Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[Harrowhark]

mood

Clutching her pearls

outfit

link

location

Bow of the ship

tags

Ari qunqun

“Excuse me?” Patronizing? Elera? Never! She was simply trying to have an intellectual conversation. Was this man so closed minded that he wouldn’t even listen to the word of the stars?

Oh wow. That awful, disgusting aura should have warned her. It seemed, perhaps, her efforts should have started with someone more forgiving. Someone with a much pinker aura.

But for now, Elera was reaping the consequences of her actions. “I beg your pardon?” Aurelian had gotten much closer than she would like any man to be. To her, raising one’s voice to a simple request was entirely unreasonable. However, right now was hardly the time for scolding.

The chef’s anger was relentless. Filled with swearing and blasphemy. What he had taken as insult was only her way of conversing. She had done her best to give him the benefit of the doubt, only to be met with this.

Elera was backed against the railing. Her hands grasped at the wood, attempting to prevent herself from falling overboard as she leaned back. His words hardly mattered, the tone was enough. Yellow eyes glinting and hair standing on end as if to say ‘stay back.’

When he finally backed off, it took a moment for Elera to ease off the railing. Her gaze remained on the chef as she wiped his spit from her face.

“That is not what I was going to say.” A quiet voice, one of which she was not used to using. Elera turned to walk away, but like usual, she could never leave without the last word. “Only, manners and a simple ‘no’ can take you quite far.” As if ‘no’ could successfully communicate… all that…

Back into the fray, it took a moment to remember why she’d left in the first place. It was not the overwhelming chaos of drunken sailors. No, her movement had a purpose. The pursuit of something valuable.

Instead, Elera was left floating blankly amongst the crowd. When the stars allowed it, she would find what she was looking for.

The Crusader

© reveriee

 

[Wyll]

((Please note that thoughts will be crimson and italicized while speech will be crimson and bolded.))​

The Anvil

Anon
Keep

It is true that he had decided to use the time to make friends and meet new people but a part of him was hoping that he'd be able to skate along simply by meeting people he already knew. However, he had also accepted that the likelihood of that isn't very high as he isn't likely to know many people that were important enough to earn passage on the ship.

However, as he scanned the crowd, he noticed something peculiar...someone peculiar. Honestly, he couldn't believe his eyes: it was as though he was looking at an orange grow from an apple tree. Actually, no, even that would be too tame. It was like he was seeing a watermelon on a grapevine.

A hunter, the hunter himself. Here of all places. He tried scanning his brain to find a reason that the hunter would he on board. Who would have sponsored him and for what purpose. However, he very quickly realised that none of that mattered. This whole cruise just went from a place where he knew nobody to a place where he at least had one friend.

With confidence and a bounce in every step, Anon crossed the deck and made a beeline for Magnus, some of the other people needing to jump out of the way in order not to get trampled. "Magnus!" he called out, having no sense of discretion...in fact it was possible he didn't know what the word meant. "Magnus! Maggie! Aye, I know that's you...even from a sea away, I'd recognise my craftmanship!" At this point, he was sure he had gotten the bounty hunter's attention. He appeared at the railing mere seconds later, a massive grin on his face as if he was seeing his long lost best friend. And, in his head, he was.

"You naev visit, you naev write...oh how you have forgotten me Magnus. I'm starting to think you only fancy me for what me hammer can do," he jested, even tossing a wink Magnus' way. He noticed something between Magnus' fingers. A cigarette? A frown of disapproval wanted to form, but Anon knew better and knew not to judge people for whatever vices they had. Knowing good and well that he had vices of his own that he wasn't necessarily proud of. "Now Magnus," he said, using his head to gesture towards the cigarette. "You know they say these things will kill you. And I'd be absolutely, positively a wee wreck if anything were to happen to you."

However, in that moment, a random thought crossed his mind. One that he had never invited in. Maybe this was an opportunity for him to learn - for him to understand what was to enticing, so addicting about the cigarette. And so, without warning or permission, he grabbed the cigarette out of Magnus' hands and took a long, rough, rugged draw from it. There was one...actually, no. There were several problems with this. But the biggest of them was that not only did Anon not smoke, he had never smoked before and so he had absolutely no clue what to do with the smoke after taking a draw. And so he was particularly and entirely unprepared for what would happen.

All of a sudden, his vision became watery, his throat burned and he could not longer breathe. There was smoke in his nose, his mouth, his lungs...everywhere. This is it, he thought. This must be how I die. He erupted in a violent coughing fit, loutishly coughing the smoke out of his mouth which only made the smoke gather round his head in a loose cloud. So when he tried breathing in again...more smoke. Panic started to set in at this point. Oh, this is actually it. Oh, I'm actually about to die. I always thought it would end in fire, I guess smoke is about as close as I can get.

He clutched the railing, getting down on one knee and, thankfully, low enough to get under the cloud of smoke. The coughing intensified and tears had started falling down his face from the burning of his eyes. He kept desperately trying to breathe and eventually, slowly, painfully, the smoke in his system cleared out and was replaced by cleaner air. I'm never doing that again. I am absolutely never doing that again. Magnus just tried to kill me. Wait, no. I'm the one who took it. I just tried to kill me? His thoughts were a mess as he tried to gather his bearings and stand to his feet.

He cleared his throat, half because he needed to and the other half because he really needed to. There were still tears coming down his face that he hadn't wiped off because he hadn't realised that he was crying. His goal was to play it off as if nothing had happened. Just to have a normal, casual conversation between friends and let the last - what felt like 30 minutes - be water under the bridge. "So..." he breathed like rust falling off a water pipe. His voice was little more than a whisper and sounded like sandpaper. "Are you taking care of my steel, Maggie?"

As the craftsman, he had a powerful attachment to his weapons and to the people they served. He wanted to make sure that his weapons served the people well and that the people took good care of his babies. He remembered almost everyone he had forged for. He could even tell you how they liked their weapons - their tools as much a reflection of their personality as their personality was a reflection of their tools. This question, yes came from a desperate desire to ignore what had just happened, but also out of genuine interest for Magnus and the weapons he had forged for him.

Mentions: Magnus ( Pepsionne )

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
startled

LOCATION:
The Leviathan: main deck

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS: AnimeGenork Rosaline morcetyx Junshi

the huntsman

magnus

Interactions: Wyll ,Anon

Magnus carefully scanned the deck of the Leviathan. A few passengers clustered throughout the large space, the ambient noise of their conversations mixing with the shucking sound of waves against the ship. His eyes fell on a familiar curve of shoulder--her smile something he’d learned to recognize even in the dimmest of rooms. Rosaline.

The bounty hunter straightened his lounged position by the railing. His Sirocco Sands informant. What was she doing here, of all places? She was conversing with someone, but he couldn't make out who. The man's form was unfamiliar to him. Magnus took a long drag with the intent to throw the nearly burnt cigarette to sea and head over to the woman--but the excited booming of a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

“"Magnus! Maggie! Aye, I know that's you...even from a sea away, I'd recognise my craftmanship!"

A momentary twitch of annoyance flashed across his face at the nickname Anon liked to call him. A corruption of his name he was sure would throw Celine into a fit.

The man approached in a flurry of movement, eyes lit into excitement as he jokingly condemned Magnus' distance.

“I’m a busy man,” Magnus responded, opting to lean back against the railing. Several people had begun to look their way from the sheer volume of the blacksmith’s voice. The last thing Magnus needed right now was unnecessary attention drawn to him. Rosaline could wait--he’d find her at another time.

“You know they say these things will kill you. And I'd be absolutely, positively a wee wreck if anything were to happen to you."

Magnus lifted his hand, rolling it side to side as he inspected the nearly finished cigarette between his fingers. A heavy brow raised from Anon’s worry. “You’d be the first and only I believe--”

Mouth slightly ajar, the rest of his sentence promptly crammed itself back down his throat as Anon took the cigarette from his limp grasp. The bounty hunter could only watch in slight horror and fascination as the man took a long drag--only to burst into a fit of coughing. More people were looking their way at this point. Magnus’ posture shriveled slightly--as if he could blend into the dark waves of the sea in the background. A dark look of rage flared across his expression, running free and unchecked for several beats before Magnus reined the feeling back in.

As much as Anon’s actions infuriated the bounty hunter, he knew there was no point in holding on to the searing feeling. He had worked through his fair share of blacksmiths over the years. Anon was the only one with enough talent to create the thin steel Magnus preferred to work with. And he certainly wasn’t in the mood to go shopping around again now.

The bounty hunter clapped Anon on the shoulder, rough grip just a tad tighter than something friendly as the black smith recovered from his inhalation of smoke. “It’s a bit of an acquired habit I guess you could say,” He winced as Anon let out a particularly harsh choke. “I wouldn’t let this experience get you down.”

Magnus took the cigarette butt from Anon’s hand. He tossed the end behind him to be swallowed by eager waves. “I always take care of my weapons, Anon, you should know me better than that.”

“It’s not common in Solas that I can find the kind of blade I like. Not just any old dagger will do for my line of work. A clean blade means a clean--job. No additional fuss or problems,” He smiled.

The crowd aboard the main deck seemed to forget about Anon’s recent stint with death as he hacked his lungs on the wooden planks below. The previous ambience of conversation resumed once more, and Magnus was able to breathe a pinch lighter now that the eye of scrutiny had moved on from him. “What brings you to The Leviathan, anyways? I never thought you the type to leave the shop for so long.”

coded by reveriee.

 

[floralmoon]

• .
• .

• 
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  XI.
  the soothsayer

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  armağan "kader" kaplan.

  mood

  confused
  
  

  location

  The Leviathan
  
  

  interactions

  Aurelia
  
  

  tags

  Harrowhark
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
• 
  
  "What is that sensation?"
  
  Kader broke free from their own hands at the realization of another pair being placed upon the top of their head. They lifted their head up and faced the stranger who was touching them, it was quite odd to feel the need to place hands on someone you do not know, especially without conversing with them first. The stranger had stepped back at the sight of Kader, was there something on their face?
  
  There was no time for Kader to speak before the stranger voiced a compliment, "Your head is lovely.” What an odd thing to say, but at least she was being nice, although there wasn't much room for someone to be rude after touching a random shipmate. She continued speaking, telling Kader there was no need to be sad about not having hair, is that what was wrong with their face? They weren't sad about not having hair, it was their own choice in removing it.
  
  "Did you lose it in the war?"
  
  War? What war? Kader had never been in a war before, so this question had completely stumped them. Though there was every opportunity to put the girl in her place, they had never been subjected to such lack of manners, first impressions were important! At least to them they were, it seems that it wasn't important to everyone. "I chose to remove my hair on my own accord. I forgive you for the misunderstanding though as it seems you're quite intoxicated."
  
  Standing up, Kader placed their scarf back over their head and reached a hand out to Aurelia, "Maybe, we can start this introduction correctly. I am Kader, it is..." Well, it wasn't really a pleasure to meet someone under these circumstances, but there was no need to jump to conclusions when meeting new people. Perhaps there was a more appropriate word? Kader thought quickly as to not seem odd, "Nice to meet you." They capped off the sentence, hoping that they don't come off rude.
  
  
  
  
  
  

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[qunqun]

THE CHIMERA.

scroll

Dante

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

IM FINE.

OUTFIT

Formal

LOCATION

Sirocco

MENTIONS

Aurelian

INTERACTS

N/A

Dead Inside — Younger Hunger

scroll

Icarian Cloud.

To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils

Prologue.

Tired eyes stared into the silver coated reflective surface. Hands ducked underneath the valve that poured water into the marble basin he called a sink, a miracle bit of innovation that only money could buy. Fingers gently massaging worries and stress out of a face that seemed familiar and recognizable, but foreign all at once, gentle perfumes in the decadent soap that he had. Dante took a deep breath in as he tugged at a straightened lock of licorice hair, watching with morbid fascination as the small motion made it snap back into a curled position, like a newly grown fern before tucking it underneath its more rigid peers. A servant passed him a Siroccan cotton towel, and he wiped his hands and his face off. “Thank you, Mike.” A dip of the head as he handed the towel back, a coin placed on top of it. (he looked fucking old)

A deep breath in, and a deep breath out. There was a swell somewhere in his chest of something he identified as anxiety, but he had to be presentable before exiting his room. And so clothes. Painstakingly layered, dyed Cascadian silk and Zenith leather, bits of gleaming jewelry upon his belt, he straightened the cuffs keeping his sleeves in place, and his waistcoat before exiting his room. He walked to the dining room, the large empty hall, checked the ornate wooden grandfather clock to see the exact time that he was to have breakfast, not a second early, not a second late. Perfection. (he could really go for a smoke right now).

He sat down where the placemat had been left out for him, watched a servant gather used porcelain from the earlier meal in their arm and hustle out. He looked at the empty chairs. He felt something low in his stomach pull, some sort of ache that made itself too aware, like when you get too aware of breathing. An omelet with spinach and ham was set down in front of him. Dante’s lips pulled back into a practiced smile as he picked up his knife and his fork. “Thank you, Koh, are the kids doing well?”
“Yes, Master Dante.”
“That’s great. The older one is good with numbers, yeah?”
“We’re very proud.”
“I’m sure you are.” A bite of the food as the conversation lapsed, a formal dismissal. “Well, have a good morning.”
“You too, Master Dante.”

The smile slid off his face as the servants left. The newspaper left out for him, he picked up the bundle of papers to begin to read it while sipping his morning coffee. (he felt another pang of loneliness at the echoing silence)

(he really needed a smoke)

Dante stood, wiping his mouth on a napkin and putting it down on the now empty plate. Stepping outside into the lush garden of greens, he sat down in the grass and stuck a cigarette between his lips, a gold plated lighter clicking open, the flame licking the nicotine until it began to smoke. A deep breath in, held for long enough that his emotions flattened out again, breath out.

His mind calcified his agenda in his mind as he stood and went to find the carriage to ride in. A deep breath in-

-A deep breath out into the face of his… former associate turned latest enemy. Cold icy eyes stared at the trembling man. A warm smile upon his lips, but never reaching the predatory stare of a leopard about to pounce. “I don’t really know what you want from me, Ardon. I told you that the assassin you sent to kill your business partner is getting real antsy. Take it from me, pal. You’re gonna want to take out a loan with the family business.”
“I have a child on the way I needed the money and I can’t-”
“-We aren’t going to argue the morals about why you did what you did, because honestly your reasons are your own, but the fact is, I got an angry assassin hounding my ass for a payment, and when that reaper comes knocking… Do you trust that I ain’t a twofaced backstabbing rat?” Dante’s lips curled into a self-deprecating grin. Pointing out the very lethally sleazy environment this cornered soon-to-be father was in did not decrease the inevitability of lash outs. But, it was a sign that he was winning, and when the fist came flying at his face he knew he’d made the sale and widely ducked. As he walked back to the carriage, he belatedly realized how fast his heart was beating from nearly getting punched. His hand clenched into a fist as he resisted the urge to clutch his chest. A deep breath in…

… Intelligence danced in green eyes as he smiled widely with little teeth. A conversation with a woman, the third daughter of a duke, and one of Dante’s prospects for marriage. Charming and kind, poised and calculated. They would make a perfect pair, and something twisted in his stomach that he could believe were butterflies if he were so inclined to. (it entered his throat at the thought and expanded like he was choking on air).

He leaned forwards and kissed the back of her hand as he stood. (his body broke out into goosebumps and his stomach lurched a little). She cupped his cheek as he gazed into her eyes with princely blue eyes, a noble in his own right, feel him jump ever so slightly at the physical contact but restrain himself from doing so. They kissed each other’s cheeks as he turned to leave.

As Dante walked back to the carriage and sat down within its plush exterior, he closed his eyes as a static white noise began to fill his mind. As the carriage began to roll away, he shoved arm into his mouth and bit down. The sharp bloom of pain anchored him back to the carriage. His jaw relaxed and he spit out little hairs of threads, sitting back upwards into proper posture. The carriage was still rolling on its way to Sirocco. A shaky hand brought out his cigarette case and he quickly lit up again. A deep breath in…

… He was in a business meeting with an assassin. Gray eyes assessed the situation, one eye watching body language for an attack, the other making eye contact. Both alert and relaxed at the same time as the two circled each other like sharks. The sharp corner of a smile pulling at his lips as the assassin took the money, took the next deal too.

“Hope to see you again sometime soon, sunshine.” The sardonic scratch he dropped into, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.
“Someday..." The assassin closed into his personal space. "Your mouth is going to get you in a lot more trouble you can handle.”
“And that's when I use my gun”
“Which one… sunshine.” Dante’s eyes flickered to Jason’s lips. Back up to the assassin’s stare which flickered downwards as well. Oh this was a fucking awful idea-

-His next smoke break was in the aftermath at his business partner’s hideout. He offered a cigarette to his hookup.

“I'm still not giving you a better cut on our deal.”
That earned him a small laugh as he lit their cigarettes together. “Of course not you fucking bastard.”

As he walked from the carriage to the mansion, he carefully lined the schedule for tomorrow in his mind, a certain buoyancy as he whistled to himself whatever symphony he'd heard last. As he checked a pocket watch, his good mood slowly slid from his grasp, and an icy shield wrapped around himself. He stepped across the threshold, a servant handed him a note from his father.

"We have started dinner without you. Review the contracts for tomorrow, and have your dinner in your room. Be on time tomorrow."

He glanced at the closed doors leading to a hall, the sound of a violin filtering through his ears as he felt warmth and laughter. The hallway stretching and elongating as he drew in a deep breath.

"I'll have my dinner in my room, a lot of work to catch up on." His voice was faint through the rush of blood in his ears as he walked back into his room and sat down at his desk. As he lit candles, the porcelain plate was put down next to him.

"Thank you, Mike." He picked up his pen, and began to work. Somewhere in the night, the food was eaten and his contracts had been reviewed once more and he collapsed into bed.

Dante woke up in the morning, bleary eyed and disoriented. The chimera stood and stumbled his way into the personal bathroom he was given. Tired eyes stared into the silver coated reflective surface as he gripped the porcelain sink underneath white knuckles.

He took a deep breath in.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Wyll]

((Please note that thoughts will be crimson and italicized while speech will be crimson and bolded.))​

The Anvil

Anon
Keep

Anon's eyes were still wet from the tears but he entirely intended to act as thought nothing was wrong and so he did. He was also grateful for the fact that people's ninterest seemed to have moved on from him and Magnus. The unfortunate thing about pride is that the bigger it is, the more fragile it is. And poor Anon's pride was large enough to compete with The Leviathan itself.

He found his smile again, although, in addition to the insecurity and doubt it always hid, his smile now hid a great deal of embarrassment. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. Magnus was saying something about how it was an acquired habit. This was when he confirmed that Magnus was indeed trying to kill him because, surely, anybody that even insinuated that he should try that again was praying for his demise.

Anon felt the hand on his shoulder but the many hours of hammering in the forge had given him shoulders that were unusually dense, meaning that Magnus' grip, though firmer than most others he had encountered amongst friends, only registered as a gentle pat on his shoulder. Something that actually made Anon smile a little bit and feel more welcomed by the hunter. Typically, Anon worries that his energy might b a little too much for people to beat. However, that pat on the shoulder just reaffirmed to him that Magnus was indeed a friend. And people had the nerve to call Magnus heartless: the rumors and lies people spread these days.

"Magnus," he began, casually placing a hand on Magnus' shoulder. "I want you to know...aye, I need you to know...that I will naev do that again. I'll let you enjoy it on my behalf thou-" He paused mid-sentence, a thought captivating his attention and it even brought a small smile to his face. "You know what? I think I owe you a pack next time we hit land." He crosses his arms over his chest, pondering over the thought before nodding his resolutely. "Mh! I think I will." A bright, excited, faultless grin beams unto his face as he looks enthusiastically at Magnus, excited to be able to gift the hunter something. Sure, it might end up killing him down the line but it seemed to make the hunter happy. And as long as Anon was making someone happy, he was happy. The consequences of that happiness could be dealt with by Future Anon. Current Anon just wanted to get something for someone he considered a friend. "What makes a good one from a bad one? Do you know a place that is known for having good ones? How much would two packs cost?" He knew that for the gift to work out, he'd actually need to understand what he was buying and so he tried his best to ask Magnus without pestering the poor man. However, what Anon considered pestering was fat more generoud than what the average person would say.

Anon cleared his throat, a little bit of tightness still left in his windpipe and he tried to get it out subtly. "Aye, I dinnae even need ask. You take care of that blade better than some people take care of their partner." Anon smirked wickedly as he used his elbow to nudge Magnus "Ey, maybe even better that you treat your partner." The statement was followed quickly by a good natured chuckle and shaking of the head. "Sorry, lad. Only pulling you."

He had intended to get slightly more serious and question magnus about intents to find somebody and settle down. Question him about plans to devote his life to something more than the bounty board...to someone more than the outlaws he took down. It was, of course, none of his business. But his heart did break a little any time he saw Magnus. He always seemed like a man whose joy had been corrupted. Not taken...just corrupted; twisted. He hoped for the chance for this hunter to one day let himself fall into the arms of another and find rest.

However, before he could get the question out, the hunter had a question for him. "Ah. A grand questions, that one." He leaned back against the railing, propping himself up with his elbows and letting his head lean back fully, taking in the beauty of the night sky as the stars swayed across the black ocean of night. He let out a contented sigh and a gentle smile rested upon his face. "For the last couple months, my days have been in the ship and my nights have been here. I helped build this thing, you know? I know the layout about as well as I know the tools in my shop. The day before the ship departed, I was on day...five? six? of no sleep." He paused briefly and then shook his head. "No, the minor narcolepsy had only started kicking in, so it must have been day five. Day five of no sleep and we had finally finished everything we needed to do. I was down in one of the lower storage rooms doing some last minute clean up and I figured a nap wouldn't hurt now that the ship was off my shoulder." He chuckled and shook his head. "What I thought was thirty minutes turned out to be thirty hours. I woke up just a couple minutes ago, actually."

He took in another deep breath, crisp ocean air titillating his nostrils. "But I say, I'm glad I took that nap. Look how beautiful the sky is." He gestured upward, actually wanting Magnus to take it in. "Imagine if I had missed this view because I was too busy working. What a tragedy that would be." His smile stayed, but it was now more reflective, his gaze falling on Magnus. "A tragedy indeed. Tell me, Maggie, what views are you missing because you're too busy working?"

Mentions: Magnus ( Pepsionne )

 

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

scroll

RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FREAKS (PLURAL).

OUTFIT

FLUTTERS BY

LOCATION

MESS HALL

MENTIONS

ILYA & DEVANA

INTERACTS

qunqun erzulie

MERCY DOWN — S. JAMES.

scroll

YOUR JOURNEY IS

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

CHAPTER ONE.

The threshold of personal space is disallowed, and Ilya’s declaratory stand to avoid the ham is a motion quicker than he’d ever expect the Doctor to be capable of. A handkerchief that was innocent by all intents and purposes, a small olive if one wants to expend too much thought into the action, but unfortunately in the Doctor’s vacant skull resides something other than driftwood and foam.

A hidden, disgusting nature.

“Sorry, I'm not really interested in... your... meat.”

Ilya blinks. Rat blinks back.

“What did you just–”

The doctor was somehow managing to make ham into something weird. Some kind of courtship? Some clandestine offer where ham is a euphemism for…? For? For what, Rat is not entirely certain. Years spent reclusive, it would not surprise the botanist if he has missed some societal change regarding the meaning behind giving someone ham. It is not as if a handkerchief of meat is equal to the dowry of a cow—

Ohhh.

Does Ilya think he is trying to buy him?

Ilya is not worth a cow.

Not even a lump of ham.

Dowryless.

But that would imply Rat is the creepy cretin here, offering meat without knowing the meaning behind it. Ignorance does not absolve him from miscommunicating intent, and that alone is enough to impart Rat with shellshock. Drops the handkerchief to let it land on the table like a dollop of cream, he recoils back to his side of the table like a skittish roach.

Ilya spooked him.

Interlude of silence he wallows in his growing hatred of the opposing man. The quiet is substantial enough to be ruined, and the redhead heeds whatever incessant, internal call that always summons to say something stupid.

A nice handkerchief. Rat already knows this and is aggravated by the observation.

“Why are you still speaking?!” Teeth are late to shackle tongue like the snapping recoil of steel, and the botanist scathes how painfully pragmatic Dandelion manages to remain.

He is emptied of what he intended to say, paused and overridden, for narrowing the canyon of space is the arrival of a third. Even Rat in all his cynical pathos feels an urge to move elsewhere when he notices the approaching haunt. He has seen nobles walk with lesser intent, as if there exists no questions or silent objection from anyone sane that wearing a mask like that is both unusual and unsettling. The botanist can recognise the difference between performance and power, and this one is no actor.

Ghoulish emperor that walks the liminal space of both human and animal, how mythos-making to see them assemble and lather them in silent inspection. He may not see eyes beyond the dark of the mask, but there is something ancient and abyssal to their swallowing stare.

And Rat, as if he was not moments away from hurling the closest item for Ilya’s thick skull, inclines his brows and voice to a simper.

“Careful, mysterious beasty,” he greets and warns the masked stranger, “Gingey there just harassed me, he dids, he do.”

Never mind that Rat had done nothing but throw petty names at Ilya, smacked him over the skull and then proposed with ham.

“Oh!” Rat laments and turns his head away with a sharp sob. “Sweetest Ratalie can'ts even speaks of it, the brute! Punish him!”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[CrimsonInk]

mood :

GIVE ME A DRINK

location :

The deck of the Leviathan

outfit :

mentions :

escapist

interactions :

Maltke

THE DESCENDANT

;; Dahlia

Chapter One

Humble my ass.

The extension of his hand made her internally confused by his mannerisms. She’s seen the courtesy given only when deals are to be made, and if she were correct there was no deal to be made but just complete nonsense. His name, however, was imprinted in her mind along with his eye. There was something in his eye that she couldn’t figure out. Something that lingered, and he was talking too much for her to think straight.

Her eyes narrowed at the man trying to observe his body language. The boisterous laugh to maneuver the conversation, the need of alcohol being indulged before speaking, the irritation of his voice when she didn’t grant him respectable courtesy — the man before her reeks of desperation. His taunts of devils and spawns felt accusatory, and rightfully so. It was a title she wore with disgust, because the one who branded her this title was none other than the Baron himself. And his eyepatch was hitting a bit too close to the resemblance.

"We have two options: getting drunk before we clean up or getting drunk after we clean up. You choose!"

Dahlia gave a heavy sigh. She took in a deep breath and rubbed her brow out of frustration. Right now she could use a good drink if this man plans to tie himself to her side like a lost puppy, but if she was going to pose as a swabby she might as well do the job right.

“Clean first. I don’t want the Captain to breathe down my neck. If you actually plan to clean, do it right,” she spat out like a tired Mother.

The bucket and brush were still there, and she got most of the stain out from before. Just another round of elbow-grease to get the stain out and that leaves the wood needing to be polished. Might as well start on it before more bodies start to linger around….

coded by reveriee.

 

[CrimsonInk]

• THE PROLOGUE
• CHAPTER ONE

• 
  
  
  
  
  

  the raven.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

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    mood

    
    
    
    

    Bewildered || Distraught
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
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    outfit

    
    
    
    

    Dressed for the Dead
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
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    location

    
    
    
    

    Graveyard
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
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    interactions

    
    
    
    

    None, but open to interactions!
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  Prologue

  
  The vile taste of bile and iron coated the back of the woman’s throat as she gasped for air. Her cold eyes opened to complete darkness, and the musty scent of dead grass and petrichor filled her senses. Confusion and fear began to swirl in her mind as she fumbled to touch the hard surface beneath her. Her hand, trembling, explored the wooden walls around her, tapping and feeling the rough texture. Her feet confirmed the walls' continuity, and a chilling realization dawned on her: she was in a coffin.
  
  Blind in the dark, her hands groped the top of the wooden box, her knuckles tracing the lines of the wood. She tapped it, hoping for some sign of an echo.
  
  Please, this can’t be happening…
  
  A loud thud jolted her, and she froze. Lucrezia forced herself to breathe slowly and quietly, straining to hear any sounds outside her wooden prison. Though muffled, she could make out the faint murmur of voices—one of them was unmistakably Timothy’s. Desperately, she began banging on the top of the coffin.
  
  “Help! Please, help!” she shouted, her voice barely a whisper.
  
  Suddenly, a sliver of light pierced through a hole in the wood. Lucrezia squinted and pressed her eye against it. She saw two figures illuminated by moonlight. One of them she recognized: Timothy, and a shovel poised to strike—
  
  Instinctively, she pulled back, her eyes shut tight as the shovel plunged into her coffin. The light from the moon grew brighter as the shovel withdrew. Gasping for fresh air, she thrust a hand through the hole. A high-pitched scream echoed.
  
  “Tim! What’s wrong?” a deeper voice called out.
  
  “The corpse! It’s alive!” Timothy’s panicked voice followed.
  
  “Alive? You fool, she is alive!” the deeper voice responded.
  
  Lucrezia struggled to speak, but her voice was weak. She withdrew her hand and watched as the boys wrestled to open the coffin. The splintering of wood made her flinch as pieces flew into her face. Finally, the top of the coffin broke open, exposing her to the outside world.
  
  Pale and disoriented, Lucrezia sat up and looked at her saviors. The candlelight from their lamps revealed two familiar faces: Timothy and Sebastian from the orphanage. Dirt smeared their clothes and skin.
  
  “Timothy…Sebastian…are you…robbing my grave?” Lucrezia croaked, her voice barely audible as she coughed.
  
  An awkward silence followed. Timothy, the younger boy, looked down, tears welling up in his eyes. Sebastian wore a mix of shame and disappointment.
  
  “It was my idea, Madam Cambridge,” Sebastian confessed. “We heard that sometimes people are buried with jewelry. We thought if we could find some, we could pawn it to help the orphanage.”
  
  “We heard you had died…” Timothy began, but he could not continue, his tears overwhelming him.
  
  “Died?” Lucrezia repeated, bewildered. How could she be ‘dead’ if she was alive?
  
  She climbed out of the coffin, her gaze falling to her dress—a fine, black garment she recognized. Her hands were pale and skeletal, with her family’s silver ring adorned with sapphires glinting in the dim light. The full reality of her situation began to sink in.
  
  With the boys’ help, she emerged from the coffin, her nails digging into the damp earth as she pulled herself free. When she finally turned around, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the tombstone bearing her name.
  
  Here lies the deposited remains of
  Lucrezia Amore Cambridge
  Who died on XXX, XXX
  Ora Pro Nobis
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Wasteland

  
  
  
  

  Chris Vrenna

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡
  
  
• 
  
  
  
  
  

  the raven.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

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    mood

    
    
    
    

    Composed, Savoring the moment
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
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    outfit

    
    
    
    

    Dressed to Impress
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
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    location

    
    
    
    

    The Mess Hall
    

    
    
    

    
    
    
  • 
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

    
    

    
    
    
    
    

    
    
    

    interactions

    
    
    
    

    None, but open to interactions!
    

    
    
    

    
    
    

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  Chapter One

  
  There are moments when death seems to linger around those who have escaped his grasp, but for her, he remains for the sake of company. Though company can be grand, his presence made little difference in a room full of living souls. Lucrezia Amore Cambridge felt a deep melancholy as she sat alone in the midst of a night meant for celebration.
  
  As she swirled the contents of her wine, her eyes wandered over the smiles and flushed faces of nobles engaged in lively conversation. To those outside this circle, it might appear to be a typical celebration, but in reality, it was a trivial game of chess. A game she had withdrawn from to address more pressing matters—not those who had their bellies full and coins spilling from their pockets. She had earlier claimed a spot at a table, hoping to enjoy the company of a full room, but instead, she was met with an unexpected wave of loneliness.
  
  The faces that met her gaze displayed a mixture of dismay and unease, as though her very appearance was a cause for discomfort. While she understood their superficial judgment, it was still disheartening to see how narrow-minded they could be. To these social circles, appearance was everything, but for her, it was the essence of a person that truly mattered. She had resolved to be that difference.
  
  Perhaps, if those who dared to seek her out were to come forward, the night might hold more than just silence.
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Promise

  
  
  
  

  山岡晃

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Physician.

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Ilya

Jovanovic

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

THIS BACKFIRED QUICKLY

OUTFIT

Party woo

LOCATION

Mess Hall

MENTIONS

Rat, Devana

INTERACTS

Gao erzulie

Cigar — Tamino.

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Humanist's Folly.

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

Chapter One.

Ilya’s internal panic about rapidly approaching very pretty lady was completely cast aside with a little barb thrown out at him from the spitting rabid mouth of Rattholomew.

”Why are you still speaking”

What a rude thing to-

Oh.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Rat was fucking with him. Trying to annoy him on purpose. Make him feel bad.

…

Wow Rat was really bad at this. The clouds of confused questions parted, down came the holy rays of enlightenment. This weirdo was trying to upset him and things just made so much more sense now.

The second realization that came crashing into the first like the rapidly rising tide was that Rat was getting increasingly agitated at Ilya’s lack of response.

Did… Was this a win?

Was he winning this interaction?

Social encounters were more based on trust and love and cooperation and all of that fairytale nonsense, but when malicious actors came into his life, he more or less preferred to quite literally kill them with kindness.

He was winning, nevermind the massive red mark on his forehead from table slam and the hamkerchief resting a little ways away.

Gladiatorial stare, harsh northern winds whispering in the appearance of a noble striding forth, Ilya’s attention snapped over from pasty terminal geriatric to whatever the exact opposite of that was.

“You look familiar… who are you”

A bloom of warmth entered his chest just a little bit, aww she remembered!

“I’m-” There was the soft wrapping of accent to the syllable before he was cut off, the change of voice that came from meeting another from your homeland.

“Careful, mysterious beasty” Oh no. “Gingey there just harassed me, he dids, he do.”

When hit with the horrid betrayal of outsider, Ilya did the one thing he could do and gave Rat a particularly nasty version of the Umbrian side eye. Soft dark brown eyes doing such a routine and practiced gesture as he’d done since birth when a stranger began to act out. .

And by nasty, it wasn’t any less nasty than a regular passerby in Umbra. Ilya’s version of nasty was everyone else’s normal reaction.

“I…’m… um…” He was fighting the accent a little, but overcompensating so that every syllable sounded a little too polished. And then he gave up entirely and ended up slipping back into the comfortable way of talking to another Umbra outlander. “I’m Ilya… Jovanovic… You came by our village once to drive out the weird fish things that had infected the lake. Stayed the night… It was Fishington?”

The painful awkward recalling of what was quite the event to Ilya’s young childhood, but was probably the routine for her.

“... It’s alright if you don’t remember it, it was like… two decades ago at this point probably.”

The hasty add on of complacency, probably the last person in the world to ever even dream of harassment. Though perhaps the only person in worse physical shape than Ilya, all gawky knees and elbows and tired sad eyes, was Rat.

“Oh! Sweetest Ratalie can’ts even speaks of it, the brute! Punish him!”

“... Please don’t punish me” Nevermind the fact that Ilya was innocent in the first place. “... He’s fine.”

Well, he wasn’t fine. But Ilya didn’t give him a terminal chronic illness, so that couldn’t possibly be his fault. Soft owlish stares and gentle mellow ways of speaking really only adding to the farcical nature of what was occurring.

“... And um… if you hurt me that would be bad because…” … why would that be bad again? “... I wouldn’t… be able to stitch people up? If? I was hurt too badly?”

Wow he was dumb.

“... I mean I would just greatly prefer… not being... smote… thank you.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

CLICKY

OUTFIT

NOT SUSPICIOUS

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN HALLWAY

MENTIONS

VAS

INTERACTS

morcetyx

BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.

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HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER ONE.

Ren seems to have adopted a pet.

A curly pet.

Reduced from a stubborn pillar that had snatched for the pin without a word, now arranged piteously on his lap like a smattering of warm rubble. Tempest made into a pampered companion, it is not the strangest scenario Ren has found himself in— not to imply it wasn’t a worthy competitor either.

Menial understanding of noticing the cue to dismount, there is absurdity to the reeling impression Ren is trying to form about the dovelike blonde. The glassy contradiction of coarse but not cruel, this shapeshifting amorphous thing must be either bored or too socially-inept to realise their position was both strange and suggestive.

Or the blonde knew, and for the third time tonight Ren is crowned with the conflict of whether they were trying to solicit his company. He supposes desire preludes famine, and starving things are willing to take anything.

The calibration of their hand is an oscillating orbit above the hairpin, posture curdled with uncertainty. Ren would skulk at the torturous play of acting as if they no longer wanted it, the look of a pining dog at the heel of a dinner table if not sceptical something else stayed their hand.

A hand quickly encased in the shells of his own, molten delight stirs to the surprising easiness of the interaction. No argue or fight, in the density of all that bark and earlier displays of disgust to his touch is little bite once shown themselves to freely abide.

Husk skinned lunar, sheaves of flayed ivory press themselves easy to their spirit and muscle. An alabaster moon like a pearl stone now exiled to burning hands of the dark, in topaz-toned air remains the duo of wasted constellation and ruinous midnight. Vasariah, the moon tells the night: too long, the night thinks.

Socially tragic is the blonde’s particulars about dinner. Watches their conflict like a hovering shade, quelled into patient silence to observe their open train of thought. If the stretch of their mind is anything like this mosaic mess, he does not fault for them for being quiet.

“Vas, sweetheart,” derogatory, how hopeless that the snob would not know the difference between accompaniment and main course, “a bread roll is not a meal.” Ren wouldn’t expect anything else from a blonde. They are not wise.

Lovely scenery cracks ceramic, petting the thief’s ripple of attitude to a complacent millpond. Him? Is He the lovely scenery? Perhaps the blonde is wise afterall. Herald of immaturity, devious is the unfurling smile coaxed by their remark.

“Bit late for flattery,” fond dismissal, “you’ve already been in my mouth.”

Much like everything that emerges from his impulsive maw, the diminishing sense to think before he speaks is a forever lost cause. No stranger to disgrace, Ren ought to consider it his duty to cheapen everything.

Something earnest and frayed in their request, he decides two truths can coexist in this interval of time. Still believes he is a threat, all vulgar red and kiln danger, but a threat is allowed to indulge in the recognition of touch and debilitating sentiment of being asked for help. Precarious— to doubt a self-made fable. Eroded by unfurling tenderness till its shape is mutated apocryphal, something warm and drowsy stirs behind the cold hollows of his eyes like a churning chrysalis to watch the pretty blonde.

Curiosity is a dangerous thing.

Emerald crowned in downy lashes, they fan like silk as viridescence cants away to the golden hairpin. Glinting like the garden of Eden, Ren’s charcoal own are delayed to follow their path. The only certainty within this odd duo was the thief being allowed to take something, a playful quip now reaping a surprising reward.

Their sentence dissolves like a cube stirred into tea, and how sweet is the aftermath to their plea. Bow of their lips and cutting blade of their jaw, the sight is a flinch to the eyes barely subsumed. Once disgusted from his hands like a Midas touch of rot, that recent wound is stolen away with nothing more than this encroaching proximity. Something seasick sloshes inside his veins at the trace of palmar creases, a seam that incarcerates the somnolent thing residing below the skin.

Hands slotted with his own, he’d dare consider he is allowed to linger there.

Purr.

No.

A nod to their request, vague. He has styled his mother’s hair plenty of times, but it is different from the sleek, all straight dripping pitch. Slowly untangles his hands from theirs to push prophecies of curls that float dreamlike over shoulders, the soft tapestry is lost to the still backdrop. Unable to affix the pin without the accuracy of vision, it is reliance on blind estimation that guides his path.

Gathering half of the spun gold to return the half-up style he’d so grievously ruined before boarding, he glides his thumbs past ears to part the sea and collect a neat twist to skewer with metal at the back of their head. He is not a perfectionist in any means, still takes a moment to smooth what he can. Snobs value their appearance.

Focus swaddled up to notice the intimacy of it, some mutated genre of a loose embrace, attention then tarries to the jewel of interest. Touch skirts from pin to neck, pausing to await for any complaint or removal of their permission to let him have it. Hearing none, a hand splays flat against the nape in search of the flimsy clasp. Blonde is heavy against his knuckles and their neck is gracefully slender, and with those eyes he finds the need to turn Vasariah’s face away from him with a pushed finger at the jaw.

Ogling little beast.

Dexterity lends itself to locating and unfastening the necklace, and he withdraws the jewellery into a shiny heap in his palm. Absent-mindedly weighs the metal and turns it over with a thumb, he’ll never wear it, but has no doubt he could cash it in at the next port.

“See, life is much easier when you use manners.” How nice that Ren did not have to perform his party trick of nibbling it from their body. “Pretty faces should only say pretty things.”

“But hey, hey. Since we’re friends…” the bedrock of his character, how insufferable that he led a simple life with simple wants and all of them connected to staying on this boat. “You’re not gonna… tell anyone about this misunderstanding, right?” A sheepish question, if one looked closely enough, mousy apprehension. To be thrown from the boat in a bundle of screaming black because of his magpie fascination for the hairpin would be a dire end to it all. A droplet into the sea, he can think of nothing worse.

Reaching a hand to fuss with the white fabric of Vasariah’s shirt, he smoothes the ivory into place like a pampered pet.

“I'm not too unreasonable, I could compensate you in other ways..?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Harrowhark]

mood

panic

outfit

link

location

ship

tags

floralmoon Kader

Aurelia’s eyes widened at the bald figure. The most tragic sentence she’d ever heard in her life was just spoken.

“You have no hair… on purpose?” She could almost fall to her knees and sob. How could anyone ever do such a thing? The poor, beautiful, luscious head of hair, all gone with no intention of its return. There couldn’t be anything more awful in the entire world.

Paralyzed for a moment, mouth agape, Aurelia was left to only ponder why life was worth living as the orb was put away. A soft touch brought way to another panic. Introductions!

The orb had a name, but Aurelia’s own would not suffice. She was not quite drunk enough to give herself away, not yet anyway.

The scribe must have had a name, she supposed, but they hadn’t made introductions before his life had ended. Perhaps, it was on the ticket, if only she had thought to read it.

The orb was waiting.

“How fantastic to meet you orb… I mean bald… I mean Kayyy… Kader! I have a name too, obviously. Its um-“ Think! “My name is uh-“ Use that brain!

Aurelia looked away for a moment, wiping her hands on her pants. “My name is-“ She looked around for anything that could help. A mast, wooden planks, bottles of ale, two swords hung on the wall in an x formation.

“Blade!” A cool and mysterious pirate name for a cool and mysterious guy. “Yep, that's my name! Blade Longsword the 25th.” Saved! Thank you ship decor. “The name given to me by my father, Blade Longsword the 24th, naturally.”

Blade took a long sip of his ale, hoping the orb named Kader didn’t notice how much he was sweating.

The Scribe

© reveriee

 

[morcetyx]

THE DEVOUT.

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Vasariah

Nightingale

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

I do not understand my feelings rn.

OUTFIT

Napkin.

LOCATION

Zesty ass hallway.

MENTIONS

Ren (LAME).

INTERACTS

Ren. Gao

FAMILY TREE (INTRO) —
ETHEL CAIN.

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I CAN FEEL IT GETTING NEAR

Like flashlights coming down the way
One day you'll figure me out
I'll meet judgment by the hounds

CHAPTER ONE.

“Sweetheart?”

Vasariah, oblivious to the brunette's subtly mocking tone, is left bewildered by the choice of endearment. They are not lovers, nor are they bound by any intimacy that warrants such a tender epithet. Could the other be hinting at a desire for such closeness? So soon after their paths have crossed? The notion seems absurd, yet plausible, given the incessant flirtations and the intimate proximity they share. The gentle weight of the other’s touch, the way he remains ensconced on Vasariah's lap without any sign of dismissal. Handsy, indeed, but perhaps there was a motive behind that touch? It was Ren in the beginning, who had propositioned him. It was reasonable to conclude that he was only continuing those efforts.

The nickname was a matter for another time. Best not to dwell on it when there was a debate to make.

“A bread roll is a meal,” Vasariah spoke, his voice a soft, deliberate murmur as he shifted his weight subtly in Ren’s lap. His gaze, laden with contemplation, met Ren's eyes. “A meal is defined by an act or the time of eating a portion of food to satisfy appetite. If bread is all you have to satisfy an appetite, it is a meal.”

He leaned closer to Ren, the proximity allowing his breath to mingle with Ren’s air. “I suppose I did not eat it, but tasting it was enough to satisfy my appetite,” he murmured. “But you took a bite, was it enough to satisfy yours?” Spoken in a cadence and closeness that eludes to something more than the blonde intended. He had yet to bring awareness towards his own tone.

“you’ve already been in my mouth.”

Vasariah's gaze lingers, entranced by the undulating dance of white fabric merging with the inky black, as if searching for truths in the chiaroscuro of their interplay. It was laced with a meaning that tasted so familiar, yet it was foreign to sheltered ears. His fingers had been in the other’s mouth, yes, but it was alluding to more than that, was it not?

In his mouth…in his mouth…I’ve already been in his mouth…?

This smile is not the polished veneer he presents for the world’s gaze, but a true, unrefined expression of warmth, like something sweet whispered in the night. A soft, melodic laugh escapes him, delicate as a whispered secret—a sound so rare that it feels almost foreign. It was a secret he intended to keep between them as his face sought to hide away behind their entwined hands.

Vasariah is drawn back to the distant echoes of a time when laughter was both a gift and a rarity, nearly a decade past, when friendship still held meaning to him. A time where friendship could even exist. All these years, no soul had managed to reach him with such delicate precision, to evoke a response so pure and genuine.

One might attribute his inability to connect, to find joy, and to summon a laugh to his reclusive existence, a life confined against his will. Yet, it was not merely the isolation that stifled his mirth. Beyond the physical barriers and the absence of companionship lay a deeper void, a space where joy had faded into shadows, leaving only a hollow echo of what could have been. He did not feel alive.

Here, he cradled life within his grasp, as if holding the very essence of existence in his hands. Resting beneath the blazing sun, he was enveloped in a warmth so distinctive and remarkable that it seemed to stir something deep within him—a warmth that made him laugh and feel joy at something that was, in reality, not amusing to him at all. Perhaps it was Ren himself that he was amused with.

In that fleeting moment, his thoughts wandered to what it might be like to flirt with the sun, not out of vengeance or a desire to reclaim his precious hairpin, but driven by a sense of curiosity, perhaps even a longing he had buried long ago.

Yet, he would not act on this sudden impulse. The temptation to chase a fleeting thrill was overshadowed by the value of the burgeoning connection he now decided he cherished. He understood that sacrificing something genuine for a momentary spark would not be worth the cost. He couldn’t drown it so fast. Instead, he would tend to the budding connection with care and patience, nurturing it slowly over time. Like a delicate flower, he would water it with intention and affection, allowing it to bloom fully in its own time, however slowly that would be.

“Is it because it’s over that you believe you’re any less deserving of admiration?” A teasing glint in his eye as he let his finger brush against Ren’s palm. “You’ve been finishing with the wrong people if that’s how you feel.” He let the teasing words hang in the air for a moment, this time intentional in the meaning. “It’s not late…it’s ever-continuing.”

Vasariah sat with a practiced obedience as his gaze wandered over the delicate task being performed. He observed the careful, almost meditative movements. The gentle touch of the hands that arranged his hair was soothing, one that made him reminiscent of the Apostle’s hands arranging curls into neat hairstyles. He did not flinch, nor move an inch to make the process as easy as possible for Ren.

Vasariah made no sound of complaint as Ren’s fingers moved to retrieve the necklace—a trade he had willingly offered and agreed to. The transaction was accepted with the calm resignation of one who understands the price of a bargain. However, when Ren tilted his head away, deliberately obscuring his view of those deep, darling brown eyes and the exquisitely sculpted features, a sound of gentle protest escaped him. It was a soft, almost wistful noise, as if the removal of that gaze was a small, unfair injustice. The gesture felt like a tender betrayal, leaving behind a whisper of longing in its wake.

Vasariah regarded Ren’s nimble fingers with a mixture of curiosity and faint amusement as they deftly handled the necklace, withdrawing it into a shiny heap. He noted the absent-minded way Ren turned it over, the metal glinting under the light. Though he was well aware of the potential value of the piece, the casual manner in which it was handled spoke volumes about Ren’s character. He wanted to rattle him a little.

“You should wear it,” he suggested, his voice a soft whisper, laden with a touch of admiration. “Your skin is kissed by the glow of gold, and even your hair carries the hues of sunlit amber. Red would suit you, if you’d give it the time.”

As Ren’s playful remark about manners reached his ears, Vasariah let it linger, even though he knew it was probably just another throwaway flirt. A warm flush crept into his cheeks, and he scoffed softly, keeping his gaze directed away from the other. “If I said only pretty things,” he mused, “then they would mean less.”

Ren’s next attempt at appeasing him drew a pointed look from Vasariah, jade eyes flickering beneath dark lashes. The little thief, circling back to save his hide once more. In the Cascades, such an act would earn a man a fate of flayed skin, but here, in this unfamiliar realm, the rules of retribution were as murky as the waters they sailed. He did not know what would be an equal trade for such audacity.

Vasariah's gaze drifted down to the hands smoothing his shirt, then back to Ren’s face. He pondered, letting his eyes trace the delicate lines and shadows of Ren’s features, a pretty canvas for his contemplation.

Stay with me.

He won’t.

The future isn’t set in stone. It can still change. I can still change it.

Vasariah.

Vasariah grabs slender hands once more, shakily intertwining them. “Stay with me.” A pause, reeling in his request to something smaller, less intrusive, less committal. “I want to understand what it means to be your friend.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[escapist]

MOOD:
Friendly, disappointed, annoyed, drunk

LOCATION:
The Leviathan's deck where Maltke had made a mess

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

Dahlia, Captain Lexis (the sexy one, you know)

The old-timer

Maltke

Interactions: Dahlia, CrimsonInk

Head fell down a bit as he hunched forward more, his weathered face became blank, his eye emptied clouded, looking vaguely at somewhere around the symmetrical point between Dahlia's eyes. Every muscle on his face became relaxed, only showing a mixture of deadly seriousness and distant discontent. "Eeehh?" Maltke let out a sound, usual company of 'Maltke's Blank Stare'. He thought he would be polite and give options instead of the order to drink but when his comrade chose the wrong option, he felt unnecessery anger and disappointment. He stepped away, his form moved dramatically, dancing clumsily closer and closer towards the wet, slippery part of the deck. "How am I supposed to do it right without drinking?" He posed yet another stupid, meaningless question. "Tell me, ..." The argument was cut by the realization that his strict company of few words didn't even introduce herself to him. Instead of speaking, Maltke simply threw himself on the deck in a sitting position, his arm was reluctantly extended towards the brush. "Ay, this be fine too..."

His mood had changed so quick that even Maltke hadn't noticed entirely, only felt that something was strangely off. "Damn...my charm grew old..." The thought functioned as a brush, wiping the unpleasant thoughts that came with the very same realization: the awkward silence, the sensation of slow, yet complete failure, the pain throbbing faintly in his bones... the rough ends of the brush wiped every dirt away roughly but successfully. How clean the deck became already! He was not half bad in it, indeed.
"Fine, but after the cleaning, we drink!" The pirate glanced up, his eye was overflowing with mischief as if nothing had happened. He groaned, leaning forward in order to clean the ground more properly. "Haven't been a swabbie in decades!" He mused and whined in the same time, exaggerating the years without noticing it. "Didn't think I'd crouch and lick the bloody deck ever again." He admitted, then kept whining under his nose. "That fuckin' Captain better not gettin' used to me dancing like he whistles...I be too old for this crap...gotta respect yer elders ye lil'..."

"Did you serve on a ship before?" The question stopped Maltke's word-flood - not like he didn't know the answer already from how confidently she walked on the ship. "Ye seem a bit rural to me..." Maltke mesured up the redhead with a thoughtfully squinted eye and a teasing pathetic-excuse-of-a-smile. "Maybe yer father was the best fisherman of the village...pff that look on yer face!" Maltke smirked, clearly enjoying the another, newly presented way of amusing himself and only himself. "But that look of yers makes ye more like a pirate bwhahah...maybe with an eye-patch like mine...heh." If someone were wandering around that part of the deck, they would probably find it comical, how quickly the old pirate's weak smile that had been gradually forming as he was speaking, disappeared in a blink of an eye.

"Ye putrid sack of agony why can't ye keep that mouth of yers sealed! How can ye be so terrible in lying..." Maltke scolded himself and his face - which wasn't a face of an actor - mirrored the same annoyance. He turned away in order to cover the expression of someone who hadn't realized how much truth the joke had had until said it out loud. He spat on the deck. "Anyways..." He cleared his throat, straightening his back, risking another glance towards Dahlia. "I think the ground's clean enough..." He shrugged, looking around the now more cleaner part of the deck. He stood up and stumbled through the wet floor, his black coat was billowing after him with enthusiasm as he grabbed the bottle of rum and the glasses again, returning to his comrade in seconds.

Making himself on the ground comfortable again, he started pouring rum in the glasses. "Now accept it, gal! Just with one glass...we deserve it!" He said with a half smile, coating or more like outshining everything that had happened in the past minutes.

coded by reveriee.

 

[AnimeGenork]

mood :

Comfortable (Brief Concern)

location :

The Deck

outfit :

mentions :

Magnus Pepsionne
The Captain~ Gao
Anon, Dying Wyll

interactions :

Junshi morcetyx

Enamored

;; rosaline

About as odd as the man before her, Rosaline was experiencing an emotion she wasn’t terribly familiar with. She had felt this sort of emotion a handful of times before. Comfort. Ease. A relaxation she didn’t have when entertaining her clients and culls. Almost a warmth, too. Like coming home. How she was feeling that without ten minutes of meeting the man, she couldn’t be sure. But it was a powerful feeling sweeping over her, and she wanted to hold onto it for just a little longer.

Dipping into a curtsy, she smiled at her companion. “Lovely to meet you, Junshi. I think I accept the challenge to try and come up with a nickname for you. Perhaps Junebug?” She covered her mouth with her hand as she giggled. Such a nickname oddly suited him. A sweet nickname for a very sweet man. Yes. She liked that very much.

She peered up at him in amusement as he puzzled through nicknames for her. The smile on her face grew in size and warmth at the options presented before her. “Why yes, my brand is the rose, but I think I rather like Rosalie. Lili would be fine as well. I can embody multiple flowers if I try hard enough.” Inclining her head, she acknowledged, “It would be a delight to hear you call me either of those names. Junebug.” Oh, yes, that rolled off the tongue nicely. She liked it very much.

He managed to distract her thoughts of the shadow she’d glimpsed by his answer to her query. “Well, I’d say you are ensuring safety just fine so far. Very well, in fact.” She was not familiar with the term “quartermaster,” but she nodded all the same as if she knew of what he spoke. There was no way she was going to reveal that she slept her way onto this ship, nor was she going to reveal her hand as to why she was here. It was already taking all of her willpower not to look for him again. Far too dark for another search of that sort.

“So far, I’m very content. I have a lovely new companion to share my time with. And should anyone unsavory try to capture my attentions again, I think he will be the first to step up to my defense.” Rosaline tilted her head, hoping he caught on to what she was saying, but if not, she was prepared to clarify.

As she opened her mouth to answer his returned inquiry, there was a magnificent interruption. There was a man having a horrible coughing fit elsewhere on the deck. Rosaline watched with concerned eyes, thinking perhaps he was choking. Then she spotted the smoke wreathed around his head. Ah. First-timer. How droll. She watched for a moment more until she was sure he was not, in fact, dying and that she would not have to, in fact, direct Junshi in the man’s direction. The coughing fit subsided, and she straightened to face her new acquaintance.

“A mix of both, I’m afraid. My business is rather personal, but perhaps I’ll tell you of it another time. There is pleasure involved as well, of course, seeing as I rarely venture outside of my workplace.” Yes, that was a way to keep it vague. Hopefully she would be able to nimbly dart around any questions about her occupation properly.

She’d hate to drive away a prospective new connection by mentioning she was a whore.

coded by reveriee.

 

[CrimsonInk]

mood :

....maybe he's not too bad

location :

The deck of the Leviathan

outfit :

mentions :

escapist

interactions :

Maltke, The Captain (Zesty Lexi)

THE DESCENDANT

;; Dahlia

Chapter One

Disappointment and irritation radiated off the taller man. Dahlia sensed it. She knew too well of this kind of aura, and felt the need to keep her distance. These were unknown trenches she was dealing with.

"How am I supposed to do it right without drinking?"

Figure it out.

For a man this age he was certainly acting like a man child. Maltke, the man child. That seemed to fit nicely for now.

Watching his reluctance to agree on such minimal terms was….unexpected. The boiling wind of emotions from moments before felt they were ready to spill like a tantrum, and usually that was the kind of behavior she had gotten used to. She continued to listen bewildered and focused on the man’s language. Words like ‘swabbie’ were certainly familiar, and the way he would vent was similar to those she heard from the other sailors with the Carmine Corsair’s.

The way he would speak of the captain had almost made her chuckle. Almost. How his tongue danced around trying to make conversation was a little amusing to the woman. The kind of men she was used to were those who had no trouble spitting in her face or buttered her ass wanting for her to do something. Or the kind who were slimy maggots that couldn’t hold their tongue over the smallest things. Sensitive. Arrogant. In an odd way, his jambering was….tolerable.

"Maybe yer father was the best fisherman of the village…–”

Her eyes narrowed his way and she was met with another form of his jesting nonsense.

“–...pff that look on yer face!"

Careful now, I was starting to enjoy your company….

The look of a pirate? An odd distinction. She never really cared much about her appearance in how she allows people to view her. Appearances change and so does the person overtime, except one who leaves a bitter taste in her mouth from just the subconscious thought of him. Now if anyone looked like a pirate, naturally it would be him. But he was a pirate. He had to be. A pretty damn obvious one, and the Captain didn’t find that concerning? Maybe the Captain was a certain kind of special for letting him stay onboard. Probably from inhaling all that wood polish.

It seems that it does take two to clean and polish wood to its refined state. Never does she wish to partake in such a groveling and labor inducing chore like this again. Letting out a breath she gave a nod, agreeing with this man for once on something. Drinks. Alcohol. Well deserved after this. Walking back to where they once stood leaning on the edge of the ship, she watched him pour the liquid into the glasses.

"Now accept it, gal! Just with one glass...we deserve it!"

Ah. Gal. Not a bad name, but certainly not a good one. Her chosen name was better.

“Dahlia…” she said, clearing her throat, “my name. It’s Dahlia.”

Taking a glass she swirled its content, sniffing the fruity caramelized aroma it gives off, and downed it without hesitation. After years of getting used to the taste, there was no need to recoil in making a face of that strong liquid she enjoyed. The contents traveled down nicely and felt her body beginning to warm up.

“And I did serve on a ship. Which ship is none of yer- your concern. Captain was hell. Used to be a pirate. Don’t know how that works, but it’s in the past…” she mumbled towards the end.

She looked at the bottle that held the rum and looked back into his eye. Leaning against the edge, holding the glass close and holding herself up by her elbow.

“....is this how you plan the night?” she asked.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
pensive

LOCATION:
The Leviathan: main deck

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS: Gao Funai Ren Mypilot Antarin

the huntsman

magnus

Interactions: Wyll ,Anon

"What makes a good one from a bad one? Do you know a place that is known for having good ones? How much would two packs cost?"

A low hum sounded in the back of Magnus’ throat. “Ah--I don’t think I’d be the best critic in that area,” he responded. The bitterness of cigarettes was a common complaint among those who smoked, but Magnus found himself rather indifferent to the taste. While some went out of their way to seek out higher quality in favor of better flavor, Magnus found himself preferring the rather substandard offering of cheaper brands. “I’m not picky--I go with whatever is first available usually. Don’t bother yourself with it, your craftsmanship is more than enough.”

"Aye, I dinnae even need ask. You take care of that blade better than some people take care of their partner." Anon smirked wickedly as he used his elbow to nudge Magnus "Ey, maybe even better that you treat your partner."

The bounty hunter’s expression twitched momentarily. Partner. The word was as foreign to him as the notion of kindness. He thought of the glazed fear often seen in eyes from those he’d interview in pursuit of a bounty--his reputation having preceded him. That fear was something powerful, not easily melted into the look of kindness required to obtain friendship, let alone romance. Partner. As if his fate would allow it.

He decided to let the jest slip by without response, instead settling his gaze on the milling crowds of the main deck. Magnus found himself with a habit of people watching when found in a moment of listlessness. To see such natural displays of intimacy shared so leniently between others, it never failed to astound him. A soft touch on the arm. Shared laughter. They felt like ghosts in his memory.

“---I helped build this thing, you know? I know the layout about as well as I know the tools in my shop...”

Magnus’ mouth parted slightly. Anon built the ship? What a convenient twist. Who better to give him a tour of every passageway and secret forged into the vessel than the man who forged them himself? Antarin’s watchful eye may have complicated matters, but Anon’s acquaintanceship would allow the bounty hunter a loophole in which to slip through.

The hardened onyx in Magnus’ eyes softened into something friendly and pliable. He smiled at the man before him, eradicating the venomous gleam that typically made itself home in the whites of his teeth. “Given The Leviathan’s beautiful craftsmanship, I’d expect no less from the hand that forged it.”

Magnus tilted his head to the side. His gaze roamed Anon’s features and the innocent trust that rested dormant within them. There was a time when he, too, could look at others with such an expression. Trust. The bounty hunter wondered what that tasted like without the acrid flavor of betrayal accompanying it. Memories of innocence went red and bloody in his mind. What hue did the blacksmith before him see it as?

Anon gestured broadly to the inky expanse of sky. Such a dark blue melted the horizon into waves of the same color, creating an overwhelming void were it not for the faint dusting of stars to permeate it. The moon cast a white halo glow from its position in the sky, one that was casted down in crescent slivers upon the choppy waves.

The blacksmith’s question prompted an odd look to pass across Magnus’ features. What views was he missing? Innocence. Kindness. Mercy. The only thing the bounty hunter could see when on the job was the crimson veil of blood. He hadn’t met anything that could permeate it. Although the sky before them was beautiful, the thought of a certain dark haired man laced itself within it. Funai Ren hadn’t appeared in the long log of passengers that Magnus’ sticky fingers had brought into his possession, which meant that he had not obtained legal passage aboard. With Anon’s help Magnus would be aware of every hidden crevice the man could stow himself. He would find a way to flush him out, and Ren’s blood would be the first to christen the ship’s newly minted deck. Magnus was sure of it.

“My work is outdoors,” Magnus responded after a healthy pause. “I see magnificent views all the time.” He smiled, the action void of presence in his eyes. “I must reach out to you about that tour sometime. But for now, I fear a good rest for the night is due.”

The bounty hunter extended a hand to shake Anon’s in a friendly farewell. He turned to leave, footsteps impossibly silent. His form melded into the embrace of shadow as if woven from the very fabric of it itself.

coded by reveriee.

 

[escapist]

MOOD:
Friendly, light-hearted, unsure, drunk(er than before)

LOCATION:
The Leviathan's deck where Maltke had made a mess

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

Dahlia, Captain Zegzi Lexi

The old-timer

Maltke

Interactions: Dahlia, CrimsonInk

"Ah, Dahlia?" Maltke repeated as he followed her move and leaned against the railing, facing with the frothy waves. "Dahlia...Dahlia..." It was hard to say if he couldn't pronounce the name properly or just enjoyed tasting the name of his comrade. His lone eye which was glinting with appreciation suggested the later. "Nice to meet ye- you, Dahlia!" The old man rised his glass, the bottle still filled wit more rum than air was swinging in the lazy grip of his other hand dangerously. With an almost satisfied face, he rised the glass to his face and quickly poured down the fruity, bitter liquid which warmed his body up quickly and washed the smug smirk away from his face. "Ooh, tastes like crap!" I grumbled, nodding as if he was letting slide a mistake of an old friend.

Either his exclamation was an insult or praise, he reloaded his glass with a practiced motion. The bottle however almost fell out of his hand when Dahlia started talking. By herself! "To be fair it's still an answer to my question but still...she's talkin' ..." Maltke was lamenting as he listened as Dahlia was speaking, the longest time since they had met if he remembered correctly - probably not.

"Captain was hell." At this part Maltke risked a reassuring chuckle. "Was a pirate? And became a law-abiding captain? Sounds strange to me...ye know what they say: dog won't become a meat...I mean the hunter..." Two glasses of rum was enough to tear Maltke's naturally fragmented knowledge of proverbs into tiny snippets that the pirate only could run after clumsily. "Ye know what I mean...shit will be shit." He finished the thread of thoughts stylishly. "Can imagine t'was hell...all captains be bastards, am I right? Bwwhaahahaa" Maltke laughed so loudly and with full of heart that it hinted that something else was on his mind, besides Dahlia's old captain. "Bastards..." His lips moved without a single sound as he watched the waves conquering the ship's wood below, his lips formed a small, uneven smile.

"About the Captain of this ship I'm still not sure..." Maltke continued talking without keeping a proper break, only thirsty gulps stopped his rambling. "He demoted me to a swabbie on the first day of the adventure" He used the childish word without noticing in, forming it naturally. What else this event would be than an adventure? A ship without any actual-actual goal or target, just sailing the endless oceans with a mismatched palette of strangers with various intents...that is right, whatever the other passengers thought, this was an adventure to the old man, indeed. "He looked a strict man which he needs to be ay? But if he won't respect me, I'll incite rebellion..." Maltke said with a snort. Even his otherwise unassuming appearance was outshined by the picture of him, almost practically laying on the wooden railing of the deck, holding the rum in his hands as if his life was depending on it. "Ye be on my side, ain't ye, Dahlia?" He asked, the smile that still couldn't reach his mouth entirely, was pulling his eyelids tighter mischievously. He chuckled and clapped the woman's firm shoulder as the word 'rebellion' flew away from the playful, vivid lights and smells of the first evening of the adventure, sliding through a gap on the deck and hiding somewhere among the shadows in The Leviathan's belly, waiting for a more unpleasant time to reveal himself again.

(An annoyed grimace slided through the weather-beaten face of the old pirate as he realized what he was joking with. The hidden knife suddenly felt colder against his leg in his boot. "Be good Captain, 'kay?" He thought. )

Dahlia's valid question pulled him back to reality again. "...is this how you plan the night?" Maltke straightened his posture and poured more rum in the woman's glass eagerly as he got mockingly serious. "Well...partly." He admitted after a little thinking. "When there be booze and food we have to make it disappear...but also..." He turned towards the woman with a half-smile. "Those things taste better in larger company. I wouldn't want ye to spend yer night with an old fart alone!" He pointed to himself dismissively. "So let's finish this bottle and go in for more...maybe help some idiot get rid of their money in cards...and who knows if this ship gets damn lucky, ye all will see Maltke's infamous dance on the plank...but I really have to drink more to that. How about ye?" He glanced to her curiously. "Have something or someone on yer mind?"

coded by reveriee.

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

scroll

船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

MAKING FRIENDS ?

OUTFIT

NOT SUSPICIOUS

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN HALLWAY

MENTIONS

VAS & DOLORES

INTERACTS

morcetyx

BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.

scroll

HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER ONE.

Rudderless in an ocean of theory where assumptions are rebounding the soft shore of a skull: Ren is still not certain what the blonde wants from him.

Having retrieved the borrowed hairpin and made no gesture to climb off or engage in ravaging, he is left in the nebulous unknown of why Vasariah chooses to loiter. It cannot be to bicker about the definition of a meal, but tensioned air thickens as they move closer, and what he could think to be the truth furls itself increasingly disorienting just like the gossamer words passed between them.

Talk of satisfaction and appetite, it feels much more lewd than anything spoken without veils of nuance. Residue of jade eyes are the spotlight of his focus, viperous green and damning fruit-skin lips and Ren has never been much else above a rule-breaking heretic.

“I will not be seduced with eye contact and talk of bread.” He-Whore meets them halfway. “If you recall, I have standards.”

He has no right to regret the things he says, and yet. Vasariah’s wavering silence to his mouth comment has Ren wanting to backtrack every statement he’d delivered in the past few minutes. Looms over him like wool, tapering that flame of confidence to a flickering cinder.

Vasariah is near unrecognisable when he finally smiles, the light of it. The way a laugh can soften a face in the same way sun thaws ice and cold winds, the blonde has proven they are not all ill-tempered eye-rolls. Restless but not ignorant to the stupidity of it, Ren shares the smile, albeit hesitant at their surprising reception. The way they try to hide behind hands is a nice distraction from the sheepish sting that had him ready to consider shutting up forever.

The formality of their words are shaded with something fond, and it is a lovesick language that follows their trace through the valleys of his hands. He can tell they have been afforded education, casual articulation that is so distinct in its construction. How well-trained and tactful with their approach, a searing at the senses. Ren tries not to level a reaction that he should be the subject of over-continuing admiration, but there is introspection dwelling in how his gaze loiters on the suffusing touch drifting across his hand.

“You must be an artist,” all dreamy and halo-mouthed with a naive romanticised view on the world, he recedes from his teeth. “They tend to say foolish things like that.”

Coloured still as the ivory of his skin, Vasariah is doll-like as Ren affixes their hair back into place. With this action, he feels he is beginning to understand something about the blonde, their measured actions and strange countenance. When forfeited impatient demands they are like an equanimous pool, submerged into lenient waters that sit with such patience he is worried they’d be willing to wait for eternity if asked. Whoever has taught them this compliance, Ren can only assume it is values inherited from a parent or overpriced tutor.

He ignores their sighed gripe with nothing more than a momentary glance, ascertaining he hadn’t snagged on and pulled hair during the nimble unfastening of the necklace. Withdrawn into his hand, he will not let himself be swayed into wasting the jewellery on himself, but the unfamiliar territory of someone suggesting he could dare do such a thing spurs the need to make up an excuse.

“Me? No.” Ren scoffs. “You don’t equip an expensive horse with a cheap saddle.”

An interval of contemplation, he must clarify the distinction.

“Me, I’m– I’m the expensive horse.”

Nevermind that a necklace of this opulence could only ever fall into his hands through a chance of stupid luck rather than legality. What can be so easily taken isn’t something he’d like to parade around like an invite, and he has not been born with the self-worth to think he should even be allowed to hold it. There is shame easily found in wanting something you cannot have, so too is there power in taking what you don’t deserve.

He pockets the necklace without lingering on the thought.

Unsure if challenge or taunt, their next words are what spiral Ren for aeons. Skin kissed by the glow of gold, even hair carries hues of sunlit amber. To their merit he can feel his ears warming, and something shy rings out in his ricocheting silence. An artist indeed. Floating in the quiet that engulfs his obnoxious self whole, he is half-drowned in search of something intelligent to reply with.

“… My hair is rather nice.” Akin to a child who has dragged his latest Crayola art for their praise, he brandishes that mess like it is the only admirable thing about him. But hands are terribly expressive, and nothing illustrates it more than the thief’s roiling inability to accept the nice words. Corrected, pretty people should not say pretty words because that is an unfair combination, and what apprehension he has sequestered within is coaxed through limb to the fingertips where he absentmindedly taps them against the back of Vasariah’s hands. A pearl of emotion, he is not entirely fond to be shackled into silence.

Suddenly it dawns on him, and Ren understands exactly why this blonde is the way he is.

Vasariah must be drunk.

Of course, the behaviour and lack of critical assessment for strangers aligns well with the indulgence of booze. His hand recoils from their shirt, morals play a part in this, keeping hands off those that are too inebriated to know any better is a cold and simple fact, not an esoteric grey area that can be debated. A basic impulse to say shallow things is easily defeated in reflection of this realisation.

He should learn to make like Pangaea and break away at the earliest opportunity, for the blonde’s little habits have again ensnared his hands in their own. How precise and inviting is their request, stay with me.

It should be lost currency, but when hungry for it, that forgotten currency will be recognised in anyone. Month by month things tend to lose their shape; knives blunt, wood swells with water, and iron blisters with a skin of sienna rust. Like wax promised to flame does Ren so easily forget he treads a line of bringing about decimation that can only be effaced with his distance. Mournfully implored to break hands and pick an aimless direction to maroon away, he’ll find a hidden cove to filter and pull out ribbons of infection.

Bloodletting with time helps, an exsanguination found with each step, but blinking rapidly won’t stop blue smearing onto hands and everything nearby. He cannot mourn all the things he could have become with heart littering ash down hallways and his screwed up little head forecasting issues that he is convinced will always come to fruition.

Exiled and without home, after all these years he is still uncertain if inviting himself to the shelter of others is brave or stupid. The cynicism wants to believe Vasariah is just a trick to his perception, to his shape, but the hope in him is always so selfish that when a light is a light, it is an effervescent beacon. Not salted sea churning his veins, but bubbling lamp oil.

I want to understand what it means to be your friend.

Ren wavers, a soft blink, somehow amidst all the indigo loneliness he has found another callow-eyed individual who chooses to be near him. He thinks to warn them: nobody wants that, not really. Thinks of Dolores. The foolishness of it, the absurdity to not recognise he is poor company. But wherever the thief roams, want billows like an unfitting coat and there is always space to spare for others to sneak in.

“Friends.” Blunt, how clear this is not what he expected, but he can hear what Vasariah is asking of him in the quiet. Speaks to something else inside them both, a place where they don’t have anyone else. It happens again, trying as he might to tamp the momentum, when orange blooms warm against asphyxiating blue and he is naught but a caramel melt. Selfish, again.

“Sheesh,” something sad stirs to this boozed up blonde thinking there is no better option just beyond this hallway, “you must be real lonely huh?” Exhales slowly through the nose, not irritable, but an unspool of tension in reluctant acquiescence. “Sure, we can be friends.” Says it like it’s nothing, friends, a cheap term to throw at those he is trying to charm clemency from. Friends just until the blonde sobers and forgets this entire debacle.

“You know, you’ve actually been my favorite from the start.” Still, he has engraved people into his memory, etched onto ribs like tallied names, and he has space for another. “But my favorites do not sit on me.” To be caught in this precarious position with an assumed drunk noble might be enough to lash a man to death. Even if it was Vasariah who’d saddled him, blame always fell to the disposable ones.

“Come on, up you get.” He shoos at the blonde, hadn’t yet expended a thought to the protest of his bones till it came to moving. Being upright is welcomed, and he dusts briefly at the black fabric. Thinks to do the same to Vas before recalling they are not in their right mind.

“You look easily muggable, so you’ll need someone to escort you to the mess hall.” He pushes a curtain of hair over the shoulder, jaw titled imperiously while he looks down the hallway and waits for an invitation. “Someone brave… capable…” Inconspicuous, a quick side-eye to see if his poorly hidden bait was easy enough for the blonde to catch on. “Tall…”

Another side-eye. He sighs thoughtfully.

“If only there was someone available who could help you out…”

If the promise of friendship fails in arrival with the snob’s sobriety, he can at least try to get on little Napkin’s payroll.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

font callfont callfont call

IN-CHARACTER

ROAM

ROGUE WAVES

ONBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

CHAPTER TWO.

Twelve days since boarding, and the vessel has taken to water like an alcoholic to rye whiskey— that is, smooth and without complaint.

With passing days brings a draught that steeps in the guests, settling the excitement of novelty into a seedling of a familiar timetable. Retreating from margins of Zenith land as they pass from one port-town to the next, still do citizens replenish the waterfront to watch the imperious frigate port and collect ticketed patrons.

Splitting a rift through King’s waters like a silhouette cut from the cloth of another realm, She pours through the ocean as if the moon has lost dominion of its inexorable push and pull vigour. Wind-fractured waves are snow-laden peaks curling into themselves, winking phosphorescent in gossiping sea breeze. Gliding languid and steady in the midday sun, canvas sails blossom themselves full and sea-spray salt scars itself into its crevices.

Teacups fluid with sienna and pinched within lofty hands, not a ripple in sight or drop spilt to the sedated rhythm of the ship. Many mill the main deck to soak in the sun while crew channel through the spaces around nobles like intangible constellations.

Completion of The Leviathan’s build awaits them in Siroc, planes of metal to frame the bow with ice-splitting titanium to prepare for Umbra.

The mimicry of peace is to be a short-lived sentiment, for something brews in the far-off horizon.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

 

[qunqun]

THE BUTCHER.

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Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FUCK YOU.

OUTFIT

EDGE

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Vas, Rosaline, Elera

INTERACTS

morcetyx

Muzzle — Destroy Boys

scroll

The Tertiary Sin.

Boiling deep within, a bubbling heat of wrath. Venom seeping through bladed lexicon

Chapter Two.

Oh but for the rising tides, the anger of one swells with it.

Well Aurelian felt like shit. Rising tides or nothing, he was never really one for… thinking about… life. Gross. Wrong. Disgusting. Introversion led to stagnancy, and he felt the idea of treading water to get under his skin like little bugs crawling over him. He only had so much time alive, after all, why spend that worrying about how other people felt about him?

Yet he did feel like he wronged someone, Rosaline. After all, he believed in extremely proportional retribution and… maybe he might’ve overreacted a little. He intrinsically hated the idea of being used for sex, but when he thought about it, she might’ve been more using him for a bed and using sex as a trade off. Without telling him.

Was that better?

Nope, he felt a swell of anger at the idea of being used at all. Something in the back of his throat, the dog’s baying for blood and vengeance made itself known, and he knew that even if he tried, he would not be able to apologize properly.

So he didn’t.

He’d taken to preparing his meals, making his meals, and then dishing them out. Though preferably, he liked being by himself, alone, for most of them. He was aware that his personality might be considered “rough” for some people, but quite honestly he didn’t give a single fuck. If they couldn’t handle him, then he felt no need to bend backwards for someone that wouldn’t accept him.

That meant, though, that he’d been attracting… Attention.

He felt the prickle at the back of his neck that meant he was being stared at. Again. And eyes on him never really ended well. He turned slowly, yellow eyes scanning the deck for whoever the fuck couldn’t keep their goddamn eyes to themselves.

Found you.

It was not the stare of envy or of attraction or even of idle curiosity, like what he would normally deem as an acceptable stare. It was a stare of analysis and judgment.

He was never one for subtlety or societal subterfuge when he found something distasteful anyways

“HEY. YOU. BITCH.” Exactly the type of opener that led to incredible nuanced conversations as he stormed over to the blond.

Through mild amounts of people watching (he wasn’t being talked to much, apparently word around the ship had spread that he was “unreasonable” and “cruel” so it led to a lot of meals where he was designated sitting and watching everyone else making friendships), Aurelian had seen that THIS FUCKER was also a friend of the blonde that had called his aura bad on night one.

He was aware that BITCHASS had to be a member of the Covenant. They’d helped him a couple of times on the street, and despite his swearing he wasn’t actually systematically opposed to the idea of the religion itself. He just found their preaching annoying, and knew to never give them his address in case they tried indoctrinating him.

“You.” It came out as a growled bark of a speaking voice, probably more aggressively than he meant it to come out. Puffed up, making himself seem even larger than he already was. “How about you stop fucking staring at me and keep your starforsaken eyeballs to yourself.”

♡coded by uxie♡

THE CHIMERA.

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Dante

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

IM FINE.

OUTFIT

Formal

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Aurelian, Vas, Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito

scroll

Icarian Cloud.

To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils

Chapter Two.

Two little leaves swaying in the breeze, he watched them through kaleidoscope eyes, a blank stare to the dark abyss below.

He placed them on his tongue and began to chew as the flavor of mint spread across him, freshening his breath after smoking his first cigarette of the day. The responsibilities that he held rolling around in his mind. Staring at the broken up shadow that he cast upon the waves, the figure that stood there staring up at him unrecognizable.

Mostly, his job today was going to be keeping Aurelian out of trouble, staying low to the ground and unobtrusive. Speaking of which, the much larger of the two brothers seemed to have gotten someone locked in his view.

Aurelian have twelve different expressions of being pissed off, and that was number four. Green forward eyes traced the stare back to… oh fuck that was Vasariah. Shit.

Lethargically calm, he pushed off and began walking over to the two of them, maybe to mediate, maybe to pull his brother back. He wasn't quite sure what his plan was, to be honest, he just knew he had to stop whatever was about to happen. He could see the headlines now “Aurelian Fiocchi: Enemy of the Church.” And that wouldn't be good for his standing nor would it be good for his family’s. The Covenant were good business partners that he personally brokered, in fact it was one of the first deals he’d struck in his careers and he couldn't have it fucked up by his little brother.

(It couldn't possibly be because he was fond of Aurelian and Vasariah together and wanted his friends to get along)

Hurried thoughts and movements beneath the veil of casualness, as locked on he was to the interaction about to unfold, he did not notice someone else about to intervene as well.

There was a blooming pain in the side of his head as he reared back after inadvertently knocking into-

Whore.

Dark hair and dark eyes, a pretty face and… okay he didn't recognize him-them-him. Which meant not a particularly well known criminal or one of the rich, not someone he’d particularly care about usually. But still, when on a relatively small boat it wasn't good to make enemies out of anyone. And he'd just head butted him by accident.

A flashed change from whatever stormy worry had taken over his princely visage, a charming smile instead wormed over his face like the slimy mucus of a frog. “Hey. Sorry about that I was…”

…

He cleared his throat, gestured vaguely to behind the stranger.

“I think they're about to… unimportant. Just… sorry about that, I'm Dante, it's nice to meet you.” Sharp crooked smile that seemed both truthful and so very false. Practiced in its own way. He held out a hand for a handshake like this was a completely normal thing.

To be honest, he wasn’t quite paying attention to Ren like he should’ve been, one of his eyes was directly trained on the raging outline of a very pissed off Aurelian, he needed to go over there now-

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Wyll]

((Please note that Luc's name will be crossed out (as below) when he is in public and Gallin's name will be crossed out when in private or in a space where he is comfortable being the real Luc))​

The Gemini

Luc Cardin
Gallin Forestson

For Luc, this morning started just about the same as any other. He was one of those creatures that believed in getting up before the sun. Granted, he did allow himself the pleasure of sleeping in just a little bit. The trip so far had been a lot for him to process. There was a lot of socializing and he had to stay as Gallin for longer than he had ever done before. It was exhausting: physically, mentally, emotionally, socially exhausting. At this point, he had been so exhausted with being Gallin that he honestly didn’t have the heart to want to keep doing it. Left to his own devices, he would have found a nice, quiet corner to hide.

After getting set for the day, he stayed seated on his bed a little while longer. He didn’t want to go out there. Out there, he had to be Gallin. In here, Luc was safe. Maybe it was all the madness of the previous week, but he really didn’t have the energy for the Gallin mask today. Something about the previous night had made the idea of being Gallin even more draining than it already was. It wasn’t his first time having a morning like this - mornings where the mask of Gallin Forestson was a little too heavy. What always helped, however, was being able to write things out in his journal. Doing so usually helped quiet his mind and get him focused, focused enough to brave the day.

He lazily made his way over to the clothes he had on yesterday and picked up his jacket. It was as soon as he picked up the jacket that he knew something was wrong - the jacket was light. Lighter than it should be.

In a panic, he shoved his hand into the pocket where the journal should be but found nothing there. He threw the jacket back on the bed and practically turned his room upside down, a frenzied look in his eye. Luc was very often described as cool, calm and collected, but he didn’t joke with his journal. “Luc, you fool, where did you put it?!” he chided himself as he continued to make a mess of his room. It took a solid hour and some change of looking but he finally came to the painful, terrible, soul-crushing realization - he’d lost the journal. So much had happened this week and he’d been so socially and mentally drained that it could have fallen out and he wouldn’t have realized. The last thing he remembered writing in the journal was a rough draft for a new column he wanted to run called The Legends of the Leviathan where he would detail the stories and interesting events that happened on the ship. He wasn’t even done with the draft and now it was gone because he was careless.

He dropped to the ground, hope slowly draining from his eyes as he reflected on everything the journal represented and chastised himself for being so careless with it.

This was no longer Luc Cardin, he wasn’t even Gallin Forestson. This was a broken, defeated man. He currently felt what it must be like for a father to lose a child - indeed, the journal was like a child to him. Everything he was and had ever been was in that book and, without it, he feared he wouldn’t know how to recover.

A deep groan emanated from his very core and shook his whole body. The groan said frustration. The groan said annoyance. The groan said sorrow. “This…is going to be a very bad day, isn’t it?” He sighed and picked himself up from the floor, looking around the room. He didn’t even recognise it anymore. This was not his room, this was somewhere that had been victim of a hurricane. Surely he couldn’t have done all this.

His home training didn’t allow him to leave the room as it was. He fixed it back up to how it should be, a room he could be proud of and then looked at the door. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He fixed his posture, straightening out his shoulders and stretched out his back. He plastered a practiced smile on his face, just enough whites showing to make people feel comfortable but not enough to creep them out. He practiced saying a few sentences until he could get Gallin’s voice right and then ran through some common words keeping that same voice. “Hi, I’m Gallin.” … “Pleasure to meet you, call me Gallin.” … “Aw, well aren’t you just the sweetest little dewdrop, of course I love you.” … “That’s me…your ever-present seeker of truth, Gallin Forestson…”

Truth, huh? Yep. Gallin bloody Forestson, seeker of truth. He scoffed and his smile faltered. This was the time to get his misgivings out. The smile, the charm, couldn’t be allowed to falter once he stepped through those doors.

The smile found its way back and he shook himself off. After the mental stumble, he required a little more time to get back to being Gallin Forestson, but eventually he melded himself back into the persona while the real him was mentally put to bed. With all the confidence and pomp of a minor celebrity, he walked himself out his door and began making his way to the mess hall.

He wanted to run, he wanted to sprint, if physics allowed it, he wanted to teleport to the mess hall and search every nook and cranny until he found his journal. But he couldn’t do any of that because Gallin would never do that. And so he walked, patiently, calmly, smiling and waving to those he passed by and even occasionally stopping for some conversations with them.

“Of course I’ll write about your dog in the papers.”

Get a life.

“You’re look as regal as the moon itself in that dress.”

Go away, you and your dress can get out of my way now.

The conversations were a drag yet he smiled and hugged and pecked all those who said hi to him.

Eventually, he made it to the mess hall and it was…empty. Because of course it was. He wanted to sigh, but now, he wasn’t allowed. Gallin couldn’t be allowed to be seen sighing, people would worry and ask questions. He didn’t need that. Choosing to act as if nothing was the matter, he just continued making his way around the ship, hoping to casually stumble upon the book somewhere.

Mentions:

 

[q r o w]

mood

Nervous

location

Boarding the Leviathan

outfit

This, with the veil covering her face

tags

...... : )

Valerie

Why are there so many people on one ship?

Tldr; Valerie recounts her travels and journey as she awaits to board the Leviathan. Comes to realize how many people are on the ship as she boards, gets a little nervous.


The port was bustling with life, spectators hovering around as a large vessel docked into the small Zenith town. She hadn't seen the port so busy in the past week she had been there. The influx of people had her nervous. The larger the crowd the harder to get a good read on people. Though, it also made her less noticeable. So at least that part worked in her favor. It was bad enough the travel had cost more of her funds than she liked. Bumps along her plan that ate away her time and coin. Val had traded more information than she was willing, but she wasn't left much choice.

Local jobs weren't in her expertise no matter how much she relied on her book knowledge. What is learned through words on a page versus putting it into practice is two very different things. Plus locals weren't really willing to hire someone who openly expressed only being here for a few days. Other jobs through the more questionable channels were.....not in her morals. She knew she'd take up her blade to kill one day outside of self defense, but today wasn't that day. So trading information she guarded so preciously was the only way she knew.

It paid off in the end. Trade had brought forth coin. Coin led her to the gambler who was gambling away his ticket to the large ship. It wasn't hard to see he was scamming people. So Val didn't feel all that bad feeding into a lie. A few well placed ones won her the ticket. A few more won back the coin and had the man chasing empty promises. She learned people like that are ones that she shouldn't feel pity for. But the more she sat at the edge of the docks awaiting her turn to board, she did feel a pang of guilt. A fleeting feeling that washed away as she was ushered aboard.

The ship was much more ornate in person. So many faces aboard. A overwhelming hum of conversations. Her eyes immediately scanned the crowd, even from behind her veil, she memorised the faces of those who were near where she had boarded. She noted the nobles. The ones who faces she saw on posters. Ones she knew from rumors or secrets from the old records she once read. It was easy for her to get swept away in observing. So swept away in fact, she hardly registered those who passed her. The ship was bustling with activity and she was being pushed around a bit to much. It became uncomfortable. She try to slip out of the crowd and find somewhere quiet, but it was hard to get far without finding someone else taking up the area. For such a large ship, there seemed to be people everyway she turned. So she just found herself quietly walking in the open, trying to look like she wasn't lost.

nine lives

 

[morcetyx]

THE DEVOUT.

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Vasariah

Nightingale

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

OH IK THOSE ARE FIGHTING WORDS

OUTFIT

Hellooo sailor!

LOCATION

Deck.

MENTIONS

Aurelian, Rosaline <.3

INTERACTS

Aurelian. qunqun

DRIVERS SEAT — MADDS BUCKLEY.

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I CAN FEEL IT GETTING NEAR

Like flashlights coming down the way
One day you'll figure me out
I'll meet judgment by the hounds

CHAPTER TWO.

Vasariah sat alone, the rhythmic sway of the ship lulling his thoughts into a steady stream of words that flowed onto the pages of his worn notebook. Something borrowed. Weight distributed unevenly through the leather bound pages. Unsightly ridges where paper was meticulously torn from its home. Not gone, just separated. Sitting in a corner of his shared room if the owner ever wishes to have the words back.

The quiet hum of life bouncing around pale auricle before spilling into the depths of his ear—murmured conversations, the clink of utensils, the distant crash of waves against the hull. Soothing and gentle. Something he was not, but could pretend to be whenever the world receded into the background and left him with the echoes of his own mind.

Vasariah let the pen hover above the page for a moment, his thoughts momentarily stilled. It is nice, he mused quietly. I never realized how calming the sea was. How calming anything was outside of there. The admission lingered, almost hesitant, as if acknowledging peace was something unfamiliar, something that rotted on his tongue.

…is it nice for you too?

Silence.

Are you here?

I am here, little bird. Just…observing.

Vasariah's head tilted, a small frown creasing his brow as he considered the phrase. He glanced up from the page, jade gaze sweeping across the deck in search of an answer. His eyes caught on a figure he had noticed before—Aurora? Aura? Aur…something.

He knew little of the man, but what he knew was…intriguing. In the sense he would run on over to his new friend and inform her of every little grievance the man committed. Or perhaps only the big ones, he wouldn’t want to bother her.

Rosaline's words drifted back to him, her voice tinged with a bitterness she rarely let slip. Got kicked to the curb, she said. Something about the guy having a temper…prone to overreaction. Vasariah's memory was murky, faces blurring together in the dim light of recollection, but the features lined up similar to the man across the deck. It could be the same man, or perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, the way it sometimes did when he stared too long into the abyss of his own thoughts.

No matter, it wasn’t like he was about to befriend the man. It wasn’t an option, he was too peeved at the man for his reaction towards Rosa.

Aurelian seemed to sense the scrutiny, his posture stiffening, his eyes scanning the deck with a feral intensity. Vasariah didn't look away, though. He stared, assessing the man. He could see it in Aurelian's tense frame, the barely-contained rage simmering beneath the surface. Scorching eyes staring back at him. Oh.

“HEY. YOU. BITCH.”

Vasariah’s gaze hardened, the notebook in his hand forgotten as he straightened. The quiet observer now taking a defensive stance as blood seared hot under porcelain flesh. He couldn’t care less about the man's tone in ordinary circumstances, as it was too much to decipher, but the yelling—combined with the choice of words—had done enough to unsettle him. It was indicative of someone who was aggressive, and looking to pick a fight. Vasariah had never been one for confrontation. He had never been allowed to speak in such a way without consequence.

There was no Oracle to make him fear for his life.

And still, it was better to de-escalate than to feed into the fire.

Vasariah do not enga—

But the warning was lost, drowned out by the sudden rush of anger that surged through him like a tidal wave. It was a feeling he rarely allowed himself to indulge, one he had been trained to suppress, to smother beneath layers of cold detachment and careful observation. But here, under the open sky and far from the suffocating control of the Oracle, that restraint snapped. And maybe they would have loved this little pathetic attempt at rage.

His fingers tightened around the edge of his notebook, knuckles whitening as he felt the familiar burn of rage rising up his throat, threatening to spill out in a torrent of words he couldn't stop even if he tried. He had never been allowed to express anger without punishment, without fear of reprisal, and yet now, faced with Aurelian's raw aggression, that old fear twisted into something different—something reckless and dangerous.

"I wonder," Vasariah began, his voice low and cutting, "do you treat all innocent stares with this much fury, or do you keep that reserved for when you look in the mirror?"

His words dripped with venom, each syllable carefully measured to stoke the embers burning at the core of Aurelian's aggression. Vasariah knew he should stop, knew he should walk away before things escalated further, but he couldn't. The anger had taken hold, feeding off the years of suppressed resentment, the years of being silenced and controlled.

"All that rage must be exhausting—does it keep you warm at night because no one else will?"

The insult hung in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to pause. Vasariah could feel the weight of his own words, the bitter satisfaction of finally being able to fight back, even as a part of him recoiled at his own hatred and words.

But it was too late. The fire was already lit, and Vasariah could only watch as the flames consumed him.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[sollie]

MOOD:
eager

LOCATION:
Boarding The Leviathan

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

the mutineer

saar ennes

TW: Death, violence, blood, religion

The creature's jaw hung slack, tongue lulling from the mouth of the beast. The lithe animal could hardly stand, sauntering from paw to paw as it neared closer to Saar. The beast was ill, sick with a mortal disease that would eventually overtake the animal and cease its existence. Salvia pooled from its mouth, leaving a wet trail as it lazily walked forward. As Saar continued forward, it felt as though she had an additional companion. Albeit, this companion was deadly in proximity.

“It’s pitiful, really.” A quiet voice came from behind Saar– Nika, the second mate aboard her last voyage. Nika was colder than she and less caring for creatures. Had Nika not been trailing her for the past half hour, Saar might have ended the life of the poor beast. “Let my death be quick and swift if I am to suffer like this poor animal…” Nika muttered to herself, as the creature let out a low whine. Saar imagined it to be a dog, lost from the last village she’d passed through. Maruña was only a few miles away, and soon enough she would need to depart from the dog and Nika. Despite Saar’s status aboard the Levithan, Nika could not simply jump on as her plus one.

The sounds of the dirt under her boot were loud, Nika having gone silent, and only the whimpering dog behind her. Saar’s brow twitched, head-turning with it as an uncomfortable ache rose in her chest. Mercy wasn’t her goal, but the dog’s whimpers bade her to offer mercy to it. It pleaded with her to do so.

Her dagger sat comfortably on its hip, sheathed in fine leather carved with intricate symbols. The handle fit perfectly in her hand, gloved or ungloved, her control of it was unmatched. It would be a simple job. Clean, easy, efficient. And kind. In recent days, Saar had lost her kindness and perhaps ending this animal's misery would be just the act of kindness to restore her pure heart. Either way, it would cease the high-pitched whining of the creature.

Saar inhaled softly, filling her lungs with adequate breath to complete the path of her blade without needing more. Her line of action was swift and fluid, blade piercing creature before her breath had been fully exhaled. The dog did not cry but rather crumpled in her hands as she guided the small beast to the ground. Efficient, clean, merciful.

She waited a second, eyes closed as her hands supported the weight of the beast which was quickly growing heavier each moment she squeezed her eyes tighter shut in silent prayer. Nika would understand, she said it for herself.

A gurgled noise came from the creature below and a wet hand reached up, grabbing Saar’s face tightly. It was begging for its life. “Let that be which has gone disappear.” She whispered, pulling her blade and wiping it on the leather of her boot. The now unbearably heavy creature dropped to the ground, Saar finally standing over the body of Nika Solvaich, serial thief, and murderer. She witnessed the cruel actions of her second mate two moons ago, and the bitch had to face her judgment.

“I’m going to be late.” Saar uttered, reaching a gloved hand to examine the blood that now dripped from her chin—Messier than she wanted, of course. Nika always was one for dramatics. This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. Thankfully, a body in between Maruña Zenith wasn’t unexpected. The forest was riddled with hungry creatures and even hungrier bandits. Perhaps with Nika’s death, Maruña and Zenith would finally send someone to make the journey safer.

–

The trip to port was quick and painless, yet Saar’s skin burned where Nika’s blood once stained. Below, it felt boiling and painful, pins and needles shooting through her cheeks and neck, jaw clenched tightly as she fought through the pain. Nika tainted her, marking her with the blood of a sinner. The gods would be displeased… hence the unbearable pain she felt.

As she entered Maruña, she was greeted with the grand architecture which had seemingly been carved by marble and magic. Saar was always quite impressed with the grandeur of Maruña, despite her infrequent visits to the port.

How long ago had the Pioneer set sail from Maruña? It felt like a lifetime ago. The Pioneer was messy, tainted with adolescent naivety and ego. She was driven less out of holy purpose, and more out of righteous rage. While she could admit both were necessary, things were done differently now on account of her skill.

She pressed the cool leather against her jawline, sighing in relief at the temperate fabric. This feeling would pass, it could become bearable through patience. These pains confused Saar, as she often doubted their truth. In some areas, she was a rational woman and blood had no acidity, in fact, blood was considered an alkaline substance. Regardless, real or not, the stoic appearance Saar took as she neared port, gazing at the magnificent ship, made it near impossible to tell the first-mate was anything but thrilled for the voyage on the Levithan.

Saar was indeed thrilled. Her plans did not include purging the Levithan of all those unworthy of staving off their meeting with the cosmos. No, her plans reached far beyond the simplistic goals of purging. She would reshape a ship in her image.

coded by reveriee.