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Fantasy ๐‘๐Ž๐†๐”๐„ ๐–๐€๐•๐„๐’ โ€” THE STORY

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THE GEMINI.















scroll

Gallin



Luc Cardin




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




Survival mode activated
















LOCATION




The deck















INTERACTS




Dahlia, Agnes


















Monster โ€” EPIC SAGA.
































































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SEE THE WORLD




"Never feel bad for a blind man," he said finally; "for you see the world as it is, while I see it for what it could be."






























CHAPTER FOUR.

Receiving kindness from the woman he had come to know as Dahlia was rare indeed. She seemed the kind that had grown up rough and, so, had no patience for anybody that wasnโ€™t tough like she was. A feeling he could understand - after all, oneโ€™s experiences greatly shape their expectations of others.

However, she had spoken to him with a softness that he had not heard in her voice before. For a moment, his mind was briefly snatched from finding safety in Devanaโ€™s presence. For a moment, he had allowed himself to believe that perhaps there was no danger at all. Perhaps the skeleton had merely been a figment of his imagination.

Of course, he just had to process all this without saying a word. So, after she had called out to him and extended an olive branch, a listening ear, he had proceeded to do nothing but stare at her for the better part of a full minute as his mind caught up to present times.

Finally, he opened his mouth to say something, but the only sound that was heard was that of a long, low whistle. A sound that he was mostly positive hadnโ€™t come from him. He didnโ€™t have the time to look around before the impact. The only thing he had managed to see was Dahlia diving to protect someone else standing there who he hadnโ€™t even noticed. What is she do-

He wasnโ€™t given time to complete the thought as the ship rocked violently and sent him tumbling towards the railings. A feelling that was, unfortunately, familiar to the writer. Reflexively o and rather clumsily - just before he slammed against the railing, he shot a leg out, attempting to find purchase but stepping on the railing. Just the way he had seen Maltke do when a storm almost claimed his life.

Unfortunately, he wasnโ€™t Maltke. And he didnโ€™t have the experience to stop himself by catching his foot on the railing. All that happened when he attempted was a twist of his ankle, resulting in him bumping into the railing anyway. A lighter hit than he would have suffered if he had flown straight into it, but at what cost?

The pain that shot through his leg had blinded and deafened him to all the chaos happening around them. When he finally managed to gather his bearing, he looked up and saw that it seemed as though it was about to rain. Inly that the clours were much lower than he had ever seen rain clous. It was then it occurred to him that the grey in the sky was looking at was fnot from clouds, but instead from smoke. And the only rain these would bring was one of blood and not water.

Confusion sent his mind spiraling. Was the skeleton real after all? Was it a vision for what was to come shortly. More pressingly, who are they attacking: me or the ship?

His thoughts, and the pain in his leg, had planted him firmly to the deck, unwilling and unable to move. That is, until, he heard someone cry out. He did not recognise the voice, but he knew the name all too well.

Dahlia.

She had been standing in front of him a mere moment ago, conversing like lambs completely unaware of the wolfโ€™s presence. Where is she? Is she hurt?

The thought of Dahliaโ€™s safety seemed to be enough to spur him to move. His ankle was in too much pain for him to stand, so he simply crawled towards the last place he had seen her. Below the smoke, he could make out her ever-striking red hair and some of the conversation she was having with the other lady.

โ€œTake her to my quarters.โ€ He instructed. He pulled himself from his crawling stance, forcing himself to stand on two feet, because stars forbid Dahlia see him looking weak. She would never let him hear the end of it. Despite his best attempts to hide it, however, he clearly favoured one foot over the other. Ignoring that, however, he proceeded to give directions to his cabin and how to identify it. โ€œIt is far enough from the outer hull not to be blown in by cannon fire, deep enough to hide from the chaos; and modest enough to hopefully be ignored by the pirates. Go, I shall be right behind you.โ€ Despite the clear chaos and danger of the situation, his voice was surprisingly leveled, having to pull from a part of himself he didn't know still existed: the part that had to survive of the streets of a loveless world...that part of him that would do whatever it takes.

The plan was to run and hide. He was good at running and hiding. However, he knew he couldnโ€™t go with them. With his hurt ankle, he would only slow them down. But he did not need Dahlia worrying about him. โ€œThere is someone else I must find.โ€ A true enough lie. โ€œOnce I have confirmed their safety, I will join you both in the room. If the pirates board before I doโ€ฆโ€ a horrifying though. But, at least, they would be safe โ€œ...block the doors with the furniture in the room the best you can.โ€

Despite the pain he was in, there was little room in his tone for questioning or rebuttal, the tightness in his jaw and the firmness in his gaze as he looked at the two a clear indication that their safety was his primary concern and he would hear nothing to the contrary. This was not simply him trying to be a hero. This was him doing what he could to cut losses and save who he could. Starting with those who had been good to him.





























โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 





THE OLD-TIMER















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Maltke



Cycek




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




hostile, moody, annoyed, reluctant











OUTFIT




His usual dirty coat of course











LOCATION




The Levi's deck, a more secluded part











MENTIONS




Magnus









INTERACTS




Magnus, @Pepsionne

















If Rain is What You Want- Slipknot




























































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"I hate those pirates!"



































Chapter Four, Part ii

Except that unsettling, blood-soaked aura, Maltke had to accept the fact that his company was not interesting at all. This realization happened rarely since the old man enjoyed the company of anyone - well, until he could talk as much as he wanted, however the bounty hunter's unnatural style of conversation, similar to an interrogation which Maltke had experienced just ten to fifteen times... the pirate wasn't pleased with their exchange at all. Not to mention that his head had started hurting from the intensity of the concentration with which he had been trying - successfully - not to blow off his cover.

He glanced at his cigarette, the only gift one could recieve from Magnus besides a blade into their flesh. "Aye" Maltke groaned neutrally as a response to his company's answer of nothing. Fortunatelly, just a last drag and he could finish his cigarette and say a goodbye to the bloodthirsty hound that had been circling around him on this morning; just one last drag...

BOOOM!!!

The cigarette never touched the pirate's lips again. After the deafening gale of a cannon, it slid out of Maltke's fingers and fell into the sea, not even suspecting how many object and people would follow them into the azure hug of the deep during the events of the next hours.

The pirate himself lost his ballance as well, a string of annoyed curses joined to the death screams of planks sounding from where the cannon ball had hit the ship. "Fuckin' peaces of wretched little shits...yer mothers..."

In the heat of the moment that ended the peace of the morning, the old man forgot to care about his barely convincing role of a 'humble sailor': the shift of the deck below them was unexpected for sure, however his two decades on the sea served him well enough to regain his ballance quickly enough to continue insulting the attackers' mothers on his two feet again. His muscle memory was hard to turn off or ignore.

With slightly bent knees, Maltke turned towards Magnus, grimacing disappointedly when he saw that the ghoul hadn't fallen into the sea. "Too bad" A silent thought crossed his mind but said nothing. They looked at each other silently, a bit confused by the current situation. Then...

"If I hand you a weapon, will you know how to use it?"

"Are you stu-..."
Maltke cut himself, realizing that in fact he was the stupid one. Obviously, the bounty hunter couldn't have known about the pirate attack - that would have been funny - but he used it cunningly to his advantage, giving an ultimatum to the old man. At this point, he didn't have a chance to get out of the hound's piercing sight. "Fuck these pirates!" He grumbled, more likely to himself than to Magnus.

"I mean..." He squinted, taking a few steps away from the bounty hunter, turning his head towards him, not wanting to get that dangerous man out of his sight. "Ye be kind but don't ye worry, lad! Back in my days I could defend myself..." He spread his strong arms, shrugging modestly. "I don't know what ye plan to give me but swords ain't really my favourites! I have bad aim too...axes also be too heavy for a battle like this..." As he was talking back and forth, he took a few steps away from Magnus, moving slowly and deliberately. His right hand disappeared under his coat, searching for a less pirate-looking knife. Not like it mattered now, the thought of the approaching sea battle quickly made the act meaningless and his antics being washed away, replaced by a cold, reluctant seriousness.

"I be fine with this lil' friend of mine!" He assured Magnus on a sour voice and a cruel knife appeared under his coat in his right hand with a practiced flick of his wrist. The sharp, deadly metal was glinting in the sunlight. Maltke's eye searched for Magnus's gaze, looking at him in a way that suggested they would become neither friends nor comrades. He inhaled a breath of freshening air, forcing a less tense posture on his body what was twitching slightly with adrenaline and nerve. "Probably we be all this fuckin' ship has as protection." I cleared his throat, trying to reason with Magnus, nodding towards to other side of the deck from where desperate screams and heavy footsteps sounded, an obvious sign of how useless the majority of the guests were in a fight.

Maltke sighed, bracing himself for fighting against Magnus or against unknown pirates, rats like himself. None of them were a beckoning optionbut what an old pirate could do? Maybe Magnus would be killed by one of Maltke's colleague. That would be blissful.

"Now come!" The old man sighed again, finally turning his head away from the headhunter, preparing for worst behind and in front of him. "I swear I be too old for this shit! Do I even get paid for actin' like an idiot soldier of the King? For fuck's sake, has bein' a sailor always been this exhaustin' or..." He kept muttering like an absent-minded old-timer as he started walking away from Magnus, holding his dagger firmly in hand.






























โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 










MADELINA VOLKOVA.






























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Maddie






Decoy








ใ…Žใ…Ž






























MOOD








Another Death























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








Main Deck

























MENTIONS








Dahlia, Antarin, Genevieve





















INTERACTS








Rayna











































WOLF โ€” 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.


Though there were people scattered around that Maddie could have tried to help, but she was floored by the leering stares of the pirates across from her. A fear unlike that sheโ€™d felt so far on this voyage paralyzed her, cloaking her lungs and throat in something sharp and choking. She tried to breathe, but it was to no avail.

Raynaโ€™s reappearance was a relief, though her face likely didnโ€™t show it with her furrowed eyebrows, widened eyes, and pale face. Instead of answering with her words, she shakily nodded, stepping as close as she could to Rayna without seeming rude.

Her throat felt dry as she parted her lips and stammered, โ€œI d-donโ€™t think so.โ€ Was there anyone around who would let her hide with them? She didnโ€™t think so. Friends were few and far between, with acquaintances nearly as rare. Consequences of being someone as bad at socializing as she was. โ€œI-Iโ€™ll just find someone to hunker down with.โ€

If she hadnโ€™t blanched before, she certainly did now that Rayna had handed her a dagger. All of the blood in her body froze as she stared at the blade, remembering the rock that had served as her weapon the last time she had been in a dramatic situation such as this. She desperately wanted to refuse the weapon, but Rayna was already turning away, calling out to someone further down the deck. Maddieโ€™s hands tightened around the dagger nervously, the skin of her palms biting into the blade before she tucked it away into the sash around her waist. There. She felt a lot better with it there.

At least, that was her thought before all hell broke loose.

It occurred to Maddie that ships normally didnโ€™t rock like this, before Rayna dove at her and her vision of her surroundings was obscured completely. Therefore, she didnโ€™t see the shape of a person pushing them both to the deck as the noise of carnage and battle deafened her. While the pirates waged their seemingly purposeless war against their vessel, Maddie weakly tried to lift her head and get her bearings. Smoke and powder and debris blocked her vision, yet the tang of blood was also in the air, and she tightened her jaw, trying not to heave.

When the air cleared enough to see ten feet in front of her, she let out a scream.

Why.

Why why why. Why why why why why why whโ€”

It had happened again. For the second time since sheโ€™d begun this voyage, Madelina had borne witness to the end of someoneโ€™s life. And for what purpose? Rayna had been keeping Maddie safe, and, based on the sight before her, Antarin had done the same. The ambassador. The same man who had tried to reclaim Genevieve from the monsters at Algol. He had looked at her with eyes shocked and accusatory, asking her why sheโ€™d committed the murder she had never intended. And now, he was dead.

How many deaths would she be responsible for?

She was trembling. That was all she managed to think as Rayna helped her to her feet. Her hand in the older womanโ€™s, Madelina stared blankly at her, any light previously in her eyes now masked by the sadness and grief of having once again caused an innocent to die. All because sheโ€™d tried to do something she had no business doing.

What was the point of living if she just brought death everywhere with her?

Stumbling along, she followed Rayna as she called out to her friend, this Dahlia person. What a beautiful name. Maddie almost told Rayna not to bother. What if this Dahlia also died by being near her? What if she just gave herself over to the pirates right now? Or better yet, dove into the sea and let it do the rest of the work?

If there was much left of the decoyโ€™s soul, it had been destroyed in the cannon blast, along with the late ambassador.


























































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 










THE OPHIDIAN.






























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YASMINE










LAVIGNE








ใ…Žใ…Ž






























MOOD








FLIRTY | CONFIDENT























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








THE DECK




















MENTIONS








N/A




















INTERACTIONS








MACKLIN





















TAGS








































LETHAL WOMAN โ€” DOVE CAMERON.
































































































































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POWER IS POWER








The gods have no mercy, thatโ€™s why theyโ€™re gods.





























































CHAPTER FOUR PT II.

There he was. Same dark locks she could easily grip with her hands, a mess of a uniform that was too form fitting, even for a man like him. And here he was with a painfully set of puppy dog eyes that could melt anyone's heart. Too bad hers was formed by layers of thick ice.

She was careful with her steps watching the ongoing fire between the leviathan and the reaper. It was practically a thrill to be in the line of action again. Her hands twitched whenever it touched the handle of her blade, an insatiable hunger ready to glutton over men who dared to challenge the vipress. A soft smirk stayed on her lips breathing in the salty air around Macklin.

โ€œI call it playing impossible to get. Itโ€™s a step up from playing hard to get.โ€

Sure it is.

โ€œDo you think Iโ€™ll get a callback for a second date?โ€

Unlikely
.

โ€œYou didnโ€™t have to change outfits just for me. You know I like you in anything you wear, angel.โ€

A low chuckle escaped her lips allowing her veneers to show. Her brows raised at the comment โ€˜angelโ€™. A word she hadnโ€™t heard in a long time. Truly far from the word itself, unless it was talking about the one that had fallen. Then maybe she would have considered the endearment it gave to have at least plucked a couple of her heart strings.

โ€œAngel? Well, thatโ€™s something I havenโ€™t heard in a blue moon,โ€ she said, her tone playful and melodic, โ€œcalm down now. I wouldnโ€™t want such promises to go to waste in the middle of battle.โ€

Oh, if only the King knew about their history, a fair exchange between two people who shared a desire โ€” the baron sure would with how loyal she was to him before the Kingโ€™s promises to her. Every decision, every secret, every piece of information used to get her where she was now. No piece of solari would bring this vipress to her knees, no she was better than just any loyalist to the crown out there. Her loyalty was to what it symbolized โ€“ a delicate and sweet power only she craved. And it all started with him โ€” her most trusted ally on this ship. Macklin.

Feeling the brush of his lips against her knuckles almost made her miss those nights in Antares. Truly a romantic at heart with the solari to back it up. He really hasnโ€™t changed a bit. The poor guy was the same lovestruck fool from years before. It was only now that their dance will begin, and it would be a crime for a lady like her to deny this passionate tango.

โ€œIt couldnโ€™t be both?โ€ she spoke with a sultry tone, โ€œbesides, I couldnโ€™t let you have all the fun. It could be just like old times, just this time blade and gun arenโ€™t pointed at each other โ€” we now have a common enemy. That and well, I wouldnโ€™t want to ruin your chance at that second date.โ€

It was like their touch burned each other when her hand grazed against his. Sapphires gazed deeply into dark browns holding onto something she had missed โ€” the attention of another who almost saw the real her. A version that was not always so tempting to devour in lust, but someone who was almost true to a human. She took his pistol with a gentle hand and started to take her position next to him. Checking the number of cartridges that were in the firearm, she proceeded to take fire over the ledge. The thrill sending goosebumps over skin, hairs standing high, and someone who knew what they were doing right next to her โ€” oh this was better than a night at a whorehouse any day.

โ€œI hope youโ€™re planning to extend those pretty legs of yours,โ€ she called out, โ€œI canโ€™t be the only one looking good while beating ass today.โ€



























































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 






The Bard.















scroll

Jack



Belrose




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




Excited











OUTFIT




clothes im sure












LOCATION




Dining hall --> armory --> cannons












MENTIONS




Arata!!!










INTERACTS






















Living in the Sunlight - Tiny Tim






























































scroll






Can you behave?




Yes, if I wanted to,
but this is so much funnier































The Thrill of Battle

Arizonaโ€™s proposal was instant. Wow! Jackson loved a man who could instinctively be on the same page as him.

โ€œDamn, you talk like that to all the guys, or am I just special?โ€

This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

โ€œYou got a deal, pretty boy.โ€

Jack held out his hand to shake on it, despite the fact no bets were made. With an enthusiastic shake, their plans were in action.

โ€œI think Iโ€™ll stick with Arizona. Has a nice ring to it.โ€ He put a hand out to help the drunkard to his feet, not that he was any less accident prone. Luckily, they didnโ€™t both end up on their asses. Off to the armory! Wherever that was.

Somehow, between the two of them, they found it, or at least, walked around until they saw something shiny. Good enough. Jackson practically drooled at the sight. So many blades just waiting to be used. How could he even pick?

Well, he was technically only supposed to be on the cannon, but while Arata was looking, there was no harm in a little window shopping. Look at a dagger here, peek a sword over there, all so gorgeous in their own ways.

โ€œThis is so fucking cool.โ€ He whispered under his breath. Looking around, he made sure no one was watching before picking up a dagger to look at it.

Waitโ€ฆ

He was allowed to touch all of this! Taking one wouldnโ€™t be stealing. It would even be encouraged. This was Jackโ€™s own personal heaven.

โ€œSo cool!โ€ Yep, he was nabbing that dagger. And a second one, just in case. And a third, for emergencies. On a whim, he grabbed a sword, just to use as an accessory.

What? Jack didnโ€™t know how to sword fight, but he did know that a sword in the belt looked awesome! The historical equivalent of a black pair of sunglasses.

Turning back to his battle mate, Jack flashed him an all too excited grin.

โ€œReady to fuck shit up?โ€


Yippee, off to an unattended cannon they went! He wasted no time, instantly grabbing one of the balls (haha balls) and struggling to lift it into the mouth of the machine.

โ€œThese are girthy.โ€ Jack groaned. With a thunk, he loaded the cannon, almost squishing his fingers in the process. โ€œBad word choice. Maybeโ€ฆ Fuck, whatโ€™s the word? You know, heavier than they look?โ€

Arizona was no help.

โ€œFuck it, Iโ€™m just going to shoot these douchebags.โ€ Luckily he had a lighter on him for any emergency pirate attacks! Yep, thatโ€™s all it was for.

Time slowed down as the fuse burned down. Anticipation licked at Jacksonโ€™s skin, sending a tingle through his whole body.

KABOOM! Hell yeah! Got em-

Sploosh.

โ€œOh. Shit, I forgot to aim.โ€
Very impressive. Arata wanted him so bad right now, for sure.

So he went through the pathetic ordeal of loading the damn thing again.

This time he remembered to turn it towards his target. How smart.

โ€œOkay, take two.โ€ Fuse lit, he waited. โ€œShould we be using ear plugs?โ€

KABOOM! Okay, now those fuckers are-

Sploosh.

โ€œShit. Okay, damn. I think this cannon hates me.โ€

Once again, loading the rude ass cannon with his subpar upper body strength.

โ€œThird timeโ€™s the charm. Donโ€™t let me down, baby girl.โ€ Giving the cannonball a big, exaggerated kiss, Jack pushed it into the chamber.

Aim adjusted, he lit the fuse a third time.

โ€œIf this shit misses, Iโ€™m walking myself down the plank, I swear to fucking-โ€


KABOOM.

Donโ€™tmissdonโ€™tmissdonโ€™tmisspleasedontmissoriโ€™ll-

CRACK!

โ€œLetโ€™s fucking GOOOOOO!โ€ Jackson pulled Arata into a tight hug, jumping up and down. When he let go, he immediately turned to look out the porthole. โ€œOh.โ€

Okay, so he only BARELY hit the other ship, breaking off a small chunk of the railing. Nothing earth shattering.

But his aim was getting better!

โ€œLiterally what the fuck.โ€ Brushing his hair back with a huge, dramatic sigh, Jackson turned back to the cannonballs. โ€œIs it too late for me to change my bet?โ€






























โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 










THE DESCENDANT.






























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DAHLIA






BLACKWATER








ใ…Žใ…Ž






























MOOD








MOTHER MODE ACTIVATED























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








The Deck





















MENTIONS








Gallin





















INTERACTS








BRIEFLY GALLIN
NOW AGNES, RAYNA, AND MADDIE





































ASSASSIN'S CREED III THEME
โ€” LINDSEY STIRLING.
































































































































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Everyone is a monster to someone








Since you are so convinced that I am yours. I will be it.





























































CHAPTER FOUR.

Between the chaos in her mind and the world around her, overwhelming would be an overstatement of what Dahlia was feeling right now. Never in her life had she really experienced a time when there were others who needed her aid. Not like with the baron and his crew. These were people she could feel her heart beat for, her arms reach out for, and summon the strength inside to take action for. They need an ally.

โ€œDahlia!โ€

Her head whipped around, seeing a familiar faceโ€”a face she briefly knew from the Corsairs, but never truly spoke with. They walked around each other, afraid to break any eggshells by acknowledging one another, a routine theyโ€™d both adopted. Neither made eye contact nor breathed in their direction. It was a silent agreement to keep the peace. But now, the womanโ€™s face contorted in a familiar anguish that Dahlia knew better than anyone. A face that needs another.

โ€œTake her to my quarters.โ€

She turned back to face Gallin. Her eyes searched for his, listening to the instructions coming from him. But she couldnโ€™t allow herself to hide. Not like this. Not when there were people who needed her. Right now, she had to trust her gut before giving in to any demands that could lead to safety. The woman next to her could hide there, and better yet, so could the others just across from them.

โ€œFine,โ€ she finally said, her hand reaching out to grab his arm in a tight grip, an unconscious instinct carried with worry. โ€œDonโ€™t do anything stupid. Stay alive.โ€

With that, she let go of Gallinโ€™s arm and grabbed Agnes with a similar protective grip. โ€œWith me!โ€ she instructed.

Feet scuttled against the wooden floor of the ship as she balanced herself and the vulnerable woman she held onto toward Rayna. The ship rattled beneath them, the tide crashing against the hull. A cannon blast echoed through the air, rattling the vessel and causing passengers and crewmen to scatter. Dahlia was almost certain that whatever reason was left in her mind was now abandoned. Any rational thought, the decision to head to Gallinโ€™s room, to find a hiding place and leave everyone to their fate, was gone. Something inside her had changed. Whatever it was, it had better keep her alive.

Her feet slammed against the wood as she caught up to Rayna and the girl next to her. Her eyes searched for bruises, injuries, or anything that may need immediate attention. But then she saw him. The burning man next to them. Hands instinctively turned Agnes away from the body. As her eyes took in the sight of him, she saw metal melting into bone and skin. The armor gave it awayโ€”it was a Kingsguard whoโ€™d been caught in the blast. Her gaze flickered back to Rayna, still clearly in shock. No. Not now.

โ€œIโ€™m here,โ€ she breathed out in quick, shallow breaths. โ€œIโ€™m here. Stop looking at him and look at me.โ€

Dahlia stood in front of Raynaโ€™s line of sight, her amber eyes locking onto the familiar brown ones. Her gaze shifted between both women, searching for any sign of acknowledgment before she spoke again.

โ€œRight now, I canโ€™t have you shutting down. We need to get these two to safety. I know a place. Itโ€™s on the other side, far from the chaos. Not even those fucking ugly bastards will get them, but I canโ€™t do it alone. We do this together.โ€

Freeing her hands from Agnes, she grabbed Raynaโ€™s shoulder with a desperate urgency.

โ€œI swear. Together.โ€



























































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 










THE HORN.






























scroll


Macklin






Lowe








ใ…Žใ…Ž






























MOOD








Interest in Yas > interest in the fight.

































LOCATION








The Leviathan; main deck

























MENTIONS








n/a





















INTERACTS








Yasmine CrimsonInk CrimsonInk & Violetta Daddy Dream Daddy Dream





































EMMYLOU โ€”
FIRST AID KIT.

































































































































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And in the night








You hear me calling
And in your dreams
You see me falling, falling.





























































CHAPTER FOUR.


Macklin savored each of Yasmineโ€™s giggles, each raise of those dark dramatic brows, as if he was making up for the months they'd been apart in the span of a few short moments. He was trying to get a read on whether Yasmine was amused or annoyed by his flirty witticisms, but as usual her true emotions evaded him. During Antares, heโ€™d learned that Yasmine was prone to either hiding her emotions or feigning them when she didnโ€™t have any, all for some kind of calculated result. It sounded like an exhausting game for her to maintain, yet here she was, and he was unsure if she was genuinely enjoying his attentions or merely indulging them until she found someone else to admire her. Deciding not to second-guess himself without ample reason, Macklin mimicked her easy, playful tone. โ€œWell, you havenโ€™t seen me in a blue moon. I was starting to feel forgotten. You may have to prove to my poor, wounded heart that Iโ€™m not.โ€ He punctuated this with a wolfish grin.

Despite himself, Macklin couldnโ€™t help wondering if Yasmineโ€™s bed had been empty in all the time since their last tryst, and he doubted it. Not that she owed him anything or they were exclusive, of course. In fact, he found that they both had a mutual avoidance of that topic when they were together, and so theyโ€™d been content to never define it. But seeing other womenโ€”and he had seen a few since the start of their on-again-off-again flings in Antaresโ€”was never as fulfilling when he could have been with Yasmine instead. It had gotten to the point where Macklin had almost started eschewing other hook-ups altogether, because they had begun to feel sad and pathetic and meaningless. Not to mention the legitimate risk that any woman interested in him could have been a temptress thrown his way by the Baron or another political opponent of the King. Macklin had bitten into that fruit once and heโ€™d be damned to do it again. It was unlikely that a flirtation with another enemy agent would end as neatly as it had with Yasmine, what with her converting to the Kingsmen.

Macklin snorted at the casual way she pointed out that they now had a common enemy, as if sheโ€™d been reading his thoughts. โ€œWell, if not having to kill me is convenient for you, then by all means,โ€ he returned drily. He snuck a glance at Yasmine, surprised to detect a note of what almost sounded like nostalgia in her voice when she recounted old times. โ€œIf I didnโ€™t know any better, Iโ€™d think you almost miss playing cards in shitty taverns and being a perpetual thorn in my side. I wouldnโ€™t have taken you for the sentimental type,โ€ he teased.

Yasmine covered the hand he had on the railing with hers, and a long moment passed where they looked at each other. It felt intimate and vulnerable and dangerously intoxicating at the same time, and Macklin felt his heart do a dizzying little pirouette. He wondered again if it was a true expression of her emotions or just another formulaic manipulation. Yasmine eased the gun from his hand and adopted it for personal use like a wife going on a shopping spree with her husbandโ€™s money. Not asking permission, and perhaps not asking forgiveness either if he didnโ€™t notice or object. โ€œWhat, you forgot to bring a gun to the gunfight so you have to use mine instead?โ€ he asked in the interval that she paused to aim. Unlike Macklin, almost all of her bullets had found a home in some poor Corsairs bastard. โ€œShouldnโ€™t it be second nature to prepare for these sorts of things by now?โ€

Making a face, Yasmine offered him the pistol back, but Macklin held up a hand, refusing it. โ€œYou can keep it for now. Itโ€™s my only one, but youโ€™ve proven yourself a better shot than me. Itโ€™s more capable in your hands.โ€ With nothing much to do until the Corsairs got within close range, Macklin lazily pulled a cigar from his lapel and lit up. โ€œIโ€™ll dispatch any that make it past you. What with this shipโ€™s negligible defenses, no doubt those buggers will be boarding soon.โ€

Macklin said this boredly, in the way that seasoned soldiers facing a trivial new threat do. In a way, he was almost glad for the unexpected skirmish with the Corsairs. On the open ocean and far away from the royal palace where he worked whenever he was not leading field operations, it had occurred to Macklin that there wasnโ€™t much he could do until whenever they arrived in Siroc, and he could resume his search for the bleeding heart flower that was believed to hold a cure for Queen Sharviโ€™s illness. He wasnโ€™t used to periods of idleness. Time was crucial for the Queen, and the thought that Macklin just had time to kill until the Leviathan reached its next destination made him feel restless. Fighting pirates at least felt like a productive use of time, despite the inherent risks.

He inhaled from his cigar, contemplating how long the pirate riffraff would drag this scuffle out until the Kingsguard clobbered some sense into them. While sleek and armed with cannons, the Reaper was small. Smaller than the Leviathan. Macklin doubted that the infamous Red Baron would be sailing on such a puny and plain vessel. The Baronโ€™s own ship had to be large and foreboding and formidable, striking fear into the hearts of men and coaxing a surrender without the need for engagement. No, for the Baron himself to meet a Kingโ€™s crew head-on like this, he would bring all his forces to bear and take no chances. Whoever was sailing the Reaper was some disposable lackey, likely tasked with weakening the Leviathanโ€™s defenses before the real trap was sprung. He wondered if Yasmine had so far today struck down any of her former comrades, anyone she knew. He wondered if she cared. Unlike her, Macklin had never and would never turn traitor.

As if either the silence or Macklinโ€™s lack of participation in the fight had worn on herโ€”but what did she expect him to do when she had his only gun, hawk and spit lethally on the enemy soldiers?โ€”Yasmine bade him to extend his pretty legs. Macklinโ€™s head turn was quick and sharp, the movement a match makes when it strikes the box. Equal parts taken aback and wildly amused, he smiled and lifted an eyebrow at this particular selection of words. He cackled, and Yasmine eyed him with a little scowl, as if this reaction was not the intended effect of her words and it bemused her.

โ€œYou donโ€™t want to know. Dirty boy joke,โ€ Macklin cautioned. Unable to resist what heโ€™d been about to say, Yasmine threw him another questioning glance, yet this one was also a touch defiant, as if she was daring him to scandalize her. โ€œWell, if you insist,โ€ he began, which was a denial of responsibility and code for you brought this on yourself. Macklin moved closer to Yasmine, standing to her side and a half-step behind her so he could whisper in her ear. Her hair was damp and darkened with ocean spray and smelled like salt. โ€œYou just tell me your room number and give me a time, and Iโ€™ll extend them, all right.โ€ He smiled diabolically.

As if their closeness had provoked a saboteur to disrupt it, Macklin felt a burst of air that parted his hair. An arrow whistled past his left shoulder from behind, perhaps a foot from impaling him and Yasmine. Indignant and unable to believe the incompetence of the fools he was traveling with, Macklin swore and jerked around. He caught a glimpse of pale skin and sleek dark hair before the shooter ducked behind a barrel on the Leviathanโ€™s deck for cover. A flash of white blouse and brown leather pants that looked familiar. โ€œVioletta!โ€ he called out. โ€œVioletta, honey, why donโ€™t you come join us? Shoot from up here before you take the ladyโ€™s or my head off!โ€ The way heโ€™d said honey was not affectionate as some people would. Rather, it was condescending and bitter. In the not unlikely event that his voice was drowned out in bursts of gunfire, Macklin raised an arm, beckoning Violetta in a universal signal to come hither. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if the near miss had truly been accidental.




























































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agnes



the optimist












TW: Child abuse, religious trauma, religious abuse

โ€œHey,โ€
the woman took a deep breath and looked gently at Agnes,
โ€œwe donโ€™t have much time. Right now I need you to trust me. Iโ€™m not going to let them hurt you. Do you have anyone you can go to?โ€


Before she could answer back the motherly woman, the ship jolts again. A consequence of taking another hit.

There comes a point where anxiety and fear eventually numbs itself out, and Agnes suppose that point came when the ship rocked a second time with Dahlia throwing herself on Agnes. The scent is unfamiliar unlock mother but... mama always made experiences like these happen so the only place Agnes ever truly felt safe and happy was with the Oracles and the Stars.

The winces of the man bears her no reactions anymore and neither did his concern for her safety. She suppose she is suppose to be happy about it, but... Resigned to fate itself, she lets Dahlia tug her along like how mama always did when Agnes was too afraid to go into the dark in the Cascades... She knows those things can smell her fear so, so much. Sweet, sweet noctivores waiting to devour the hope and life in her. Mama would always snuff out the light and let them come. Agnes would always beg and beg until mom lead her away with blisters and light growing on their body in each step. These blisters wouldn't stop blooming until they were at the Cathedral to repent.
Repent. Repent what?
Agnes doesn't even know anymore. She just wants it to stop.

A sickly scent of burnt flesh doused the air, but where? It was like that exact moment in the past, being dragged, except by a more motherly hand but only to be lead to a corpse againโ€” just like the very corpse her mother lead her to after the noctivores was finished with their business except more burnt and crispy. The two women reunite in the background while a third quaint woman whom Agnes could see had quite an innocent look stood as silently as she did.

Dahlia's hand immediately turn Agnes' gaze away but it was too late. The image had already burned into her eyes. When Dahlia's gentle hand slip from hers, she knelt down to the molten, splattered body.

She cradled the body and gathered what she could into her embrace. She caressed what's left of its face, as if seeing a reflection. It's her future self. This is second time death had been so intimate with her. Teasing her. What she could not give to herself alive, she'll give to herself dead. She was no prophet but staring at her future, she lifts the corpse up and turn her ear to its lips. There, her future does not speak and utters no more than the booms and cacophony of the background.

A slight nervous, hesitant chuckle elates from her. Her eyebrow raise, surprised she can still even laugh at this moment.

Mama. Mama. Mama.Mama.Mama.Mama.Mama.MamaMamaMamaMamaMamaMamaMamaMamaMatheStarshatemeandithasordainedmeanathemadisinheritedfromthebeautyoftheworld-


She lifts herself up immediately, with the corpse sliding off of her and revealing its bloodstain on her. She turns around to the Dahlia, Rayna, and Madelina. A look of confusion and hurt displays across her face from the lack of voice from the corpse and uncertain of her future anymore.

She looks at the three women. Disbelief in her eyes and unbelief in her nervous smile,
"Do you think the Stars can hear us?"













































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THE MODISTE.
















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Rhys



VAUGHN NAIR




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




HUH, I FOUND SOMEONE INJURED











OUTFIT




LATER











LOCATION




LEVIATHAN'S WHEEL












MENTIONS




N/A










INTERACTS




NEMO, MONTE ( parhelion parhelion , Daddy Dream Daddy Dream )


















MOVEMENT โ€” HOZIER.
































































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TO THREAD THE NEEDLE




is to defy scripture, for the urge to create is carnal bliss.




























CHAPTER FOUR.


Thereโ€™s a gap in her wardrobe.

Rhys perches on the edge of her bed and looks at it, just evaluating. Sheโ€™s already hung all of her clothes and even placed a partition to create a display case for the pieces she plans to create for her clientele. Still, the darkness seems to glare at her. Itโ€™s a bit unseemly for a first-class dressmaker to lack the outfits needed to fill the space thatโ€™s been deemed necessary for affluent passengers.

Knowing that she thought about taking a hiatus from her craft for the duration of the trip, Rhys canโ€™t help but thank her decision to allow her future self the freedom of choice. The thought of having to leave even more of this space makes her click her tongue in distaste, and her painted brows furrow in a clear emphasis of the sentiment.

Then, Rhys hears it, that distant rumble on the horizon. Her Sirocco blood leaps at the sound like itโ€™s the beating of war drums, and she knows its origin with perfect certainty despite having never seen the blast of a cannon. In her childhood, the taste of gunpowder was always the monster under her bed.

With twenty more years under her belt, Rhys is pleased to see that her hands no longer shake from the paranoia that her blood will be the next to stain the streets. Sheโ€™s not the urchin she was before, left without a safe space to hide. She could stay here, in her room, and wait for the crew to weather the storm.

Itโ€™s a choice she used to dream about, but like most childhood dreams, itโ€™s something sheโ€™s grown out of. Rhys slips a pair of fabric scissors into her pocket and ascends the stairs to the deck. Itโ€™d be a pain if pirates took over the ship, and even without a proper weapon, she could still offer to load the cannons.

Yet, as Rhys picks her way through the carnage to do just that, she catches sight of an injured crewmate, and the path in front of her diverges. Pale blond hair silhouettes the manโ€™s head like a halo, and he sits there like some similarly removed divine presence, hands pressed against the red weeping down his side. He mutters something that she canโ€™t hear, but he doesnโ€™t cry or scream or writhe. Itโ€™s like heโ€™s borne the agony and accepted it with all the grace of a saint.

Rhys hates it. Her daughter used to do that when she realized her sickness wouldnโ€™t be getting better.

The manโ€™s lips move again. A request to the heavens? Rhys canโ€™t hear him over the battle, and she certainly doesnโ€™t pray over misfortune, so it seems like sheโ€™ll have to act instead. Of course, itโ€™s not something she does without protest.

โ€œI hate healers,โ€
the mutter escapes from Rhysโ€™s lips as she slips off her jacket and stuffs it towards the manโ€™s bloodstained hands. The truth of her statement shows in her bedside manner, pathetic as it is. She crouches and watches, hands unmoving by her side like her jobโ€™s already been completed by offering Nemo something to staunch his bleeding.

Someone else would be better suited to this. Thereโ€™s one of those someones standing at the wheel, and despite his occasional glances across the deck, thereโ€™s something determined etched into his expression.
โ€œCaptain,โ€
she calls, because surely thatโ€™s who this man is,
โ€œtell me how to handle a shrapnel injury, would you?โ€


Itโ€™d be a disaster if the captain let go of the wheel, and in the chaos thatโ€™s descended on the ship, there seems to be a decided lack of any unoccupied ship hands. Rhys resigns herself to the duty of being the unfortunate vessel whoโ€™ll have to carry out those instructions.





























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THE OPHIDIAN.






























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YASMINE










LAVIGNE








ใ…Žใ…Ž






























MOOD








FOCUSED























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








THE DECK




















MENTIONS








JACKSON




















INTERACTIONS








MACKLIN | VIOLETTA













































LETHAL WOMAN โ€” DOVE CAMERON.
































































































































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POWER IS POWER








The gods have no mercy, thatโ€™s why theyโ€™re gods.





























































CHAPTER FOUR PT II.

Yasmineโ€™s lips only grew into that trademark smirk of hers, displaying an unimpressed expression with his wolffish wit. It was a part of his charm that she had gotten used to, or rather found ways to continue their banter in order to ease the intensity between them. The difference between Macklin and her alibi (her fake husband Jackson) was simply what they had to offer. Jackson offered a limited use of his skills to her, other than a cover she would desperately need if anything. He knew how to talk and adapt to situations to say the least. While he spoke out of his ass, he simply knew how to distract the other without effort. She hasnโ€™t truly seen him in a fight, but she had to guess that he probably knew how to handle a sword. Not well, but enough to get him to run. He was a pawn in a game she was playing with leagues that hid in the shadow. An unfortunate endeavor for a fellow fluvian, but it could be worse โ€” she practically saved him from spending a night in a cell.

With Macklin it was more than just playing house โ€” their history was delicate, intense, and dangerous. With every relationship she had created with other unfortunate souls were artificial, stagnant, and nothing more, but when it came to Macklin there was something magnetic. Their tango between the powers aligned were tainted in a familiar fog that made their love madder than those drinking the tea in algol. It was a sweet poison that ran through her blood that fueled her prerogative. A curse being that what she truly felt would cause her to go mad, even if the cards told a different story.

โ€œIf I didnโ€™t know any better, Iโ€™d think youโ€™d almost miss playing cards in shitty taverns and being a perpetual thorn in my side. I wouldnโ€™t have taken you for the sentimental type,โ€ he teased.

She smirked, letting her silence be the answer. If she were to truly lay out her cards, the game wouldnโ€™t be as fun. Afterall, if it was the games he missed then he surely hasnโ€™t been paying to the one they were currently playing. Her eyes settled on targets that she was able to get rather than on ones that were probable, a difference between both agents when it came to their styles in combat. From what she had observed, Macklin expected the unexpected or what ifs. But with Yasmine if she canโ€™t see the target or know its exact point, she wouldnโ€™t waste a shot.

โ€œShouldnโ€™t it be second nature to prepare for these sorts of things by now?โ€

โ€œMost of the time, mon cล“ur,โ€ she cooed, finishing her set of rounds before trying to give it back.

With him denying it, she began to question if she had triggered something in the man. Her eyes softly laid on him bringing that disgusting habit to his lips. Smoking? Really? It was one way to quit drinking for sure, but one vice after another โ€” maybe she should recommend yoga to him. Heโ€™d at least find some sort of benefit with that. It came plain to her that most people need it.

His cackle after her comment left her questioning about her effect on him. It wasnโ€™t surprising from the way his eyes looked at her with possession and sin, and his own cautious words trying to deflect his own form of greedy thoughts made her just want to poke at his heart even more. In reality, her mask hid that amusement and scowled at him for acting like a teenager.

If it werenโ€™t for her concentration on the pirates, she would have grabbed him by the throat for how close he was to her. His breath tickled against the perspiration on her skin and she took in a deep breath. She raised a brow at his invitation and boy, does this poor man have it bad. Couldnโ€™t even buy her a drink first.

The next part had caught the serpent by surprise, and it was the kind of surprise that sent her instincts to kick into her merciless, huntress. Being impaled by an arrow was not in Yasmineโ€™s destiny โ€” her head quickly jerked with eyes set on the target, her body following in position with a natural poise and just before her finger extended the trigger did she stop mid second to pull it back.

It seemed Macklin had been busy with other beautiful women after all. Hair as dark as night, skin white as snow, she could have said this woman came out from a fairytale. Then it hit her, it was the same woman who had extended a hand who brushed against her skin. Now this intrigued Yasmine and she forced the gun down to fully observe this โ€˜Violettaโ€™ woman. Other than the white of her blouse and brown trousers, she seemed to be a woman poised, graceful, and not a bad shot โ€” for someone who may need a little practice in their aim.

โ€œYou really have been busy now have you, mon cล“ur,โ€ she teased.

Her eyes returned back to the enemy coming closer and with her eyes widening, a hand extended to Macklin with a protective hand. The whistling split of a cannon pierced against her ear drums with black clouds intoxicating the air around them.

โ€œDOWN!โ€ She yelled.

Her feet pushed first running towards Violetta, her arms reaching to hug the duchess and gliding against the wood behind a set of barrels with her body covering the woman. She closed her eyes ready to brace for the impact that was coming, mind rushing and adrenaline sprinting through her veins. They were coming, and they were coming for blood and tears for the leviathan.

Fucking pirates.



























































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THE ARCHER.






























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Knox
Hood






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









โžต โžต






























MOOD








Military Man Knox, Activated




















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 the brig of The Reaper






















MENTIONS








Hollow and The Brig Bitches (Mentioned: Devana, Gallin, Hollow, Sonya, Calanthe, Ephraim, Bizzy)





































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.


There was a lot to process, and while Knox had a smart mouth, this was not the time for words.While in the Kingโ€™s guard, Knox Hood was trained to act first. Think never. Donโ€™t ask questions, donโ€™t solve problems beyond your pay, and certainly donโ€™t speak up when your voice wasnโ€™t needed. Now was not the time to placate the mad pirate, nor was it the time to get all noble about the writer, Gallin Forestson, who no doubt had made many enemies over the years in his line of work. Knox included, no matter how entertaining he was when they all gathered for songs and stories on the deck.

There was something to be said about the way militia training embeds itself in your DNA, just waiting for the trigger to activate. Turns out, the key to activating Knoxโ€™s super soldier mindset lay in the act of Hollow pulling out his gun and firing it in Lady Devanaโ€™s direction. Bang! He missed, somehow, and the shock from the discharge rattled him for only a moment before his spine stiffened. This man was dangerous.
But when Hollow recklessly bashed his gun against the shipโ€™s interior, causing another shot to ring out, the bullet thankfully landing in the ceiling, Knoxโ€™s eyes narrowed. This man was dangerous and stupid. As the skeleton pirate lifted his chin to let out a laugh, folding over as if a comedian was entertaining the scene and not a deranged, armed pirate, Knox determined he must be dealt with swiftly, and as quickly as possible.

The pirate continued to taunt the Lady Devana through the bars, fixated on the gun in his hand before sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. He was tinkering with the weapon, as if he hadnโ€™t been preoccupied with terrorizing the imprisoned innocents moments before. Carelessly (though Knox determined at this point the pirate was not so concerned with care) the barrel pointed towards the others, and the masked man fuckinโ€™ pulled out a knife, going to work on fixing the aim of the gun.

At least they had some more time to figure a way through this mess.

Out of the corner of his eye, Knox noticed a young man he hadnโ€™t noticed before, scooching carefully towards the familiar, haunted man. The boy had conspiracy in his eyes and a rock in his hand, so Knox let him work and tried his best not to draw any attention to him. Sonya, the goddess creature who woke him, moved quickly to Lady Calanthe. Apparently they were old friends, which was a regrettable strike against Sonya, though she had conspiracy in her eyes as she also noticed the boy with the rock.

Suddenly, the cell was loud with Lady Calantheโ€™s irritating babble. Doing what she did best, which was to relentlessly yap about everything no one but she cared about, though now that sheโ€™s weaponizing her conversation, Knox couldnโ€™t help but admire the quality. While Hollow was occupied with her ramblings, the archer quietly crossed behind, not taking his eyes off the weapons in his hands. All he needed was one moment and a little luck to get them out of his hands and hopefully into his own. Or at least to someone who could utilize them in their favour.

In an impressive showing of cunning and strength, the Lady Calanthe snatched Hollow by the collar, Sonya grabbing hold of his other arm. The boy with the rock was posed to strike, but it was a prosthetic leg cutting down from above which knocked him down. Both the gun and the knife flew through the bars, clattering to the floor at his feet. Both weapons were collected in haste and Knox aimed the gun at the pirate. He took some steps back, deeper in the cell, tossing the knife in the direction of the tall man who yelled earlier.

That was a mistake.

The man threw the knife back and Knox decided Sonya was safer to wield it. Without glancing at her, he offered the blade handle first. His eyes were firmly locked on the now unmasked pirate who was falling apart right in front of them.

It pained Knox to think of the man as grotesque, but the trauma in his face was undeniable. Eyes were red and wild as his hands scrambled to find his mask in his disoriented state. Skin and bone puzzled back together after what must have been a near death smashing. The scars cut through his face like rivers on a map. It made Knoxโ€™s browline furrow as he stayed focused on his target.

Knox didnโ€™t care for guns, though there was no fundamental difference between shooting a gun and a bow. Aim. Shoot. Hit the target. Mechanically speaking, a gun was cold and brutal. Not that he ever wished to aim his arrows at anyone, he didnโ€™t want to kill this man. Even if he was acting like an absolute terror, pulling the trigger on the sniveling and grovelling man felt wrong without due process.

He started his manifestations, mask secured once again. โ€œI am not Gallin. I am not Gallin. I am not Gallin. No. I am more dashing. I am funnier, duh. I am richer. Wellโ€ฆno, that oneโ€™s not trueโ€ฆBut I will be richer when heโ€™s dead! That counts!โ€

Knox knew Gallin in a casual manner. Both were prone to storytelling at night. Whether Gallin knew who he was, Gallinโ€™s column was the subject of much conversation around the citadel. There wasnโ€™t a noble around who hadnโ€™t had at least one moment of spotlight seasoned and ready for the enjoyment of the precious dewdrops within his fanbase. It was the cutting account of the massacre which claimed the lives of many of his friends and fiancรฉ that made Knox hold Gallin at an arms length.

But what was the connection between him and this pirate?

Renewed, Hollowโ€™s anguish turned into rage and he turned on the cell once again. โ€œIโ€™m not Gallin, okay?! When he dies, Iโ€™ll be richer than him too! Mark my words! But as for youโ€ฆyouโ€ฆyou heathens! You are all tarnished, the lot of you! You were born in darkness and raised in sin, the stars have never shone upon you and you have not seen their light. How dare you stain me with your filthy hands?!โ€

The pirate moved as if to raise his gun towards the Lady Calanthe. Knox stiffened his position, taking one step towards the crumbling man in front of him. As if he forgot his gun had left his hand โ€œNot Gallinโ€ lifted his hand in an ill intentioned pantomime to Calanthe. A panic raised in the pathetic pirate as he patted himself down to look for the weapons he had lost.

It was petty of Knox to clear his throat at this moment, cocking his head towards the gun firm in his hand, but it had been a longโ€ฆgod, it hadnโ€™t even been 24 hours since the ship docked in Antares.

Hollowโ€™s diatribe sweetened as if he could be persuaded to return the weapons to their owner. As far as Knox was concerned, everyone was better off without the wildly unstable man being armed.

โ€œThey get really lonely without me, you see.โ€

โ€œI doubt thatโ€ Confidence bloomed deep within him as Knox stepped forward, gun held away from reach in his right as his left hand grasped the front of โ€œNot Gallinโ€™sโ€ shirt. The leverage as his body was pulled against the bars helped Knox bring Hollow to his feet. โ€œNow, I assume you had this gun loaded before you decided to take some shots at the lady. I can assure you, this bullet has your name on it if you try anything funny.โ€ With a turn of his wrist, Knox tightened his grip on the pirateโ€™s shirt. โ€œSo, how about, we keep your gun and your knife. You help us out of this cell and get our personal effects back to us. Maybe you get your belongings back.โ€ For added measure, Knox jerked the man against the bars, fabric twisted in his grip. โ€œDoes that sound fair to youโ€ฆNot Gallin?โ€




















































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(Again - I will code later)

FLORA
Mentions: Rosaline, Yasmine, Captain Lexis
Where: Her cabin, dining hall, MAP ROOM

What was going on?

This was the first thought to enter Floraโ€™s consciousness as she opened her eyes. The following thoughts ranged from inquiries for why she was still fully dressed, passed out on the bed with sheets still piled in the corner on the floor, and the recognition of sharp pain behind her eyes. Her mouth was fuzzy and tasted of sour liquors that clung to the back of her throat. She could hear the blood in her ears. Ow. Ow?

Aww - Babyโ€™s first hangover.

Truthfully, Flora was still quite intoxicated from her night out in Antares with Aurelian. There were few thoughts of consequences while she was occupied with her search for Adriusโ€™ favourite liquor. They did find some delicious street foods in the night market of the pirate port. After Aurelianโ€™s confession of friendship, they sunk into a light hearted state. Flora was curious about all there was to offer, and Aurelian was passionate about finding the best eats, which she didnโ€™t mind one bit. In fact, she trusted his expertise on the matter given he was a skilled cook. Obviously, he must know about food. The pair returned to the ship a few clock chimes to dawn, much later than either had anticipated.

Soft burps threatened to raise the bile from her stomach to her throat and Flora nearly decided to stay in bed until her body felt more normal. Her lonely cabin was dark and a little stale. She really has been living like a ghost in the weeks since Algol, but something shifted within her. Maybe it was the mysterious meats they consumed off sticks, or a revelation that there were many gifts to be discovered as her journey continued. The Leviathan was meant to make many stops around Solas, surely they would stop in The Canals.

Yes - She would make it home soon enough.

For the moment however, Flora needed fresh air and something to balance her stomach. A quick glance in the mirror revealed her mussed up hair and rumpled clothing. In the excitement of their night, Flora forgot to ask Aurelian to help her find a second dress to wear. Her fingers raked through her deep brown hair in an attempt to smooth the frizz. It would have to do, along with the dirty dress, but it was just breakfast - No one would judge her. Flora didnโ€™t quite care regardless.

She was very wobbly as she made her way through the hallway from the cabin to the dining hall. A burst of sunlight strained her eyes, activating the deep pain in her forehead once again. Aurelian working, a pleasure to see as he had been absent from his duties for the previous weeks. He must have been very busy because he didnโ€™t see her as she waved to him. Flora didnโ€™t spend too much time on that thought because her eyes were drawn to a bowl of plump, bright red fruit.
Strawberries - she had forgotten what Aurelian had said last night. He was a true friend for thinking of her.

With the restraint of someone stronger than her base will, Flora piled a generous mountain of the fruit on her plate leaving at the very least half of the bowl for the rest of the passengers. A twisted pastry joined the strawberries on her plate along with a scoop of hot oats. Inoffensive fuel for her day.

These days Flora has been dining with her friend Yasmine, who was seated with the lady she recognised as Rosaline. She was a bold and friendly woman with whom she had had good conversation with, so Flora joined the table. Pleasantries were exchanged, and her new friend Rosaline got her some water and eggs, which did help the queasy feeling in her stomach. They were both attractive and notably clean, caught in conversation but Flora was mostly focused on the strawberries for the time being.

They were perfect. Just as she had been dreaming about for months. Between bites, she told the ladies about her escapades with Aurelian, justifying her hangover and messy state. With the shipโ€™s water replenished, she looked forward to giving all of her fabrics a good wash.

This is where the morning got hazy for Flora.

Something was happening. Yasmine excused herself to handle whatever she needed to handle, like a tall, beautiful warrior. Pride welled in her chest at her best friend. How strong she grew to be.

Rosaline tasked herself with escorting Flora to her cabin, but they were intercepted by the captain who apparently needed their assistance in the โ€œcartography roomโ€. It wasnโ€™t long before Flora learned the word โ€œcartographyโ€ was just a fancy word for maps. "I require a nautical almanac. The one I seek bears an illustrated octopus and three creases in the top right."

She had no idea what he was looking for, but she could look for an octopus. At first, she was careful to select the map, remove it from its encasement, and return it to the shelf. However, the captain didnโ€™t seem to think they required much care as he discarded maps hastily. There was an urgency in him that she hadnโ€™t seen before, as oftentimes Captain Graves was a reserved individual.

Still, the maps were fascinating. Rosaline helped in earnest while Flora got lost in the drawings of lands she hadnโ€™t yet seen. The task of finding the octopus was gone, instead she was taking in the image of familiar waterways and mountains in the latest map she had unrolled.

There it was: The Canals. Her home.

How long she looked at the map didnโ€™t matter. It didnโ€™t help the fact that at some point, a cannonball blasted into the ship somewhere, rocking her back and forth like an earthquake. On instinct, Flora hit the deck (literally) crushing the discarded maps beneath her and covering her head. โ€œWhat was that?โ€ she exclaimed. Was it the octopus they were trying to find? Even she knew that was illogical. Why would an octopus emerge from a map and attack the ship? She wasnโ€™t thinking straight. Confusion was her natural state of being apparently, as a wave of unpredictable events unfolded next.
 





THE KNIGHT















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Knight



MONTE




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




Focused and Frustrated











LOCATION




LEVIATHAN WHEEL












MENTIONS




Lexis






















Make Me Your Villainโ€” Bookish Songs
































































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DO BETTER




I find your lack of logic disturbing.






























CHAPTER 4 - Battle of the Levi

Monte turned toward the new body that joined the fray and furrowed his brow. Where did this woman come from? Why was she here? Didnโ€™t she know it was dangerous up here as is? And did she just call him Captain?! He narrowed her eyes at her seemingly posh demeanor and sighed, turning away from her to assess the situation. The enemy was approaching fast with another attack and people were flooding the deck for some reason other than safety. Turning back to the woman, he resigned to the idea that she was one of the few who resorted to being up top than below. He also wanted to correct her on the mistaken identity, but that was not important

โ€I can help, but it will involve a lot of blood and the chap there will be screaming. If youโ€™ve got the nerve, then find a hot iron and shove a belt in his mouth.โ€

Monte had tons of experience patching up wounds from his days in the service of the crown. From stopping the bleeding with hot plates and herbs to sloppy stitches of deep cuts, basic medical knowledge was just something that he carried with a note of importance. Shaking his head a bit from his mind, Monte continued with the explanation.

โ€How deep is the shrapnel and where is it located? If it looks shallow and not in any major areas like the leg, center of the gut, or chest then you will need to pull it out and quickly cauterize the wound with the hot iron. If it is in one of those three areaโ€™s, leave it. Moving it may cause even more extreme bleeding.โ€

Monte was about to continue when all of a sudden the enemy had fired another round of cannons at them. The ship jerked and the string of curses that came from his mouth was loud. He watched from above as someone had tackled Violetta to the ground, allowing her to keep herself from being injured from the next attack. His hands gripped on the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white as his eyes darted to the enemy. Thoughts of ramming this massive vessel into their ship ran through his mind repeatedly. He wanted to capsize their ship somehow, but would it even be possible without taking significant damage?





























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THE DUCHESS















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๊ณต์ž‘๋ถ€์ธ



VIOLETTA




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




Flustered and Flirty?











LOCATION




DECK












MENTIONS




Macklin










INTERACTS




















Abbeyโ€” Mitsky

































































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Be Yourself,




you don't make history by being liked.






























CHAPTER 4 - Trouble Arises

His voice grated on her ears when Macklin shouted out to her. His tone of voice took her out of focus on her current task of taking out the enemy. Instead, she looked around the barrel at a beaconing Macklin and her eyes narrowed. Why could he possibly want her to come up there? Was the arrow from before a little too close for his liking? She tilted her head dramatically, signaling that she was feigning cluelessness before notching three more arrows. If he was upset with how she was shooting, Maybe he could do a better job at hitting his targets.

She raised her bow once more, notching 3 more arrows and standing to shoot them off when she heard a yell and witnessed the woman Macklin had been talking to had charged at her. It wasnโ€™t aggressive, she didnโ€™t have that look in her eyes, but it was more so protective. And then she heard the reason why. An explosion echoed again, another cannonball had hit the ship and as she lay under this woman, she could feel the ship shake.

Once the chaos was over, Violetta blinked some and looked up at Yasmine. My, she was quite pleasing to look at, she would do well with aiding her in business deals with tricky clients. And judging by what was pressed against her own body, she had the goods as well to help. Using her free hand, she gently touched Yasmineโ€™s side and have a soft smile of appreciation.

โ€Why, thank you Miss. Your swift actions saved me some injuries, however, are you alright yourself?โ€ Violetta then used that hand and reached around Yasmine to check on her back, feeling around gently and pulling away to look for blood. โ€No sign of open wounds, that is a relief.โ€ Violetta then started to shift, intending for the two of them to get up, before she started relooking for her arrows. โ€Oh, and do forgive me for the close call of my arrow earlier. I had noticed someone was not a very good shot, so I had to help pick them off.โ€





























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THE CAPTAIN.















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LEXIS



THE CAPTAIN




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




MOST SANE BLONDE EVER CREATED
















LOCATION




LEVIATHAN'S DECK












MENTIONS




ROSALINE, FLORA, MONTE, NEMO.






















TRAVELIN' MAN โ€” 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 PART II.

โ€œI have not examined it, no. Perhaps I should spend more time here.โ€

โ€œYes.โ€ Lex answers, and that is his engaging contribution to the conversation until he finds the three headed fish and the map with the coastal shading.

The woman in blueโ€” Lexis likes blue โ€” blue like ocean โ€” gasp, Lexis likes the blue ocean โ€” pay attention โ€”nods, but her lack of โ€œoooโ€ or โ€œahhโ€ brings Lex pause, a stutter in his enthusiasm to be sharing these fascinating items.

The Captain discards that map with the others.

There is disappointment that does not matter given the current circumstance, and speaking about decorative map art now feels unwelcome when they do not have the same interest. The widow is taken with a specific piece, but Lexis makes no move to prompt her to hurry or disturb her intrigue.

Perhaps one day he can talk about the three headed fish with her. Best not annoy them further, lest they hurt him.

With the ignition of cannons sounding at a distance, he pauses to listen to the direction and divines Monte has followed instruction. It thaws the blonde, slightly, to the noble fighter who has not tarried from order. Something should feel guilty to always be expecting the worst of people, but it is not easy when the worst people are about to gouge his beloved open with iron.

A soft, โ€œit is advised to hold something,โ€ is barely audible as he braces his hand against the shelf and waits for the impact, but preparation does not dull the sour aftertaste as he hears the shatter of wood and tremor through her spine. He worries his nails against the mahogany till the trembling soothesโ€” the ships or his own, he is not entirely sure, and unwinds the tension of his blunting molars.

โ€œWhat was that?โ€ The widow exclaims (from the floor).

โ€œMain deck. Southern flank.โ€ He can map this ship blind alone, maybe it should not be a surprise his weird affinity for the boat includes estimations on collision locations. โ€œPirate in origin, cannon in method.โ€

It upsets him, of course. He thinks he dies a little at every impact, but it isnโ€™t death just yet when he knows he will be the first to follow her fate. The blonde listens half-mindedly to the disorder tendering the ceiling, and deeper the Captainโ€™s mind swims on. Hounding through parchment and blindly palming along the highest shelves.

โ€œSnakes are ambush predators.โ€ What. โ€œPlease hold.โ€ The non sequitur of his comment is not without purpose, and again the noise of a collision above sends aftershock quaking the wooden coffin. He rights himself from the disturbance with a step, then returns to his search insouciant and confusing as ever.

โ€œThey do not chase. They wait to strike, wrap, and then engage in consumption.โ€ Maybe the fight above deck would make more sense than this, at least it would be clear in its intent. Another blast, the ship creaks and dust falls from the ceiling beams. Things clatter from the desk. Lexis barely blinks. Perhaps he forgot to. Skinwalker type shit.

โ€œChasing is beneath the Leviathan,โ€ she is too hefty for it, but that does not align with the blondeโ€™s romanticised view of the vessel and is carefully omitted. This big-back bitch is slow and canโ€™t turn for shit. โ€œWe are not running, we are just waiting for our time to strike.โ€

Waiting for what is the contents of that map, and Lex kicks the heap of parchment away from his boots to make space for more. He will apologize to the navigator and her treasured charts at a later time. If they survive.

If he dies he doesnโ€™t have to be forgiven for kicking her maps around, a comfort.

There was no clean certainty to the plan. Either a wise decision or an utterly, fatally self-righteous choice to weigh the lives of many on an outdated map created by god knows who. Itโ€™s not a comfortable manoeuvre, but turning naturally is predictably slow and a ship of the Reaperโ€™s size would not dare confront the Leviathan without knowing advantages.

Lexis likes to gamble, but he does not want to guess with this ship as a casualty. Not with her. A goliath in every senseโ€”built for endurance, not evasion.

More maps, too generic, too broad or too vague, Antares is such a familiar haunt that heโ€™d never required a guide through its waters. Reasonably, itโ€™s simple enough to navigate anyway, there is nothing out here but the occasional isle and Antares as the closest landmark. But what he cannot garner through observation is what lies below the water.

Could be sand. Another tube hits the floor. Reef? Might be rocks. If it is silt? Dead in the water, there is no plan beyond this and thereโ€™d be no mythology to be made of it.

The room feels suffocatingly small as the ship rocks violently under another hit. There is a serrated edge forming to Lexโ€™s movements as he pulls maps from the shelves with diminishing care to their condition. That is the thing about urgency, it amplifies everything and Lexis is nothing but a restless man who operates on action.

He finds it tucked below a pile of old charts, likely never used due to their utility only serving newborn sailors. Clears the desk of the Siroc map in one careless sweep of his arm and goes to flatten the item of fixation.

When an edge curls defiantly, a letter opener from the desk is speared into the top right corner of the map. Metal strikes the wood beneath it and pins the parchment in place, and Lex is ignorant to the unsettling nature of the aggressive action when amidst the cruciality of time. He smooths the lower half of the map and scours for the source of his neurosis.

Eyes havenโ€™t left the grid, and itโ€™s debatable if the blonde has forgotten about the two women until he finally speaks. โ€œSand wonโ€™t hold.โ€ His voice is quiet as per, but maybe the Captain has gone insane. Maybe he has been insane.

Typical blonde activities.

โ€œI want to anchor.โ€ It is the only thing that could bring her about sharply enough to be parallel with the other vessel. Or rip the ship into two. Gambling! "But the anchor needs a solid base. If it's sand, we will drift. If it's rock or reef, we can utilize it to turn sharply."

Like tipping a cathedral on a coin or rolling a tree on a rope, the danger is endless when dropping the anchor this way. Pitching the ship, snapping the anchor line, breaking bowspirit or collision with the hull. His mind is active with attempts to approximate what the result of this decision could bring, audibly ticking away with the sands of time.

Their location is an estimation for a man whose directions consist of โ€œI know the shape of that tree so we go that wayโ€. Nine nautical miles or ten, he looks over abbreviated letters inked into the shores of the nearest isles and has to decide if the same will apply to the sea floor out here.

He straightens himself with a steadying inhale. Between Rosaline and Flora, he wonders if a goodbye is appropriate. โ€œYour assistance today is appreciated.โ€ A farewell would feel a macabre end to their companionship, the final drive of nails into a coffin. Always at a loss for the correct words, he can only leave the women with the same advice. Detached and strange as all of Lexโ€™s habits tend to be.

โ€œHold something.โ€

And he means it, for what is to come is a coin-flip between immolation or salvation.



For a man who never hurries, heโ€™d climbed the stairs back to the main deck three at a time. At first, the Captain doesnโ€™t quite make out what heโ€™s met with. Through the black fog of perdition, it parts and he knows the shapes littered across the wood are not just twitching lumps of shrapnel .

He ought to bristle, ought to be disarmed at the cruor and raw suffering, but the underbelly of the matter is simple: No gory work will ever be too filthy for his hands. Haemorrhaging shadows are like an oil slick beneath his boot, and he recognises the slide of it on wood the same as he does snow. Death strikes the same here as it does in the arctic waste, the heart of men does not change; they still beat and they still bleed, they can kill and be killed in return.

It coats him like viscous gray, bottom of the drawer reassurance, one may gauge it as bottom of the drawer humanity as he treads over half a body. It has to do, in situations like this. He has people that look to him for guidance, and the orchestrated front that he bears, unwavering and unfaltering in gaze and stature is all he can provide to erode the tumult of the main deck. A blank canvas to render whatever it is others need to see.

Her smoking chassis and guttered decking are what hold him to silence, a glimmer of emotion that goes beyond the tepid nature. See, the thing he has loved since genesis is now suffering and he cannot bear a moment of it. Odysseus gave six men to pass Scylla and see the remainder of his crew unscathed. Sacrifice is always a roll of the dice, but how Lexis wished there was no sacrifice at all.

The unmoving monolith of the Captain has turned to look up at Monte, waits till his idling amidst the bedlam catches the helmsmanโ€™s attention. He nods to the other in both approval and dismissal, for the next section is mercy of the sea rather than the turn of a wheel.

There is no sight of the other blonde at their side and Lexis assumes the worst. There is no need to complicate his position with long-standing entanglements. Better to write each name in even, slanting script to families and archive it before he ever welcomes the time to think about it, the time to walk the descent into the waking horror of guilt.

How little has changed since Umbra, but once up to your elbows encrusted in viscera and tissue and filth, it leaves little room for amelioration. Just like before thereโ€™s an axe in handโ€” pilfered from a puddle of blood, and Lex is moving towards something with intent to cleave it free.

Near the bow of the ship is where the capstan fashions itself, a drum of removable bars that lower and raise the anchor with manual precision. Itโ€™s regrettable but things break easiest at the joints, and he smooths his hand over the axle with what is likely a silent apology.

He smells the crewmate before he hears them, that acrid blend of saltpeter and sulfur. Heโ€™d recognise that incendiary granule only second to the Leviathanโ€™s polish, and the hoarse voice that follows is the confirmation they have spent too long chewing tobacco.

โ€œCaptain, whatโ€™s the order?โ€

Lexis doesnโ€™t turn right away, itโ€™s easier when you do not see their faces or learn their names. His palm stays pressed to the capstan, thumb finding a dented groove as if it might tell him the correct answer. Careless behavior, the blonde has already appointed blame to one of the rich guests mishandling something.

Quietly he commits to the decision. โ€œLoad cannons on starboard. Brace.โ€

A beat of silence.

โ€œโ€ฆ Brace for what, sir?โ€ The voice is pale, not with fear but with the confusion of someone given a senseless command.

โ€œBoarding." A pause of thought. "Potentially death.โ€

So cheerful!

The man hesitates with discomfort but nods, oversized boots scuffing as he vanishes through the crowd to disperse order. The plan feels more like a final plunge for a foothold than an iron-wrought strategy, and something in Lexis finds it amusing. It had been increasingly difficult to balance the expensive cargo of wealthy patrons with the unknown variables of danger. See, fatten a ship with the lavish, the opulent uselessness, and one will find a shortfall when it comes to mettle and backbone.

The pawls sit like crooked wooden teeth, notches to prevent the anchor unwinding on its own accord. There is a great need to explain the gesture, but Lexis doesnโ€™t make any intention to do so. Risky, insane, he sees expressions in the periphery and can recognise doubt as he raises and brings the handaxe down over the first pin. He keeps hacking till one jolts loose, then another, and another, till things begin to creak unsteadily; a sign that the weight of the anchor begins to exceed the mechanism.

The unravel is instantaneous, rapidly tearing to life as the capstan brake splinters and the chain unzips into the sea. She lurches sideways, and he meant it entirely when he said hold something, meant it entirely when he passed the order to brace. Ugly but effective, he does not enjoy using her like an instrument, and as she is wrest aside, it is artless as only a movement crafted from force could be.

He stumbled with the pivot, had half the mind to reach for the capstan to steady himself, corrected only by the noise and likelihood of flaying his hand to ribbons of skin. Finds the shrouds instead and feels the burn of rope chew into his fingers as the ship begins to lurch with momentum.

If it is not pirates that want to pepper them with shot, itโ€™s the seaโ€™s ambition to eat them whole. He should be exhausted of life hanging in the equilibrium of people or water, and this rebellion from the ocean seething below harkens back to the temper of Algolโ€™s storm. Careening from casualty to casualty, things are moving and he can hear the heavy drag of furniture below deck, hear the fall of bodies from deck to sea.

She rights herself with the Reaper now ahead of them, and the newfound intensity of opportunity finds the charred sections of the Leviathan less significant. Dawns her with sun and confidence where it is due.

Maybe itโ€™s not necessary to incite retaliation of their own cannonfire at this distance, but tragedy and victory are seldom not intertwined and a macabre levity bedevils the blonde with something spiteful. Something still aches, just a little, for all that she will lay waste to. A sleek vessel, but this feels like a long awaited acclaim after a lifetime of enduring.

The crew has permission for it now, a target to be angry at, a direction to howl.

It does not illustrate anything outside of a fanciful whim, but Lex is not swift to temper and even now he is not angry with the circumstances. Itโ€™s fair, he effaces the line of what is cruel and what is necessary and redraws it further away. Killing must be done for a purpose, this is what he has always pled.

โ€œFire.โ€ He orders, and the chainlink of stronger voices carry it down the deck till the side of the Leviathan erupts in ignition.






























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IN-CHARACTER

PURSUIT PART II

ROGUE WAVES
ANTARES.
CHAPTER FOUR
๐‚๐‡๐€๐๐“๐„๐‘ ๐…๐Ž๐”๐‘, ๐๐€๐‘๐“ ๐ˆ๐ˆ.
๐Ž๐œ๐ญ๐จ๐›๐ž๐ซ ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ”๐ญ๐ก, ๐ญ๐ฐ๐จ ๐ก๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ฌ ๐Ÿ๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ ๐€๐ง๐ญ๐š๐ซ๐ž๐ฌ.
Any sense seems to be nameless onboard the cindering ship, adorned with leaking capillary and scattered bodies. An eternity of cannonfire that sloughs wood from her bones, the state of the Leviathan is rendered down to a fleeing animal leaving a meteor trail of blood.
This might be its fate, sentenced to cave in on itself just like bodies do. There and gone like a wisp of lint, a death-knell sounding in each cannon and the cold, bloodless plunge of wood impaling meat like a palisade. It transcends language, translates all meaning except waiting to die, and her joints grind themselves blunt in the effort to remain upright.
Itโ€™s a sound that stretches over the valleys of limb and carcass, something close and heavy yet untouchable as the sky itself. Not the shrill of cannonfire or tremble of screaming esophagus, but the loud peal of running chains reverberating through the floors of the Leviathan. They tear through the hawsehole at terrifying speed, metal on wood and glowing livid with enough friction to deglove untilโ€”
The anchor finds the altar of the seafloor with a jolt to liquefy the spine, and it's profound enough to throttle the entire ship. A violent pivot as it snags on something solid below, the bow dips deep, drags to the sideโ€” then swings the stern wide, pitching those onboard with enough vehemence to send several over the edge.
Aurelian Fiocchi, Lucrezia Cambridge, and Rayna Mallor.
The ocean churns to foam beneath the crush of her defiant hull, surging waves and harkening back to the turmoil of the Algol storm. Wind screams through the rigging and sails snap like whips as they replenish after the axis, and the entire ship has spurred into a wheeling turn that finally allows their guns to come into position.
The Reaper tries to redirect but it is too late; The Leviathan is now in its parallel with infinite, brazen audacity and a full splay of cannons that await one order. At this distance the masts almost tangle, a confident swing of rope and one could reach the other, and for a halcyon second everything slows to an eerie, dreamlike crawl.
The Reaper is blurred in the dark of simmering smoke like a revenant, and through the burning miasma is the vulnerable sight of pirates seeking shelter. Maybe there is no need to laden the Reaper with iron, at this distance they are akin to shooting fish in a barrel, but when reigned by the whims and carnality of a ship-loving blonde who has been ever so patient in his eagerness, restraint would feel like an offence to her status.
The soft declaration of Fire ignites a chain reaction of orders through the vessel, and the deafening split of cannons chews through the entire length of the Reaper, stem to stern, paring her open in fragment and shellac. Her side caves in and on the recoil do their masts crack into each other and entangle with a rain of splinters.
The divide of the field dissolves to a thin strip of black sea between the ships, and on cue is the inevitable: a clash of crews, a bleed of contagion as they spill across in a frenzy of mutual destruction. Violent choreography is bloodletting, wine-sweet and razored to the bone. Itโ€™s the sort that sharpens a man and whets biting steel.
What are you prepared to do? Better yet, what are you prepared to become?
{IN-CHARACTER}
night owl
 










THE VAGABOND.






























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Lizbeth






Jessup








ใ…Žใ…Ž






























MOOD








Baby's Gotta Do What A Baby's Gotta Do.























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








The Reaper's Brig.

























MENTIONS








Hollow, Knox, Calanthe, & Adrian





















INTERACTS








































DO YOU LOVE ME? โ€”
NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS.

































































































































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You know it's your blood








That I bleed
Tell me that there's some way
That I'll get through the night.





























































CHAPTER FOUR.


Watching Mr. Bonesโ€™ hysterics, yelling and accusing everyone and no one in particular at the same time, Bizzy was reminded of a lamb separated from its mother shortly after birth. They kicked up a storm, mewling and bleating their heads off, because they could smell the blood in the air and knew they were being wrenched out from under the wing of safety and sent to slaughter.

When he brought religion into it, a single spark of anger popped in Bizzyโ€™s chest. She was tempted to show Skeleton Man what she thought of his passing judgment on her with another jarring hit over the head, but her prosthetic leg had fallen to the floor. I would have been better off if the Stars had never shone their infernal light upon me. Me and all those acolytes who went to the Noctivores, she thought, hands clenched into fists. Memories tore inside Bizzyโ€™s mind like an open wound. Shadowy jaws, so dark that they almost defied the eyeโ€™s ability to perceive them, enclosing on the head of a freckled girl with red braids. Taking the stage amid the afternoon executions and denouncing the Covenant for the crime she had witnessed. A week later, being thrust onto the stage with a newly amputated leg, a demonstration of what happened to those who disobeyed the Stars. Floundering around in the dark wilderness with only a torch to light her way, praying it didnโ€™t go out, shadows chasing her every step and hunger gnawing at her.

The short, pale man who had helped Bizzy up off the ground strode up to the cell bars and replaced Pinkie Pie as Mr. Bonesโ€™ antagonist. Seeing him lay down the law to their former-captor-turned-captive, Bizzy couldnโ€™t help but like him, despite how sheโ€™d flinched away from his touch when heโ€™d tried to assist her. It wasnโ€™t his fault that she was broken and froze herself off from othersโ€™ probing hands. Although she would have liked him more if the deal he made with Bones involved helping them out of the cell and then blowing his ugly-ass head off. Bizzy felt no glimmer of pity for this blathering madman sulking at having had the tables turned on him. Strangely, at that moment, Madam Yanโ€™s voice rang in her ears. If you do not discipline a whore, she will take advantage of you. The words were punctuated by the sharp snap of a riding crop.

She wondered if it made her a bad person, that she didn't care whether the masked pirate died, alone and bleeding out over the cold stone of the hold. Wanted it, even. Was there some dark deity who would condemn her for such violent desires? Bizzy didn't know. But she found she did not care. She was done living her life in servitude to the appeasement of a being she could not see.

Mr. Bonesโ€™ young captor divested him of his knife and gun, throwing away the former and pocketing the latter for his personal use. Having retrieved her leg, Bizzy was busying herself with the dreary task of reattaching it without her toolkit when there was a yelp. A half-second later, the knife was splitting the air, flipping end over end back the direction it had come. Bizzyโ€™s heart stuttered and she doubled over her leg instinctively, though the knife was nowhere near impaling her. Her eyes flashed indignantly at the careless fool who had thrown it. She was horribly unsurprised to see that it was the man who had awokenโ€”everyone, not just himselfโ€”screaming.

On his second attempt, the pale young man handed the knife off to a woman. Wearing a resplendent gown that appeared entirely made of jewels, her dark skin set off her ivory hair in a striking contrast. Bizzy wondered if the gown was ungodly heavy and would prove an impediment to run in. She eyed the jewel-toned fabric greedily, wondering how much force it would take to pry off a dazzling swatch of color and how much it would sell for. Even a tattered strip could be turned into a handkerchief and rake in a nice sum. Maybe its threads could be boiled down to produce vivid dyes. Bizzy expected the whole dress would sell for more than her wildest dreams. More money than sheโ€™d ever seen together at one time.

Pretending to be struggling with the reattachment of her leg, Bizzy looked up from where she was crouched on the floor, tipping her head all the way back. The woman was tall and willowy and would have had a few inches on Bizzy at her full height. โ€œMaโ€™am,โ€ she rasped in a voice cloudy with dehydration. She winced; the whiskey voice that earned her coin in taverns sounded as if it had been scraped raw with sandpaper. โ€œMaโ€™am,โ€ she tried again when her first call went unanswered, a splinter of urgency in her voice. Again the tall woman didnโ€™t respond, her gaze rooted on the altercation between the two men at the bars. The knife that had seemingly traveled the whole interior of the cell by now had found its way to her hand, held in a loose fist.

Bizzy tried to avoid touching people whenever possible. While it wasnโ€™t as unwelcome a sensation as being touched unexpectedly, she did it out of personal preference, knowing that she was prone to startling and overreacting when she herself was touched. That cocktail of mild terror and disgust was not something she wished to inflict on others. In this instance, however, she could think of no other means to get the dark-skinned womanโ€™s attention. Just as she reached out a hand to tug on the womanโ€™s sumptuous skirts, the statuesque beauty jerked. She looked around a moment, bewildered as to her summonerโ€™s location. Then her eyes flickered downward and she spotted Bizzy hunched on the floor, tinkering with a knobby length of brass and leather. Torchlight danced on the knife in her hand as she turned.

Bizzy cleared her throat with a sickly sound that was minimally effective. โ€œYou know how to use that thing, maโ€™am?โ€ She pointed a tentative finger at the knife. For an instant, the other womanโ€™s eyes hardened, as if she was offended that a stranger might question her capability. โ€œJust a question, maโ€™am. You seem more like an indoor girl, is all.โ€ Bizzy pushed an unbrushed snarl of hair out of her face, dearly wishing for the wide-tooth comb that had been among her possessions the pirates had confiscated. She did her best to look small and pathetic and weak. Which, given her tattered, mud-stained dress; smeared makeup; and perpetual state of leglessness, wasnโ€™t overly hard. If her ma had seen her, she would have said Bizzy looked rode hard and put up wet.

โ€œDonโ€™t โ€˜spose you could spare a moment ta help me with this,โ€ she grunted. She knocked on the brass surface of her prosthetic limb, eliciting a dull clang. Normally, Bizzy would be too wary of strangers to ask for their help, but considering that she was locked in a cage with nine of them, her usual rule code was undergoing rapid revision. โ€œIโ€™m worn slap out and these straps are hard to secure without anotha set oโ€™ hands. If you could just put your fingers here and here, why, that would be the cream on my cake.โ€ She attempted a smile that was equal parts easygoing and weary, forcing her eyes not to jump to the knife and betray her scheme.

If Bizzyโ€™s hunch was correct, the altercation between Skeleton Man and their dashing savior was about to escalate. And escalations led to chaos. And if Antares had taught her anything, it was that chaos was a prime time for taking things that werenโ€™t hers. All she needed was a piece of that lavish gown and sheโ€™d be set for at least a few days when she got to land, wherever that may be. If she got to land ever again, but that was a dark possibility she didnโ€™t want to contemplate.




























































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THE AMENDED.






























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RAYNA






MALLOR









































MOOD








No thoughts! Maybe a little scared ):























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








DECK>THE SEA D:

























MENTIONS








MADELINA, DAHLIA, AGNES.... ANTARIN













































MR. RAGER โ€” KID CUDI
































































































































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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.

TW: suicidal ideation.... just a bit...

Somehow, Dahlia, this girl she barely knew, managed to quiet the static in Raynaโ€™s mind. She had come running at her cries, and somehow knew exactly what to say to snap her out of it..

Was it predictable for Rayna to go running back to a pirate at the first sign of trouble? She was not new to death. Hell, she wasnโ€™t even new to fighting pirates. The death of a kingsman should not affect her as much as it did. Antarin wasnโ€™t the first death sheโ€™s caused, and he damn well donโ€™t be the last. Rayna just had to make sure that the women by her side wouldnโ€™t be next.

Her eyes locked onto Dahlias, where nothing but determination lay. She squeezed the hand on her shoulder, the other closed over Maddieโ€™s in an iron grip.

โ€œWe do this together. I swear. Together.โ€

Weโ€™re so fucked. Rayna wanted to say, but that didnโ€™t inspire confidence. So instead she cocked her head to the side and forced a smile that she hoped met her eyes.

โ€œCome a long way, huh?โ€ Though the black in the air has faded, her eyes still stung. โ€œNext time, letโ€™s not meet like this. Weโ€™ve had plenty of chances.โ€

She allowed herself one sniff before her gaze fell upon their newcomer. Cannonfire from below scores the horrific sight before her. Did this woman know Antarin? Did Rayna take not only his life but the life of her friend? A family member? A love? Did Rayna have the right to feel sorry?

โ€œDo you think the stars can hear us?โ€

Rayna cleared her throat, turning around to hide the frown on her face. The sight of the girl covered in blood brought nothing but guilt.

โ€œOh, honey. I donโ€™t think the Stars are what you should be worried about.โ€ With a squeeze she pulled Madelina closer, scanning the girl's face. โ€œYou heard her, yeah? Donโ€™t think about anything else, just about getting to safety.โ€

She turned back to Dahlia, relieved that they now had some semblance of a plan. โ€œWhere-โ€

Luck was never on Raynaโ€™s side. Unless it was her name on the wheel. Then, technically, yes, it is on her side.

This was not the first time Rayna had fallen victim to a lurching ship. Not much care was given to the minor crews of the Corsairs, and small ships could become victims at any moment.

There was a memory there, of a younger, weaker woman unlike herself. Sien Dela stumbling towards the ends of the ship as it fell victim to its injured sides. In the end, she had survived, but not before thanking her crewmates in the form of alcohol exiting her system. She had passed out soon after and woken up hours later still on the ground.

Things were different this time. Rayna had people to protect, and was stable enough to stand on her own two feet.

The familiar feeling of vertigo was her only warning. She did not attempt to hold her ground like before. Instead, she unsheathed her cutlass, securing it between the floorboards and praying to Agnesโ€™ supposed Stars that the material would hold up. She didnโ€™t dump a ton of Solari on them for nothing.

โ€œGrab on!โ€ She shouted, pulling Maddieโ€™s hand towards the handle and releasing her hold. At the same time she reached for Dahliaโ€™s wrist, pulling her from a stumble and pushing her away from gravity's pull.

The push, perhaps a tad bit too aggressive, sent Rayna reeling backwards. And all it took was the back of her shoe twisting against a piece of splintered wood to send her flying.

The pain in her ankle was nothing compared to the impact. Raynaโ€™s mind went blank as she plunged into the water. After what felt like hours, the pain subsided into shock, and then there was silence.

Rayna blinked, salt stinging her eyes as she attempted to keep them. Down in the darkness, everything felt peaceful. She felt nothing but the cold water and faint tingling in her hands and feet. And for a brief, tiny moment, Rayna wondered if she should stay.

But then her lungs squeezed, desperate for air, and it was instinct that had Rayna kicking her feet to the surface.

She tried her best to relax and remain afloat as every injury on her body made itself known. She could feel every cut and bruise, desperate aching on her back and sharp pains on her neck, all rivaled by the pain at her ankle, leaving no room for thought.

Rayna looked up to the deck of the Leviathan, cringing at the motion. Any mental recovery Dahlia had offered was now lost as panic seized her mind. And for once, with no one to see, Rayna let herself feel scared.


























































[font=Open[/bg]
 





THE CRYPTKEEPER.















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GRAYSON



B. MOYER




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




YEEEEEHAWWW.
















LOCATION




MEDBAY












MENTIONS




GROG & ILYA










INTERACTS




















FIRST DATE โ€” SHAYFER JAMES.
































































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TAINTED BLACK AND BRUISED




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































CHAPTER FOUR PART II.

This is harassment.

Glum eyes track Ilya roaming past before the doctor disappears on their creepy orbit. He does not endeavour to rotate to follow their whereabouts, just awaits for their return which they soon achieve.

Five Nights at Ilyaโ€™s Medbay.

At this rate, perhaps the man will tire himself out like a hamster on a wheel. Go, little hamster man. Do your spins.

Profit from suffering is a sentence that is bound to ensnare Graysonโ€™s attention, and something defensive is rising behind the wall of teeth and eyes. There is truth to it and that sources some anger, the self-interest Gray has in the occupation is a salve for where most of the hurt comes from, or more accurately, the absence of it.

โ€œWe are not similar,โ€ Grayson warns but they ought to have something in common. If their roles were reversed, he wonders if Ilya would still be struck with insanity. But as real as they come, Grayson has no argument that would not constitute a lie. There is profit, non-monetary as it is, and it is paid by grieving families just to remind the undertaker he retains compassion in that husk of intermittent apathy.

People ridden with turmoil so easily decide on things that are fated to only hurt them in the end. Perhaps the doctor and his latest encounter with opioids is no different. The admission jars the man momentarily, for while drug usage isnโ€™t uncommon in Antares (heโ€™d know this personally), a doctor on a royal vessel being stoked with substances feels like some kind of breached regulation.

โ€œAre we just going to overlook thatโ€”โ€ Ham fabric dabs his face. โ€œโ€”Okay.โ€

Here he has stood, barking at a despicably high man, and that revelation tethers his ire till Ilya is sober enough to snap at. With a sigh, a hand takes them by the wrist to gently redirect the handkerchief away. Because firstly, ew who knows where that meat fabric has been. And secondly, ew donโ€™t touch me you freak.

โ€œDo be careful, it only takes a small amount of liquid to drown in. And then where would we be.โ€

What.

โ€œFuneral-less. Body left to drift amongst the wavesโ€ฆโ€


Who says that.

โ€œBloatedโ€ฆ decayingโ€ฆโ€

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUโ€”

No.

Behave.

Be nice.

โ€œThatโ€™sโ€ฆโ€ Be nice. Be nice. Be nice. โ€œThatโ€™s veryโ€ฆ thought-provoking, really.โ€ A polite dismissal of whatever the fuck that was. โ€œThank-you. Now how about you sit down with your thought-provoking self?โ€

The doctor stands there with the brain capacity of a cement monument, and Grayson decides he will be filing a strongly worded letter to the officials of this vessel. Addict or not, the mortician knows itโ€™s going to be difficult to remain calm in the face of this ordeal. Heโ€™d already engaged in the chance to say plenty to Ilya, and now he has to source patience from an empty ravine.

โ€œ... What was I saying again?โ€ Ilya returns to the living. Unfortunate. Gray side eyes Grog with despicable greed.

โ€œThings.โ€ Bad things.

โ€œOh yes, Iโ€™m happy to build a professional relationshipโ€ฆโ€ Good start, but let's not have high expectations. โ€œBuilt at the expense of everyone elseโ€™s well being due to the nature of our professions.โ€

โ€œWhy canโ€™t you say anything normal?โ€
Remembering circumstances, Grayson ruffles and settles like a bristling hive. Cooperative rather than antagonistic, he must provide some leniency. The tendering of urgent footsteps can be heard, but he thinks nothing of it. Naval anything is foreign to Gray, and he can only assume people are excited for breakfast.

Grayson too, would love breakfast. A hearty meal. The reliable cigarette.

When the first impact bubbles through the ship like a heaved tide, the mortician stumbles and catches himself with a step, then stares at Ilya like heโ€™d caused it. If the gods are angry, it must be directed at this loopy little man who incited karma by talking about plump, bloated sea bodies.

โ€œWhat was that.โ€ Turbulence? A second cannon hitsโ€” louder, meaner, and unmistakably not breakfast-related. The recoil rattles things throughout the room and Grayson looks disturbed. โ€œIs that normal?โ€

Ilya hoped neither of them died in the process, and maybe it is time to question that faith. It takes the undertaker a moment to recognise this is no cozy swell of the sea, and he is bestowed with the urgency of a man who is accustomed to death, just not his own.

โ€œWe shouldโ€”โ€ they should do something! โ€œMedical things. Heroic deeds. Like, now.โ€

Watch out baddiesโ€ฆ the boys are hereโ€ฆ

One is high and the other doesnโ€™t like to dishevel his hairโ€ฆ

Grayson is sweeping towards the cupboards to search for supplies when things begin to tilt. He pauses, watching a tourniquet drag over the counter with suspicion. โ€œAre we turning?โ€ They are turning! Not a sway or a drift, but a rotation like the sea itself has caught the vessel in a fist and twisted. Poseidonโ€™s banana peel. Fuck you.

Shoes skid and raven fabrics blossom across the floor as Gray falls to meet it halfwayโ€” Oh! His bones!

Thingsโ€” people, cat, and loose items, careen across the room as they all slide.

Weee.

โ€œGet off me!โ€ Ilyaโ€™s elbow finds his ribs; an intentional attack!โ€” and their bodies drag toward the far wall in a graceless blur of limbs and black clothing. Itโ€™s an awkward synchronicity till they slam into the surface hard enough to knock the professionalism out of them, and somewhere in the mayhem was an airborne Grog who joined the dark pair as their aggressive Yang.

Heโ€™s halfway upside down, one shoe lost and tangled in a cot, the other somehow hooked on a drawer handle. Silence, for a breath. Till Grayson ruins it.

โ€œIโ€™m alive,โ€ he wheezes. โ€œEndangered, but alive.โ€

And oh, Grayson wishes for a repeat so he could really lean into the slide next time. The adrenaline is astir with interest and numbs the pulse of pain through his rearranged bones. โ€œWe should do that recreationally sometimes. Like, on purpose."

"...Are you dead? No? Excellent."


There is a pause as Grayson's good mood expires.

"Get the fuck off me.โ€






























โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 





THE LAZARUS.















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RAT



LANDON ALSTRร–M




ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




HAVING FUN.
















LOCATION




HIS ROOM












MENTIONS




KADER/ORBY, ILYA, GROG.










INTERACTS




















HUMAN FOR A MINUTE โ€” SHAME
































































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YOUR JOURNEY IS




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






























CHAPTER FOUR PART II.

No need to be a trained observer as Kader corralls the headscarf closer around their cranium. It accentuates a discomfort in the yoga instructor not priorly seen, a flicker in the candle of their calm countenance now catalogued away to his pestilent archives.

Something spiteful preens about it, a smile thin and evil as he wonders if Kader cares for vanity. Revenge for their unwarranted commentary, two things can be true at once, youโ€™re bald and Iโ€™m dying, what a pair they make: The Bald and the Brash.

Heโ€™d usually not even blink to the absence of the mangy goblin, and the smile falters to the reminder of it. The catโ€™s name?

โ€œMushMug. Sometimes Flatty. Roadkill. Pressed Ham, we prefersies ugly fucโ€“โ€ oh! Theyโ€™re probably requesting the terrorists actual name. โ€œ...โ€

Itโ€™s an awkward interval, a mirror to his first night when unburdening the feline onto Ilya.

โ€œGrog.โ€

He coyly itches a patch at his collar to busy himself with something else. A prim clear of his throat as if to remove the phlegm that is the wretched Grogolomew. โ€œRatsie didnโ€™t names it, nay.โ€ God forbid he be ridiculed for his brotherโ€™s moniker misery. The downsides of being a lying heretic, it is not uncommon to be eyed with scorn. โ€œPale, noseless thing it do be, ya ya.โ€

Heโ€™d figured he hated the creature since their first meeting, but Rat must now consider if it is worse than hate. There is a simple sentiment of wantingโ€” no, needing it alive, and he hates that it extends to this moment of almost serving it.

Below deck is formed by the mess of others, and with his height he carves a path through the swarming shoals of panic and brings Kader along safely in the space behind him. The first cannon is a precise gesture, and one step forward is redirected to a stumble against the wall.

The groan of the shipโ€™s wood sings an entirely different tune than its common lethargy. A shaking dreaded thing, but the botanist is tempered with amusement rather than anything identifiable as fear.

The cat may be with Ilya, but navigation to the medbay would take them past opportunities to check other areas without having to backtrack. The cabin rooms are his first priority, and through the pandemonium of hurrying patrons, he is tetchy enough to force his way past.

โ€œYa, doom and gloom, move.โ€ An impatient hand lands on a guestโ€™s shoulder and navigates them rudely to the side so he and Kader can continue their search. Itโ€™s no longer a vessel of leisure or lazy foot traffic; it seethes like a hive overturned. Somewhere nearby is yelling, guests are scrambling like overturned roaches, dragging expensive bags that have never touched dirt. Rat thinks he glimpses one man clutching a teacup and crying.

The botanist has always found other people stupid, so it is not a surprise or reason for disquiet to see the lack of hope or seemingly, any rational sense. Awake now and sobered from his hangover, heโ€™s almost viscerally attentive to the danger and grins gleefully. Kader is shook by their linked arms for attention, rattling the poor prophet like his own little handbag.

โ€œImagine if we died.โ€ He is mirthful like a snarky little goblin, and for some reason the topic has him jovial as ever. โ€œPoor Rat,โ€ lamented the botanist with a chitter, โ€œso scared! If only the grisly brutes above would gives us hard workinโ€™ folk some peace 'n quiet.โ€

But surely the seer of death would know this, and Rat cannot help himself from a little dig.

โ€œWho we reckons dies first? Sweet Rattykins? Or you, wee Scarfsie?โ€

Heโ€™d barely finished the sentence when the ship wrenches like an upset mare. A great lack of subtlety to it, the jerk has Rat staggering sideways to rest against the wall, dragging Kader with him with a giggle of, โ€œheheโ€. Theyโ€™d moved further into the ship where signs of life were sparse, and a good thing, too. Uncrushed by other bodies in an almost empty hallway, it takes some effort to peel himself properly upright before the ship has steadied itself.

โ€œNots the first times I been hurled mid-convo.โ€ His spine might feel like a new shape, but at least itโ€™s a better shape. โ€œCome alongs now, no times to lose, nay.โ€

He hurries them along, the dynamic duo of Bald and Brash, to first check his own cabin. While Grog is not a common visitor, he cannot recall if he shut the door properly and has historically found the pale fiend chewing the leaves of his plants.

But the energy falls flat when he reaches his room, a small and was-once organized space before the turmoil of the Reaper. Shelves of jars mostly bare, a desk cluttered with journals and three empty teacups he kept forgetting to returnโ€” now all scattered to the floor with the rest of his overturned plants. He treads carefully between broken pottery and unrooted greenery.

It disappoints the man, of course. Harkens to the mess the Algol storm brought. What has survived on a surface is a pair of pruning scissors, and he picks them up to childishly snip snip them in Kaderโ€™s direction.

โ€œWeapon?โ€ He has to find entertainment in the situation. โ€œJust like a pirate, avast ye.โ€






























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THE MARIONETTE.















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NEMO






ใ…Žใ…Ž















MOOD




disassociated, injured kicked puppy











LOCATION




Quarterdeck











MENTIONS




Melchior










INTERACTS




















EUCLIDโ€” Sleep Token.
































































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MY HEAVY HEAD--




--won't stop turning!
If my fate is a bad collision
And my mind is an open highway
Give me the twilight two-way vision






























CHAPTER FOUR.

A new person alights by his side. Briefly, Nemo almost thinks that it is Melchior because of the dark hair, but even the hazed fog of his non-lucid mind doesnโ€™t remove the fact that he knows his hereticโ€™s features too well. Melchior is made of far sharper edges than the woman now by his side.

I hate healers. And yet she offers up to them a form of intervention anyway. Who are they to defy the Stars and their own fate, decided already by them by forces out of their control? For a moment they simply stare at the jacket as they clutch it in their trembling hands. They will not be able to return this favor. They will not be able to return it in any salvageable way, but they take it anyway.

They are well acquainted with the theoretical ways of how to staunch their blood; Melchiorโ€™s practiced hands have stemmed their bleeding a hundred times over, but itโ€™s different when itโ€™s the scientist instead of the sinner. Damnation will surely be ready with the chalk for the tally marks against their sins, but Nemo has no time to be keeping track of the nuances if he wants to live.

Sinner, sinner, sinner.

Nemo grits their teeth, pressing the fabric against the deep wound on their side. The ship lurches to one side and they roll a bit without access to anything to support their weight, swallowing their own cry as best as they can as they right themself. Pain continues to float at the edge of their awareness: dull one second, red-hot the next, their own traitorous brain struggling to not float away fully from lucidity as the atmospheric noise of the chaos around buzzes and cackles like static.

Bursts of new cannon fire, sputter-bang-bang, and new clouds of grey smoke. The world keeps going in and out of focus. Maybe thatโ€™s just the blood loss, but all they can do is try to put as much pressure as they can as they struggle to think. Another haggard breath.

โ€œDonโ€™tโ€ฆ pull anything out of me,โ€ they said distantly, a belated response to Monteโ€™s triage and advice. โ€œNeed to go under the deck. Below.โ€ The Stars will still know of their transgressions where-ever they are, but that they cannot change. At least beneath the decks, theyโ€™d be less exposed to the chaos that is soon to begin. Or has begun. Theyโ€™re not quite sure.

Beneath the deck is where Melchior will be. He will be livid with them, no doubt, and they will not have anything to offer in defense against it. No explanation to give except Fate and its machinationsโ€”which should not be considered cruel, because Fate has no sense of human emotions, but sometimes they think of it that way anyway.

โ€œMy friend is aโ€ฆdoctor.โ€ The title doesnโ€™t sit quite comfortably on their tongue. It is anathema against what is left of their faith, if that even matters anymore. But itโ€™s also what Melchior introduces himself as sometimes, and the title most likely to get the stranger to agree. It's not like they can hold to the duty that they were given anyway. "If we find him... it won't be as bad."





























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THE HORN.






























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Macklin






Lowe








ใ…Žใ…Ž






























MOOD








Got a master plan.

































LOCATION








The Leviathan; main deck

























MENTIONS








Violetta & Monte





















INTERACTS








Yasmine CrimsonInk CrimsonInk





































OH NO :: HE SAID WHAT? โ€”
NOTHING BUT THIEVES.

































































































































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Must be hard to stand up straight








With the weight that's on your back
Must be hard
To hold the ocean in your arms
Don't be scared to spill a drop.





























































CHAPTER FOUR.


Yasmine swung around and tracked his gaze to where Violetta crouched behind the barrel, half-hidden from sight. At Macklinโ€™s invitation for her to join them at the railing, she poked her head up, eyes large, and feigned a shrug, as if his meaning had been lost over the cannon fire. Which might have been the case, but if she really hadnโ€™t heard him, he doubted she would have stopped shooting long enough to make a show over it. After all, Macklin hadnโ€™t risen to his current position by being easily fooled when someone lied to him.

Beside him, Yasmine tutted in interest as Violetta revealed herself to them. Her comment and its dirty insinuations caught him off guard like a swift reversal in a fencing match, parry and riposte. Blink and youโ€™d miss it. Heat rose to Macklinโ€™s face, but he was unsure which emotion was its cause. Whatever the case, it was an unwelcome emotion. โ€œWhatโ€™s that supposed to mean?โ€ he asked when he recovered his faculties of articulation, an edge in his voice. Feeling petty, he stormed on, โ€œOh, because I know her name, clearly itโ€™s because we fโ€”โ€

The ever-present, sometimes annoying voice of reason in the back of his head told him that it wasnโ€™t an altogether ridiculous assumption. Considering the fact that Violettaโ€™s vasselโ€”Macklin was sure heโ€™d heard the manโ€™s name spoken at some point but it wasnโ€™t important enough to rememberโ€”had carried him bleeding and half-conscious up the gangplank of the Leviathan and heโ€™d awoken this morning in her quartersโ€”naked, no lessโ€”the facts muddled the truth. And considering that it was Yasmineโ€™s job to overhear scandalous information, it wouldnโ€™t be a huge leap to assume that word of this development had gotten back to her.

Normally, unless the rumored object of his affection complicated a courtly alliance, Macklin didnโ€™t care what nobles whispered about his recreational activities. But hearing an accusation from Yasmine was different, when she was the one for whom heโ€™d severed most of his external relationships. Perhaps the implication about Violetta was just idle teasing that she didnโ€™t believe was actually true. Nonetheless, it felt like Macklin had served his heart up on a platter before Yasmine, and she was cutting it up into small bites and playing with it before eating it.

It wasnโ€™t an unfamiliar sensation for him to experience in her presence. It was the reason he hated Yasmine. It was the reason he wanted her. Because, despite him having a higher rank in court than her, she had a certain power over him and wielded it cruelly, and cruelty replaced love for a man who had forsaken the latter.

Before Macklin could complete the thought, another roar shook the world into senselessness. Adrenaline forked through him, and he threw himself on the deck, one arm raised over his head as shrapnel tore through the air like hungry teeth, searching for a target. A sharp crack! like a tree being struck by lightning resounded. Macklin peered through the acrid smoke at the foresail, which was now leaning against the other sails like a row of dominoes, one flick away from falling.

His eyes burned in the dense black fog. Unable to see three feet in either direction, he felt for Yasmine, but she wasnโ€™t there. Fear pierced through him, numbing all his other thoughts for a split-second, but Macklin knew panic never got anyone anywhere on a battlefield. Yasmine was a survivor. Always had been. He would just have to trust that she had survived one more hit.

As if the current sensory overload wasnโ€™t enough, the ground beneath Macklin bucked and lurched, tossing him like a mechanical bull. The bowsprit plunged toward the sea, and he tumbled with the tilting ship, sliding uncontrollably. There was a wrench of pain in his neck as he rolled on it awkwardly. A gasp tore from him as his hip collided with the deck, sandwiched between an unmoving slab of wood and his own muscular bulk. Macklin flipped onto his stomach and attempted to use his fingers and boots to halt his flailing momentum, scrabbling for purchase. All he obtained for it was a nasty splinter in his palm that made him howl.

He was coming up on a chasm in the deck, gaping with jagged shards of wood in a maw of angry needles. Alarm expanding his eyes, Macklin reached for his belt and pulled free a large hunting knife. He stabbed the serrated blade into the deck with all his strength, burying it halfway to the hilt. A long scar appeared in the deckโ€™s surface, and gradually, his descent slowed to a stop just before he met a grisly demise speared on the spiky internal organs of the ship.

Macklin breathed a sigh of relief. Until the ship whipped the other way and he pitched anew, spinning around the embedded knife madly. Somehow he managed to hang on, rooting himself in place. He tried to calm his breathing and waited for the ship to level, for it all to be over.

Finally, it was, and Macklinโ€™s eyes felt like dice shaken up in his skull. The world looked like it was tilting even when he could feel it wasnโ€™t, and his senses warred on themselves. Unable to pinpoint Yasmine and Violettaโ€™s whereabouts amidst the calamity, he rose to his feet shakily, steadying himself with one hand on the deck. When his vision stopped swimming, he could see that the Leviathan had spun around so that it was parallel to the Corsairs ship. His relief at the infinitely more advantageous position faltered. Well, itโ€™s only advantageous if she has guns and the soldiers to wield them, he reminded himself. A ship this size has to have firepowerโ€ฆ right?

As if some dark warrior god had answered his prayers, there was another thunderous series of explosions as cannonballs ripped into the Reaperโ€™s flank. But the two ships were practically flush with one another, a thin trickle of seawater passing between them, and the onslaught was not enough to ward off red-clad boarders.

With a couple savage twists of muscle, Macklin unearthed his knife from the deck. It came out with a worrying crease, as if the metal were no more sturdy than paper folded into origami, but the blade had not broken. It would have to suffice. He rushed to the railing of the ship just in time to saw through a net, sending three men with broken teeth and red bandanas into the sea.

More and more nets and planks appeared, faster than Macklin could cut them all down. He worked furiously with his shabby, scrapmetal knife, his heart sinking beneath the knowledge that it would not be enough. The Leviathan was in a state of pandemonium, with only a handful of fighters standing between one in the Baronโ€™s fleet taking it. Despite her misleading size, the Leviathan was ineptly defended and grossly outnumbered.

He didnโ€™t cut down a net quite fast enough, and a cutlass sliced the air just above his head in a deadly arc. Breathing hard, Macklin scrambled away until he was facing a short but stocky pirate wearing a tarnished ruby necklace. He waited for the man to commit to a strike before he jumped out of the way. Macklin slammed a boot atop the sword as it touched the deck where heโ€™d been standing, pinning it in place. The pirate fell forward, right into a deadly embrace as Macklin lashed strong arms around his neck and snapped to the side. A corpse with tawdry jewelry and a broken neck slid bonelessly to the deck.

There were three main ways in which a ship was won. Most commonly, one crew asserted dominance over the other, using numbers and combative expertise to dwindle the enemy to battered remains. Alternatively, when one crew and its captain realized they were on the losing side, they agreed to negotiate and come to reasonable terms in which the would-be winner took the would-be loser for as much as they could. Finally, in rare instances, one captain directly challenged another. Cut off the head of the snake, and suddenly there was no one giving orders. No one unifying the soldiers, and then everything fell apart.

Macklin was no captain and he never had been. Heโ€™d been repurposed to Rowanโ€™s intelligence network before heโ€™d ever risen that high in the navy. But he knew enough about naval warfare to know how this fight would pan out unless someone made quick work of the Reaperโ€™s center of operations.

As the Reaper righted itself from the spray of cannonfire, it overbalanced, coming up too hard and fast. Its masts knocked against the Leviathanโ€™s, creating a bridge of rigging and sails between the two ships. Macklin tilted his head back, eyeing this makeshift structure, and knew what he had to do. Sheathing his knife, he turned and ran from the pair of pirates replacing the first one heโ€™d dispatched. He pelted across the deck, playing hopscotch over the craters torn into it, until he reached the mainmast. Macklin began to climb, shimmying up the Leviathanโ€™s spires like a black wraith. He would cheat to win, just as he had over that hand of cards with Yasmine all those years ago.




























































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 










the heretic.






























scroll


Melchior












ใ…Žใ…Ž






























MOOD








hydrogen bomb vs coughing bab(ies)






























LOCATION








deck






















MENTIONS








nemo (briefly)


















INTERACTS








blade, ari
























HUMAN BEHAVIOUR โ€” bjork.







































































































scroll






eternal return








yes, i gave you fire in your veins, but what will you do with it?









































CHAPTER FOUR.


The twitch of an eye, venomous smile tightening around the corners like a white-knuckled grip around a knife. The readily given agreements were expected, yet he couldnโ€™t help some satisfaction at the idea that there were not many curious minds aboard the Leviathan. Good. Curiosity, barring his own, was a gateway to suspicion, and the last thing he wanted were more eyes scrutinizing his character. Abrupt and tactless as the clothing-inclined one was, Melchior knew better than to try to prove him wrong, otherwise he might just find himself with his face pressed into the grime-covered deck with a boot against his throat. Long-winded formalities would need to be discarded with these two men, it was clear that distilled utility was the priority.

His own studies have shown that human memory was limited by very simple mechanisms, accounting mainly for immediacy and the petty fickleness that only entertainment or sentimentality could bring. There are exceptions to the rule, chance encounters that linger on within the cobwebbed corners of nostalgia, but very rarely do they end in good faith.

Take himself, for example. Melchior had forgotten to take a bone saw with him when he leftโ€”a huge oversight on his part as a self-proclaimed healer; on-the-spot amputations were more common than most would think, and were especially valuable to opportunistic vultures of black market trades. Especially during times of strife at sea, decisions must be made on the fly, the rot must be eaten away for something new to take root. The best you can do is close your eyes, andโ€”

โ€Shitshitshitshitshitshit,โ€ he definitely saidโ€ฆ words, as the boat swayed precariously with great force, carried by vicious, tumultuous waves. He was airborne before he realized it, weightless and useless, flung sideways into the railing. It was only mere seconds before the heavy impact of some unknown thing sent Aurelian overboard, reducing the fighter to a blur of limbs, wind stealing him until he vanished over the edge, swallowed by the sea. Melchior gaped at empty air before running to look over the railing, eyes narrowed to search for a hint of dark hair amidst the sunlight-scattered waters, to no avail. The urge to curse at the sky possessed him to discard all sense of Zenith-raised propriety. โ€SHIT. What on earth was thatโ€ฆ?!โ€

The splash of bodies hitting the water ignited a primal sort of fear, not from something like concern over the fragility of human life, but rather the alarm bells of self-preservation telling him that he was next in line to meet a nameless grave if he couldnโ€™t get it together. He could only hope Aurelian knew how to swim, if whatever took him down hadnโ€™t already wrung out the breath from his lungs. Wondering whether or not he could have saved the man was secondary, what mattered right now was to light a fire underneath the last acquaintance left standing.

โ€˜No adrenaline,โ€™ the slighter one said, which was quite obviously a lie. A healthy rush of adrenaline was necessary to resurrect the mind into fight or flight, but large amounts often led to panic, heightened instincts on overdrive, lightning-tinged hysteria that could only lead to disaster. And yet? This one's particular brand of willful ignorance was a bit contagious, like an overly hopeful viral strain. A branch to hold onto during the brutality of a flood, though it was too early to tell whether it was sturdy enough to last, or would eventually snap from the strain.

โ€Keep your head clear! Donโ€™t be a hero, there's nothing we can do for him right now,โ€ Melchior shouted over the thud of heavy footsteps boarding the Leviathan, kneeling to grab for a splinted piece of the railing before it could slide all the way off the side of the ship. Sharp and spiked on one side where it'd broken off from the larger part of itself, while the longer end of the stick was smoother, easier to grab onto. The most primitive sort of wooden stake, but a weapon, nonetheless. The decision to hand it over to an unarmed Blade was simple; he had no use for such a thing with his hands, reserved only for taking apart cadavers and stitching darkness into bright-eyed prophets. โ€Steel yourself, alright? Eyes, throat, kidneys. These are what you want to hit. Make yourself hard to kill, and you'll do fine. And donโ€™t mind the blood spray.โ€

Screams erupted on the main deck, the funeral procession of cannons firing off one by one and the screech of metal against metal. A stocky figure stumbled towards them with the glint of lethality in his aged eyes, sandy hair pulled back in a red bandana, dagger in hand. Fate only spared them a moment of calm before the pirate lunged, and all Melchior could do was stare.


























































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 
Last edited:









THE SCOURGE.

























scroll


Dolores





THORNE







ใ…Žใ…Ž


























MOOD







Get swabbed noob



























LOCATION







NOT Cozy Leviathan (Deck Area)



















MENTIONS







Lulu, Antarin, Genevieve, Judas

















INTERACTS







Harmony (ON DA WEY)

















TAGS

































Dolores' Boss Music



































































































scroll








Bronze Beauty,






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














































Chapter Four Part II.

C.W. Grief, Blood and Violence.โ€‹


Dolores revolts at the idea of being physically touched. Her skin would ripple in abhorrence with a well-hidden layer of fear the moment a stray piece of flesh made contact with her own. It wasnโ€™t just discomfortโ€”it was something deeper, something carved into her nerves like a warning. It was as if her body was telling her it was too close. Too vulnerable.

Yet, despite all the tragedy that met her like an obsessed lover, she had learned. Slowly. Reluctantly.

Judas, with his fatherly presence and hearth-warm patience, had taught her that not all contact was a threat. With her featherlight gestures and unshakable kindness, Lucrezia had shown her that touch could be gentleโ€”even be safe. And now, standing in the dim-lit training hall, her bandaged fingers flexing at her sides, Dolores faced the next step in her self-improvement: close combat.

She could still feel her frail limbs when they succumbed to fear in the presence of lecherous men who provided her nothing but nightmares and the vicious need to rip her skin off. It was hell. After starting a brand new chapter in Solasโ€™ capital, she vowed then that no fragments of herself and the little girl she still desperately clung to in her heart would not be torn apart by a man ever again.

This. She grazed her swollen cheek with her knuckles. This is what she exactly needs. To feel at ease that sheโ€™s strong. Strong enough to protect herself and those she cares for. She needed proof that she was not so easily manipulated by malicious strength. She needed to scream at the ghosts that still whispered in her ears and tell them what she was, of what she had managed to achieve. And lecture them all about the true meaning of strength.

To achieve that level of fulfilment for once, she turned to Antarin.

She needed someone with brutal honesty to deliver the proper assessment required for her improvement. Someone who wouldnโ€™t dare coddling her. Someone who would strike back without hesitation, who would force her to face the thing she feared most: the press of another body, the clash of limbs, the heat and sweat and closeness of a real fight.

And above all else, she needed someone she could trust. Not to hold her back but to challenge her.

Antarin stood across from her, arms crossed with an unreadable expression. He didnโ€™t offer any reassurances. He simply waited for her to finish whatever mental gymnastics she found herself in.

โ€œAntarin,โ€ she acknowledges the man before her. โ€œShall we?โ€ She tilted her head towards the pair of wooden staff.

For the first time since sheโ€™d entered the room, Antarin moved. A flicker of somethingโ€”approval? Challenge? Whatever it was, it passed through his gaze as he caught the staff she tossed toward him. His grip was steady, his stance fluid. Ready.

Dolores tightened her fingers around her own weapon.

"Remember. Donโ€™t hold back."





"Remember. Donโ€™t hold back."

The memory dissolved like smoke.

Death travels alone. Like a lost child, grief would arrive alongside death. Hand-in-hand. To Dolores, the mistress of pain and torture knows better than to greet them with a polite wave and welcome them into her abode like a good host. Youโ€™d think the woman would be used to it by now, and yet, she finds herself unable to breathe whenever they would shuffle past her. For the two all-powerful entities, time is meaningless; whether or not it is as brief as a butterflyโ€™s shuddering last breath or a personโ€™s lifetime, death and grief would come for all. Dolores had sworn she would never welcome them again, not even when Genevieve died.

And yet.

Dolores is still a woman with a human heart. Despite the ice in her veins, despite the lies she continuously told herself. Genevieveโ€™s death has left a stain, thick and tar black, clinging to the hollows of her ribsโ€”a wound she refuses to even acknowledge.

But thisโ€”

This death was different.

The body in the distance sent her world tilting (aside from the massive damage the Leviathan took). Denial was too soft of a word to be put into something such as this. No. It was something raw, something that made her want to claw her eyes out in defianceโ€”a final rebellious act to prevent the encroaching reality of his death.

โ€œNo,โ€ she whispered, her incredulity fading into a whimpering wish.

No

Because Antarin wasnโ€™t supposed toโ€”

He couldnโ€™tโ€”

Not like this.

She reached for him, then froze. Her skin, the same skin that had once recoiled from every accidental brush, now screamed to touch himโ€”to shake him awake, to press her forehead to his and demand he get up. But that fantasy was soon shattered at the sight of a pirate blocking her view.

โ€œHey there, princess,โ€ he taunted as he swatted her away with a mighty swing of the back of his axe. The thundering boots of filthy and unwelcomed pirates only made her denial evaporate. Something hotter is taking its place.

The second stage of grief. Anger. White-cold and crystalline rage cracks through her like shattered glass.

A mop to her right winked at her. Its frayed edges swayed, almost teasing her.

Perfect, she thought with a cruel smirk.

With a swift kick at its handle, the cleaning equipment ricochets upwards, perfectly landing at her grasp. If she squinted, she could pretend the tool she held was her fatherโ€™s axe. She almost purred at the same lethal length, though lighter. (A shame. Nothing split skulls like weighted steel.) Ironically enough, she wished it was her fatherโ€™s axe to fulfil her cleaning duties with maximum efficiency; all she sees are the stains of unwelcome guests who didnโ€™t deserve the honour of walking along the mighty planks of the Leviathan. Her daggers shall remain sheathed. For now. This would do.

When a clumsy swing missed her by a hairโ€™s breadth, a torrent of curses flooded out from his mouth. Each word is saltier than the oceanโ€™s sprayโ€”a true sailorโ€™s mouth.

โ€œYou kiss your mother with that mouth?โ€ She cruelly taunted with a wicked grin plastered on her lips. โ€œLetโ€™s fix that, shall we?โ€ With a flick of her wrist, she jammed the thick yarns upwards and roughly shoved them to the manโ€™s face. Intentionally leaving his eyes uncovered to let him see her mocking umber eyes. Let him choke on it.

His hands gripped the yarn as he opened his mouth again to say something. Sputtering and stumbling over his words, his grip tightened and pulled with great force. Predictable. Dolores used that moment to shift her hands properly and tug the tool to the side. With his stubborn grip, he was swept along to the shipโ€™s railing, where his ribs roughly met the steady timber. The idiot stumbled, boots skidding the desk and leaving unpleasant marks. (GET HIS ASS LEXIS.) Grip unyielding, the boatswain remedied his display of stubbornness with her own. With a rough headbutt, he successfully let go of the mop.

CRACK!

An opportunity! Yay!

She maneuvered her weapon swiftly to his dainty heels that would make Cinderella jealous and did the only thing that came to mind. Yoink! He pinwheeled in the air for a glorious moment, spewing a new repertoire of slursโ€”ones she didnโ€™t even know existedโ€”before the Leviathanโ€™s hungry waves swallowed him whole.

Before she could find a second of reprieve, calloused hands roughly pulled her curls, dragging her lithe body away from the railing. A flood of white anger erupted from her as instinct took over. She twisted the rounded tip of the mop to point right behind her. The wood slithered its way upwards to her assailantโ€™s hands, slotting the piece of wood between his tight grip and her curls. Followed by a tug and the proper momentum, she freed herself from the vicious gripโ€”a move Antarin honed in her.

Something icy enveloped her heart at the thought. With a frigid look on her face, Dolores drew her dagger, which was strapped by her belt, and launched it between the manโ€™s eyebrows with a wet thunk. As quick as lightning, the man could only gasp as the blade bit his skin.

โ€œFilthy pirates,โ€ she spat as her eyes scanned the gracious lobotomy she gave the man. Vile vengeance began to rise from her at the memory of her fallen friend.

Her tawny eyes scanned the chaos that lay before her, searching and pleading for an ally. For a hand to grasp or a blade to trust.

How ironic is it that the woman who was once known in the trade of slaughter in exchange for justice, now only wanted to stop the bleeding. For this month alone has already taken its cruel toll on her. It has taken her. And now, it has taken him. And so, this is her bargain. If she could prevent any more deaths (thatโ€™s not Leviathanโ€™s guest or crew), then perhaps Antarinโ€™s death wouldnโ€™t be for nothing. His death wouldnโ€™t just be another meaningless splash of red on the ledger of her failures.

Unbeknownst to her, there is a pretty shadow looming from her peripheral. A blade to trust, perhaps? Watching her every move as if she has just witnessed an opportunity.

Enter the Guillotine. The scourgeโ€™s labefaction.
















































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 










THE HUNTSMAN.






























scroll


MAGNUS
















































MOOD








CURIOUS, REFLECTIVE























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








THE LEVIATHAN | MAIN DECK

























MENTIONS








MENTIONS !!





















INTERACTS


escapist escapist Maltke











































ALLEGRO BELLICOSO โ€” NICHOLAS BRITELL.
































































































































scroll












DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR








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





























































CHAPTER FOUR.


Magnus allowed himself to smile, a true, unfiltered smile at the greeting of Maltkeโ€™s knife. A gleam meant only for the company of shadow, his white teeth seemed too sharp--too eager, when paired by the harsh cut of sun. The grin of a wolf having stumbled upon the farmerโ€™s chicken coop. Haunting. Hungry.

The presence of a weapon, while not uncommon, did not go unnoticed by Magnus. A crack in the drifter's harmless facade, surely.

The bounty hunter drew his own knife, metal blade singing in the sweet morning air of chaos and cannonfire. He could feel the remainder of the chorus weighing heavy against his body, a reminder of the blood each blade held the promise to spill.

Maltke had pivoted his body away from Magnus, using the chaos and repeated shudder of splitting wood to put a healthy distance between them. His brow furrowed in concentration, bloodlust beginning to trickle into a twitch of his fingers.

โ€œWait--โ€ Magnus barked at the man, but his command was cut into a yelp like a dog yanked backwards by its owner.

Hardened joints met the unforgiving crack of wood as Magnus was thrown from his position above deck. The Leviathan had suddenly pivoted sharply against a roaring resistance of water. Only when the large ship had settled was the bounty hunter able to haul himself to all fours. Greedy claws crept their way through the slats of his ribs--stealing the breath he gulped greedily to no avail.

Magnus tried to stand, chest heaving as his body fought against the impact he endured. He squeezed his fist, the familiar give of a leather hilt responding in turn. Good, he still had his knife, and from the weight of his clothes, the others he kept hidden remained firmly in place.

The man forced his breath to slow into an even, controlled pattern until his body loosened enough to allow him to stand.

Looming against the pale morning sky, an omen of death, was the dark shadow of the attacking ship. Pirates milled across its deck, parasites squirming upon the helpless body of their host.

With both ships poised to offer a moment of fleeting tranquility from the shuddering of cannonfire, Magnus seized the opportunity to close the distance Maltke had managed to space between them, leading them to the havoc that had become of the main deck.

The bounty hunter allowed his gaze to bounce aimlessly, lost in the screaming bodies and smoke, before he focused them on his target. For now, heโ€™d fight with Maltke. Protect those whose death heโ€™d gain nothing, satiate his blade with those whose death he could measure in gold.


















































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 










The Drowned






























scroll


Toska










??








...






























MOOD








Still confused + pain































LOCATION








The Brig























MENTIONS








Ephraim, Hollow, Knox, Sonya, Brig Team


















TAGS








































Suite in D Minor - Saycet



































































































































scroll










How can one Live







With heartstrings unwound,
and nothing beneath?

Has a ghost ever overcome despair?






























































Chapter Four.

Few things dulled the stress of a situation better than the sweet relief of falling into a mental void.

Though it ought to have been impossible for Toska to get lost while locked in a brig, he wandered aimlessly into thoughts without form; deeper and deeper into the hazy half-hallucinations that were so readily offered by his malnourished, sleep deprived mind.
And, with the events of the past twelve hours having already been so thoroughly considered, his attention drifted further from the realm of reality and possibility. His posture became considerably more lethargic, pitiably statuesque, as wakeful consciousness tried to fulfill every promise of sleep, with the exception of its benefits.

Even the sudden blast of a gunshot could not cover the distance between Toska and his surroundings, though his eyes widened reflexively and shifted from the floor toward the dark-clad figure now haunting the opposite side of the steel cell bars.

It wasn't until a whisper came from someone who had crept unexpectedly close that the thoughts occupying Toska's mind finally dissipated with some urgency.

A brief flare of alarm came with the realization that he had lost track of what was going on around him so completely, but then his eyes were taken over with a transparent sort of curiosity, and he looked the young man over with careful consideration.

There was no familiarity to be found in either direction, Toska concluded, but there was something inescapably kind in the young man's face, and he couldn't help the quiet desire to prove himself worthy of it.

"I apologize for causing concern. I was just..."
The hushed words trailed back to silence while Toska grappled with the brief distraction of the interrogator's next words, which failed to register appropriately as a threat to his ears.

"...forget about me until then."

He must have missed something that would have given those words further context, but that awareness didn't prevent the flare of discomfort in his chest, the subtle impression that, perhaps...

Was forgetting supposed to be casual?

Toska was spared from concerning himself with that by the clarity of meaning in the whispered words escape and weapon.
He glanced down to the weighty stone the young man revealed within his grasp, and flinched slightly when his mind struck upon the association between the odd multi-colored rock and the suggestion; take him down.

"I'll help,"
he answered quickly: but the rough hesitation, the broken reluctance in his voice must have made his true feelings clearer than he might have preferred.

The gentle understanding extended by Ephraim softened Toska's stiff posture and nearly shattered his resolve to make a good impression, but he found the strength to shake his head and meet the waiting gaze from those earnest brown eyes with conviction.
"I'll help."
Toska repeated the words, and the steadiness of his voice, quiet though it was, transformed them into something far more trustworthy than they had likely seemed before.

A promise, wrung from some deep well of courage: nearly dry, but not quite.

It was an awkward attempt, but Toska returned Ephraim's smile with a slight ease in the tension that had become so natural in his own expression; then, he rose carefully into a crouch and followed him through the dark patches of the cell toward the bars.

They reached the front of the cell with perfectly inopportune timing, in Toska's view of things: a flurry of activity erupted as three of his fellow captives moved against the masked man, seizing him and landing a blow that sent the man reeling to the ground and the weapons flying into the cell.

Out of an abundance of caution, Toska ducked, then recollected himself to turn and check on his new companion.
"Are you alright?"
he asked carefully, but it was rather quickly overshadowed by their interrogator's frantic breakdown: first, at the displacement of his mask, then in sudden fury at the prisoners.

Words fell in vicious array, and Toska finally felt the intended threat from the man in each allusion to corrupted darkness and shattered imperfection: it pulled such unexpected loneliness from his chest, out into the open air, that Toska recoiled from the bars and struggled to draw his next breath, feeling not the slightest bit better when the man's tone suddenly changed again.

A pleading, simpering attitude had apparently returned as the consequence of the unintended endowment of his weapons to the prisoners.
On noticing that the power to make demands was now in the hands of the prisoner who had been kicked awake, Toska wavered in confused catharsis, while an impromptu show of knife tossing concluded with the second weapon in the hands of the woman who had done the kicking.

For a moment, the sudden tilt of authority seemed to affect the flow of time itself and Toska stood motionless - but the gun-wielding prisoner possessed far more tenacity and didn't hesitate to stake out a path toward escape; doing so with an urgency that seemed unburdened by the emotional weight the masked man had brought to the situation.

| | V | |โ€‹

Overhead, and as yet undetected, a pirate held the keys that would free them, and a barrage of cannon fire was preparing to ring out.

Fortunately for the man without memory, he was quite prepared to follow the general influence of the soon-to-be escapees.

Surely that would be sufficient for getting him safely aboard The Leviathan once more...



























































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 

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