp as if he had been sucker-punched in the gut, which quickly escalated into a coughing fit. He set down his cigar on the side plate that he was using as an ashtray, tore his gaze away from the appearance of the woman who had made him forget how to breathe, and gave Violetta a sheepish smile. “Smoking kills,” he rasped.

Violetta said something in reply, but Macklin was only half-listening. He was sneaking glances over her shoulder at the tall, serpentine woman in a slinky olive-green dress that revealed as much skin as it concealed. The elaborately wrapped sash looked like a bow on a present that could be undone with one expert tug. Low in his belly, something sizzled like flame through paper as he watched the woman sashay up to the buffet. Her hips swished as if she was dancing to a music only she could hear.

Yasmine Lavigne. Or Jade Roman, as she’d been known six years ago when Macklin had met her, back when he was a soldier who’d been stationed in Antares to quell an uprising and shake the pirate port back into order with ghastly executions of captive Corsairs criminals. Back when she was an undercover spy for the Corsairs, who thought seducing a soldier would yield up critical information for an ambush of their ships and camps. And now, against all logic or reason, she worked for the Crown in a similarly secret capacity. If Macklin was Rowan’s right hand, then Yasmine was his left.

His astonishment at her presence on the ship turned to brooding dread. He’d worked several jobs with her over the course of their employment, so wouldn’t Rowan have thought to mention that she’d be on the Leviathan too? Was it possible that Rowan somehow didn’t know and Yasmine had gone rogue? Or had Rowan excluded this information because he wanted her to keep an eye on Macklin without the latter’s knowledge? Did he suspect Macklin of treason? Well, he had been discussing the possibility of betraying the Crown for personal gain with Violetta when she’d walked in, but he hadn’t been sincere. Given Yasmine’s—or Jade—shady history, Macklin thought Rowan should logically have much more reason to fear a betrayal from her.

Macklin knew his attraction was a foolish, hopeless one, doomed from the start. Nothing long-term and no future would ever work out between them; he would always put his duty as a Kingsman first, and Yasmine would always put herself first. She reminded him of one of those bloodthirsty sailors, kept on a short leash because they were always tempted to mutiny against the captain if a more lucrative option presented itself. Was she loyal to anything beyond whatever benefitted her in the moment? But she was damn good for lipstick-stained debauchery and outfits that couldn’t be fully found in the morning. And so long as he kept the ephemeral, shallow nature of their transactions in mind, perhaps it could be sustained. Until one of them moved onto bigger and better things or died in the King’s service, of course.

Violetta shook him from his thoughts by whirling around in her chair. She tracked his gaze to where Yasmine and another paler, slightly shorter woman lingered by the buffet, her hair coiffed in fanciful curls. Violetta turned back to him, giving him a slit-eyed look that almost made him grin. He hadn’t wanted to be caught staring at another woman because he didn’t want his relationship with Yasmine brought into question, but did the fact that he had make Violetta jealous? Predictably, yet also cunningly, Violetta asked if he knew the woman. But there were two women, and they were standing too close together for her to be certain which one had captivated his attention. Her question had been more of a tricksy attempt to figure out which woman Macklin knew. Or wanted to know.

Macklin shook his head, his eyes still drifting to Yasmine and her companion now that there was no point in hiding it. The other woman was pretty, but he’d passed over her with disinterest, as if she might as well have been wallpaper. Yasmine, on the other hand, held the allure of the snake, the jaguar. She was every stray fantasy that men have ever dreamed. “Not yet, but I think I’m going to introduce myself as soon as we wrap up here,” he said with the pensive resolve of a man wondering how best to attack a well-defended fortress. “The way those pink folds hug her curves is simply irresistible, don’t you agree?” An implication that Yasmine’s friend had enthralled him so, as Yasmine’s dress was green.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Atamita]

• .
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  how she's feeling...

  
  
  
  

  flattered, shy, and up in her head
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  what she's wearing...

  
  
  
  

  https://as1.ftcdn.net/jpg/02/05/47/68/1000_F_205476811_SnqqiHTpuO4fxMTcSOhzEmSKnBwsiKa1.jpg

  black dress shirt and brown skirt

  https://as1.ftcdn.net/jpg/02/05/47/68/1000_F_205476811_SnqqiHTpuO4fxMTcSOhzEmSKnBwsiKa1.jpg
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  where she's at...

  
  
  
  

  the streets of antares
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  in the conversation...

  
  
  
  

  @Nifty - Tiberius (The Gladiator)
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

agnes

the optimist

When the large man's words reach her ears, her shock left her unable to pull her hand away in time when his hands cover her own. He inspects her hand carefully and her head turns away as she can feel her own blood rushing to her cheeks in a second. The realization that a man is holding her hand and a man that is not her own father, cousin, or relative holding her own hand as excitement rocks through her body. She did her best to hold still as the man inspect her hands, allowing the man to inspect her hands without disturbance.

A-Are... my hands that nice? Nice and dainty... nice and dainty. Keep that body still... It's how dad choose mom over the prostitutes.

The earlier attempted robbery and all sense of threat including why she even gave him her belongings in the first place leaver her mind completely. A blush could only creep up onto her cheek more as it felt like forever with him taking her hands. She could feel the roughness of his hand tracing over hers. She winces for a moment as she isn't exactly a big fan of rough texture but it's a man and it's been so long...

The last man who held me like this was some blonde man who drives ships 4 years ago. Too bad his hand likes the wheel of the ship more than me... Ah, Marinus... your hand felt as rough as his...

A small smile grows on her face as she looks shyly away still but her peripheral vision taking occasional peeks at the man's visage.

Wow, what pretty eyes.... different from mine...

"Phew, they're all good,"

his voice seeps with relief as Agnes slowly turns her head back to face him but her eyes downward with a small smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

his hand quickly return to his side as he continues to hold her baggage still. But before she can say anything in return-

"Hold on! Are your hands alright?! Is that why you can't carry them?"

he exclaims, his voice acting like record scratches to her fantasies.

A sigh heaves from her as she looked at the man, almost disappointed.

Dense... Dense, big man.... But so strong... not like intelligence matters here in being saved...

"No, no,"

a nervous chuckle erupts from her as she reaches for her luggage back,

"I was wondering if you could take me to a ship called Leviathan... hahahahahahaha..."

Her awkward laughter trails off as she avoids the man's eyes before her lips quickly murmurs,

"without the possibility of murder or extortion even though you totally can..."

♡coded by uxie♡