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Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

Reader mode
Characters
Here
Other
Here
MOOD:
Irritated-- Flirtatious.

LOCATION:
The Leviathan: main deck
OUTFIT:
MENTIONS:

the chameleon
nina molotov
Interactions: Tallulah ( ComplexDragon ComplexDragon )

An overly fat house cat sauntered onto the deck of the ship, prancing about as if he’d lived aboard the ship for ages. Unbothered by a salty spray of mist from the ocean, the cat eagerly brushed against unknowing legs begging for the attention of the legally boarded passengers of the Levithan. This, however, was the last thing Nina needed that ugly, stupid cat to do.

She found the stupid thing in her escape from Zenith, dashing down an empty alleyway when confronted by the beast's pathetic lot in life. It could hardly fight half starved mutts off. There was no way it was going to last a day more in the street. And out of fear, and likely compassionate, she scooped the heavy beast and whisked it away to the docks, hoping it would find a kind, wealthy owner. The beast had other plans and refused to leave Nina, digging its claws into her fine dress, and yowling with complaints. The yowling stopped once Nina stopped trying to pry it off her person, and he was quite well behaved once she found herself stowed in with barrels of food, supplies, and other uselessly packed in items.

“You stupid cat,” She hissed at the idiot, watching as he danced away from her further and further. Her meticulous escape plan could not be ruined by a house cat. She could not have forsaken her entire life for some stupid cat. Straightening up as she weaved through the person, she followed the cat closely, attempting to pass by with an awkward smile from passenger to passenger. “Hello… fellow passengers.” She cleared her throat, eventually pulling her hood up, far too embarrassed and fearful to risk a clumsy interaction.

Her heart raced in her chest, watching the cat approach a woman, rubbing his side against her legs. He did have the problem of attempting to trip people, which Nina supposed could be trained into a lethal skill. A cat like that… Well, then he’d really be working for his meal. But he was a stubborn beast. As all cats were.

Calmly approaching the woman and the beast, she flashed her teeth again, scooping the cat up quickly and holding it to her chest. “You stupid fu–” She flashed her eyes up to the woman, nudging the hood to the side for more visibility. “You must excuse him. He’s quite affectionate. He’s such a attention-whore–” She coughed, startling the cat momentarily. “Whorton. That’s his name. Excuse me. Cat hair in my throat.” Giggling nervously, she took in the woman’s features curiously. Where had she seen this woman before? It was likely in her escapades throughout Zenith she’d passed by a woman like her.

She stepped closer, brushing her hair back as the Nina charm she’d crafted so well returned. “Ma’am… I swear I’ve seen you before… Do you come here often?” She asked, a flirtatious lilt in her voice as she attempted to take in the woman’s skewed face, fighting curls to gaze at the features. “Of course not… I jest. I’m Nina. And this is Whorton, obviously. Who do I have the pleasure of making acquaintance with?”
coded by reveriee.
 
mood :
Fight or Flight — Flight is winning

location :
The Deck
outfit :
mentions :
N/A

interactions :
Wyll Wyll
THE DESCENDANT
;; Dahlia


Interactions: Wyll Wyll Luc Gallin & erzulie erzulie Devana

Chapter Two

The man she once knew had vanished into the salty air, his presence no longer lingering even for a fleeting moment. Instead, someone else had assumed the role of the socialite. Nobles were an odd bunch with their masks and mannerisms. At the moment the world seems like a stage for them to play different roles for their comfort and benefit, while the audience of the poor could only gape and glare in their spotlight. The weight of their title must be heavier than the gold in their pockets.

"How terrible of me."

Indeed.

"I assure you; it wasn't my intention. My distracted mind just tends to wander at times."

Liar.

"Allow me to make it up to you —"

No.

"I wager you would rather enjoy the opportunity to remind me what a terrible writer I am. Perhaps I could offer a different set of my writings, ones that you may hopefully find less sad."

A small glimmer of interest sparked behind the amber of her eyes, softening at the thought of new reading material. Yet, her cautious nature whispered for her to wait. There must be a catch. A transaction must be filled between them. Would it be in the form of blackmail? He would offer her knowledge in exchange for keeping silent about her pilferage? Even in their brief interaction, she had learned to be wary of him. Now, it was the woman before her who was of greater concern.

The silence of the veiled darkness incarnate was unsettling. Her vivid words crawled under her skin like a cluster of spiders. The silver armored woman was at least direct in her intentions, which she appreciated. Manipulating her jaw created a crackling echo in her ears as she concentrated on finding an escape. She had already attracted too much attention between the two. If the wrong eyes fell upon her, it could lead to unnecessary complications.

You must understand, scary lady. If I were to be your opponent you would begin to see why I led him off easy. You may be more skilled, but I can find your weakest point in seconds.

Fortunately, it seemed the other woman’s focus was on the noble. This shadow woman must silently move away from predators that shift their attention to easier prey. That being this ‘Lady Acindius’ to the man with the melancholic book. Book man. A merciful nickname for him. The thief began to slip quietly across the wooden floor behind her with light steps, and controlled her breathing betraying nothing of her presence. Her eyes remained locked on the unfolding scene as she gradually edged away.

coded by reveriee.
 



the raven.





































  • mood



    Engaged
















Chapter 2


Lucrezia watched him with eyes gentle and engaging to his presence. In the company of others, she was a woman who always made sure they were to have her full attention. Anything less would be rude, or ill mannered in her mind. The way he would smile just to reassure the kindness in the room warmed her heart like the flames inside a crematorium.

“I’m Ilya Jovanović.”

Ahh, Doctor….such a precious name for a precious man. What kind of man are you, Ilya? You are a kind man, yes. A quiet man. A simple man. I must know more of you.

The whistle of the kettle brought her back to reality. She almost felt embarrassed for being so deep in thought in regards to her host. The moment he handed her the cup, her lips turned upward in awe at the small chips and handleless porcelain. Lucrezia could feel her cold fingers warm nicely against the heat. She breathed a soft ‘thank you’ before taking her first sip. The tea was strong and with the liquid settling in brought the wavering of relaxation she was needing.

“So… how’d you end up on the boat? If I may, you seem like a lady of high standing.”

A soft chuckle left her lips as the apples of her cheeks faintly flushed from his compliment. Her shoulders moved bashfully, but recollected herself to bring her attention back to the man. It felt nice to be complimented in a genuine manner, especially with the company she was thinking so highly of.

“Your words are kind, Dr. Jovanović,” she said, smiling at him with adoration, “Please, no need to be so formal with me. Call me by my name. I am on a personal journey. I plan to seek an audience with the Oracles about a…peculiar manner. One that has brought…..great dismay into my life. While I am one for the abnormal and unusual….this manner is quite, well. Unusual.”

Her brows wiggled and a brief morbid chuckle almost escaped her lips. It was exciting to finally tell someone of this secret she held deep for so long. It may not have allowed her to tell the full truth, for cautionary reasons, but it was nice to tell someone. Only she hoped that her company was the same for him. Maybe she shouldn’t be too comfortable just yet. Some of her worries did lie in giving the man the wrong impression of her.

“And what of you, Doctor? You must have previously worked somewhere else before coming here. Did you come for new sights?”


































Radecliff's Fate



Chris Vrenna










♡coded by uxie♡
 



((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))​

Luc posts.jpg

The Gemini

Luc Cardin
Gallin Forestson

A quiet confidence built up in him the longer he stayed as Gallin. Gone was the person who seemed to mild and timid, now stood a man who was fully confident in himself and his accomplishments with little to hide. The change was so drastic that it made his head spin every time.

He flashed a smile towards Devana.

She doesn't fall for flattery. She will see through that. Pivot. Compliment but don't overcompensate. That will only raise suspiscion. The thoughts were so natural to him that they passed and were processed at about the time it would take to blink.

"Nobody of note, milady Acindius. A humble penner is all - nothing as impressive as the devastating beauty your clan in known for. Truly, the only way those two words could go together."

He noticed the movements of the redhead and a smirk lit his features. It was the slightest of things, but he was in the presence of the two people who were most likely to notice. He smirked because he knew such movements. It was how he moved whenever he moved for fear of his own survival. He couldn't blame her, although, a slight shifting of weight in his posture so that his body now angled more toward her sent the silent message that he was paying attention to her, even as he spoke with Lady Acindius.

He wasn't going to stop the redhead girl from leaving - he figured both the redhead and Lady Ancidious would split him for that night's dinner if I even tried to stop her from leaving. However, he had taken consideration of her and had given himself a new mission: e was going to write a book that I was confident she couldn't call sad, no matter how she tried.

"I must say, it is rather rare to see someone from your tribe - someone so important, nonetheless - aboard The Leviathan. I know letters were sent to all noble houses, but your family had been one I had expected would want nothing to do with the maiden voyage. Do tell me, how has the trip been for you so far? Surely nothing to set you on edge? I'm told we're passing through some of Solas' most calming waters."

It was true that the waters had been polite and fair on that particular day, however the trip - and most certainly this day - had bee anything but calm.

He let the conversation flow naturally, while skillfully turning the conversation away from himself.

She suspects something.

I know she does, we have to leave.​

She could be useful

She could be deadly.​

Which means she could teach you to be deadly.

I'd die.​

You're barely living anyway.

"Come, milady Acindius. What is this you say about wanting someone you could train with? I can't say much for my strength but I have long admired the strength and passion of the Acindius clan from a distance. I daresay that, at the very least, I could make an amusing training partner. If but for one session."

He was confident in his ability to survive anything that she threw at him. Plus, if nothing else, it would provice an opportunity for him to better unserstand the ways of her clan. If he actually gets stronger from the training, it would be yet another weapon added to his arsenal. More than anything though, there was something about het r that was innately dangerous. Even more than the rumors surrounding her clan. This way, he could ensure he always kept an eye on her. Perhaps she and her presence on the ship might be something worth reporting about.


Mentions: Dahlia ( CrimsonInk CrimsonInk ), Devana ( erzulie erzulie )

 








Night bit into Antarin’s skin, forearms freckling with gooseflesh from the chill. Some time during the revels he had rolled up his sleeves and shed decorum in favor of sparing his shirt from the drooling of a man well in his cups as Antarin helped carry him to the sleeping quarters. This was much easier to ignore when he was belowdecks and mostly warm, but now out on the main deck the wind ran icy fingers up his arms and threatened its way through seams.

Things had been going (more or less) well. No one had fallen over, or at least not that Antarin had seen, and there had been a startling lack of violence in the main dining hall. It was a relief, albeit tucked neatly alongside the paranoid certainty that it would not last, but Antarin felt that he could lower his guard a smidgen as the day sunk into night. Certainly it was not likely that the partying would die out completely even as the wee hours came upon them, but less folks conscious to get up to no good meant less odds of no good going on.

With little to observe on the main deck—a fact which came as no surprise, when it was far more comfortable below—Antarin slipped once more into the interior of the ship. He immediately felt his skin flush with relief from being out of the nipping night breeze, and he gave himself a shake before moving back down the hall. He swept an errant curl out of his face, the only one to have escaped the leather band he used to tie his back, and took the moment to let his eyes adjust to the light the lanterns offered.

A flame-lit hall always filled Antarin with warmth, memories from narrow corridors in the barracks flickering with the same warm glow. It always brought with it, in Antarin’s mind, the feeling of somewhere welcoming and warm at the end. Now of course these halls lead to private rooms for the ships patrons, and Antarin was only to breeze through. Keep watch, stay on guard, make sure nothing goes wrong on this prize jewel of the king’s collection.

And yet.

Hanging like a fallen moth against the wall, a sea of golden curls and white cloth caught Antarin’s eye as he passed one hall, and it took one moment of surprise for Antarin to realize there was a person, fallen or caught in a daze he could not say, but certainly in need of assistance.

“Hello?”
he called out, not wanting to startle the poor thing. He turned sharply from the way he’d been going, long strides bringing him over to the fallen patron.
“Easy there. Are you alright?”
Hands feathered over ruffles and trim, not wanting to touch someone without their consent, and tried to catch the fellow’s gaze. Alarm danced in his eyes at the scrape of blood across pale skin, all the more garish for the contrast. He loosed a breath, not realizing it had been a little too audible, and hoped he didn’t alarm the one before him.







the ambassador



ANTARIN.








  • filler tab!





♡coded by uxie♡
 
MOOD:

somewhat Not Okay.



The Leviathan's deck.:

The Leviathan's deck.
OUTFIT:
MENTIONS:



The Agnate
Horace Neumann


Interactions: Maltke, escapist escapist

"Oi, do I look like I had fun last night swabbie?!" The man bites, Horace digs a fingernail into his cuticle. Testy, he was going to bloody regret this he supposes.

He guesses his words of choice weren't the best, but he was never a thinker. If he were one he wouldn't be here. Impulsive, his parents would say. Apathetic is the more correct word for it.

He'd had said once that he was a moth lured by firelight, a moth free yet lame, lured by ephemeral flame— but that's not true is it?

The next day he stared at it like a shit stain on the old newspaper he had waxed poetry on sloppy drunk, and threw it out. He was angry, and so, so bloody embarrassed, rightfully so. A moth? He'd had scoffed.

The moth didn't know any better, Horace did. Horace is not a moth, no matter how much he'd like to pretend to be one. Horace had to live with his consequences, roasting in the flames of his hell that he walked into.
It didn't hurt, to him it was the warmth of pride that he could never kindle, of a hearth after a snowball fight with his brother, of an embrace from a mother and father he had disappointed.

Maybe that's why he hadn't stopped. Hadn't bloody stopped until— until-

Well, he sure was as smart as a moth. If not even more stupid-!

”I could use a puff too,,,”
Horace snaps to attention, right. Time to focus on today's mistakes, not yesterday's. He winces when a crack rips through the air as the old man tries to get up.

“Daaamn…. bloody fuckin’…” he groaned, clutching his back, “eh?”

He finally meets Horace's eyes, perking up, before his attention falls to the hand he has held out for him. Horace stays frozen, out of fear or courtesy? He can't bloody tell at this point.

“I’m Maltke Cycek.”

He nearly startles when a rough calloused hand- PIRATE! his mind screams, he forces himself still— greets his, very firmly. The ensuing handshake has Horace shaken. The man lets his bruising grasp go and digs through his pocket coats for what Horace can only guess is another cigarette.

"Answerin' to yer question...I didn't have too much fun yesterday...just drank because the lack of happiness I suppose...I had an argument with that idiot, it ain't important but..." he goes on. Horace stares at the pool of vomit on deck.

“Sorry...” he cuts the man- Maltke - off,“mate, I need to get this mess cleaned. Lest they hah- make me walk the plank innit?”

Maltke withers, Horace rushes to tack on:

”I can uh, listen to you while cleaning up.”

…

“I tell ye, I could beat him but then I would be the bastard…”

Horace hmms in response, all of the bar fights he‘s ever gotten into he has lost, miserably. Well, those are just the ones he actually remembers, it’ve been better to just forget the lot of them anyway.

This elderly man has some bloody lung capacity.

Horace picks his already bleeding fingernails- bleeding? Bloody hell—

He stops himself, the last time these were picked raw he had to endure the fiery sting of saltwater splashed onto them, adding the newly rubbed blisters on top of that and well…

“But enough about me!”

Horace raises a brow while he begins to wring the drying rag over the barrier of The Leviathan’s side.

“Tell me…” he gave a cough, a very bad sounding one, Horace wants to pat his back real steady but can’t bring himself to. So his hand just floats in some sort of awkward purgatory, hovering over Maltke’s back.

”Tell me, humble sailor, what are you doing on this ship, o’ Horace?” Maltke turns to him, eyes sparkling.

Horace stopped himself from picking at his finger again, right.

“I’m erm… ‘s my job,” he turns to the sea, endless apathetic calm, barely churning. He always expected it to be louder.

“I’m,” a laugh- “making a living!” he forces some cheer into his voice that barely edges the hysteria of a madman, bloody hell does he not sound sober.

His hands itch for a pen, try to put his anxiety down on paper. It’s embarrassing, but better than the alternative.

“It’s,” he swallows, he can’t find a word, for all of his fancy private tutoring.

“It’s been a bloody ride out here, yeah?”It’s been a bloody goddamned ride for Horace.

He knows why he doesn’t want to throw out his flask.

He doesn’t want to give them too much hope.

coded by reveriee.
 
Last edited:









scroll








The Oathbreaker



Adrius Blackwood













mood

Lethargic











outfit

Loosely fitted tunic & worn leather trousers











location

Fitchner Cabin, The Leviathan











interactions

Cassandra Flores











tags

picklemouse picklemouse















Adrius' rest had been but a fleeting shadow of true repose, harried as it was by fevered dreams that twisted and coiled like the serpents of some hellish nightmare. The relentless throbbing of his wound, a cruel and constant companion, mocked his every attempt at slumber. The infection had taken a firm hold of his beleaguered frame, sending forth waves of heat that pulsed angrily from the gash which marred his brow and along his gaunt cheek. He stirred in his troubled sleep, roused not by the comfort of rest, but by the haunting sound of a woman’s voice, faint and distant, as though carried on the wind from some far-off realm. It called his name, yet the sound was unreal, an echo that seemed to belong more to the delirious recesses of his mind than to the world of the living. But Adrius, beset as he was by the twin demons of illness and pain, paid it no heed. He turned from it, retreating further into the grip of his affliction, where the agony of his wound held him captive.

Weakly, Adrius rises from the bed, his limbs trembling under the strain of even the smallest exertion, as if the very life had been sapped from his bones. His body protesting with a stubbornness born of suffering. He staggered, unsteady on his feet, towards the humble water basin that awaited him. The small, tarnished mirror above it caught his eye, reflecting back at him a visage he scarcely recognized - disfigured, vulnerable and ultimately fragile. With a ragged breath, Adrius steeled himself, his trembling hands reaching for the bandages that had so long clung to him like a shroud. There was a dread in his heart, a gnawing fear of what he might find beneath the layers of cloth, yet he could not avert his gaze. As the bandages were peeled away, each one falling like the pages of a grim tale, the sight that met his eyes were more ghastly than his darkest imaginings. His left eye was swollen shut, the flesh around it inflamed and angry, the once-clean gash now an ugly, festering wound. The injury, far from healing, had taken on the look of something accursed, as though it bore the mark of misfortune itself.

Then, as if summoned from the very depths of his fevered reverie, the voice called out to him one final time, persistent and insistent, pulling him from the morass of his troubled thoughts. With a sluggish, almost spectral grace, he turns towards the candelabras. Their flickering flames casting a dance of shadows upon the walls. The firelight, warm and inviting, drew him in with an almost familiar pull. He stared into the flames as the fire seemed to whisper to him, its crackling voice speaking secrets only he could hear - and in the throes of his delirium, Adrius found himself compelled to respond. His voice, low and grave, emerged from his parched throat like the rasp of a dying man,
"You're right"
he murmured, as if in agreement with some unseen confidant.

At that moment, the creaking of the cabin door announced another presence. Cassandra enters, her hands laden with the bounty of food she had procured, her mouth full of grapes that she chewed with an air of casualness. In her, there was a vitality and a calm that stood in stark contrast to the madness and despair that threatened to engulf Adrius. Though, he does not turn to face her fully; he merely shifts his head, acknowledging her presence with the barest of movements. Rough and weary, echoing with the strain of his suffering as he spoke over his shoulder,
"I believe it’s time I see a doctor.”
The words hung in the air, a reluctant admission of the severity of his condition and a quiet plea for the aid he could no longer deny he needed. Cassandra a breath of fresh air, a solid foundation that anchored him the previous weeks. But more importantly, the first in a very long time, to have shown him not only a shred of humanity but an unyielding abundance of it.
Adrius regarded her with a weary half-smile, the kind that barely touched the corners of his lips, as if some distant part of him found humor in her words but lacked the strength to show it fully. He sank into the bed with the resigned air of a man who had long fought against the inevitable.
"The fire, my dear,"
he rasped, his voice thick with exhaustion and something darker,
"speak more sense than half the men I've known. However, even they offer no solace tonight."


He watched her deft hands peeling the orange, the sharp scent of its rind cutting through the feverish haze that clouded his senses.
"Dr. Ilya may come, but I fear no doctor can mend what festers here,"
he gestured faintly toward the wound on his brow, the heat of the infection making him feel as though his very skin might burn away.
"Still, your kindness is not lost on me. If only the world held more of it..."
He let the sentence drift away, too tired to finish it, as his eyes briefly closed.


♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE KINGSLAYER.















scroll

船井 蓮



FUNAI REN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




THE LOVEMEISTER











OUTFIT




NO HAT SWAG











LOCATION




DECK












MENTIONS




DANTE, DOLORES










INTERACTS




qunqun qunqun


















BAD IDEAS — THE 5:55.
































































scroll






HERETIC BOY,




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






























CHAPTER TWO.

Dante’s brows raised, crimping a cute little crease in his forehead.

"Maybe we should just call it off."

Nails dig into the fabric of the man’s sleeve, claws of protest; urgency reserved for the twist of a trout close to unhooking its jaw. While the thief’s features do not change, the tension cording through his body coats muscle and electrifies all corners of his body.

“Maybe we should not say ridiculous things like that.” Eases Dante away from that cliff of thought before the snob dovetails into any rational ideas like avoiding Ren and spending time with somebody worthwhile. An insidious beast to circle the Chimaera back into the give and take of bad ideas. “You are very hasty, you know. Need to relax more. Need a bubble bath.”

Renny.

His mouth purses into a thin line, bickering strewn into a garrote.

Renny boy.

Ew god what the fuck. Visible distaste steals to features before he has the mind to smother it. While the mind denies anonymity, his body enacts the common routine of a slow, judgemental side-eye. Silence is quick to cease in its existence.

“Well listen here, Daniel.” Bites the government name. Trouble, the ire has stirred itself through the form of Ren’s stature, hands to hips with the unfortunate noble stuck in the forefront of his new bludgeoning era. “...” An individual so often associated with nothing but devastation, to onlookers it is a tempest regime still in the throes of deciding what to snap back and when to punch.

“I don’t argue with pretty men.”

Oh. Anticlimactic. Polite. Dante has escaped due to Ren’s fascination being more interesting than a bad attitude towards a butchered name. Generosity involves spontaneity, and this spontaneity appeared to be the grand offer of something small and green. Is for me?

A beneficial relationship built off sex and chewy leaves.

He felt very spoiled right now.

Ren quickly pinches the item with more interest than it probably deserves and giggles with the gift.

“I get it now.” It has revealed itself entirely new, and Dante’s mysterium of a bachelor lifestyle has now fallen into Ren’s understanding. “Why you’re single,” he clarified as he put the mint between teeth, “it’s ‘cause women don’t like leaves.” Ren the womaniser would know, he seduced Dolores after all. “They like steaks and that thing called journaling.”

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” derogatory, a platonic show of a brief pat on the shoulder. “You’ll learn.”

He looks to Dante and realizes throughout all their deals and contracts and paperwork, he did not know what this man did to contribute to society. Surely not as ornamental as they look, Ren wants to know a little more.

"What's your job? I was a painter, once." Reminisces as if that had not ended in a pantheon of hateful nobles wanting to shatter his divinely-gifted hands into broken fragments.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 
MOOD:
Curious and I think he's a bit too tired and getting too chaotic or maybe just being overwhelmed by Horace unreadable feelings hah

LOCATION:
The Leviathan's deck, at the ship barrier
OUTFIT:
MENTIONS:

Horace duuh
The old-timer
Maltke
Interactions: Horace

"A bit boring if ye ask me..." Maltke answered right away even if he didn't really understand the question. He squinted again which in this case signed unusually intense brain activity. As he was watching Horace cleaning up after him, Maltke felt that something wasn't exactly right. His very new company seemed to be disturbed, more engulfed within himself than the beauties of cleaning up the fresh vomit or listening to the old pirate's rumbling. To him, Horace looked like the type which thought too much - Maltke had this issue as well but not as insufferable as his company had appearantly. Maltke took another drag of his cigarette, his last one for today as his lungs let him know with another cough that let the thick cloud of smoke blow out of the old man's mouth, being visible for a second before disappearing in the sunlight.

"Listen ye..." Maltke muttered, his raspy voice was a bit weak from the cough earlier but it sounded confident as ever. He thought now he really figured the other one out. "Ye clearly new on the sea, so put that mop down! Yer hands be bruised that means ye clean wrong..." His only eye could be attentive rarely, on days where it had nothing else to do, no possible danger to keep an eye on it. "Back 'n my days I learned a few way to clean the deck better...First option be not even cleaning it up just waiting for someone else to do it...ye already missed that opportunity. Second option: not cleaning, only wipe the dirt under something...I don't see anything around that would be perfect for it..." His back got even more hunched as he looked around for any cover, not even noticing neither the ash from his cigarette falling on the floor or his boot connecting with the vomit, making everything dirtier.

When he finished looking for a cover, he stood already too close to Horace to not be intimidating. "But I suggest ye take a break now and talk to me..." I said, his eye was locked with Horace's. Not even a second could pass when Maltke moved again, rising his foot, leaning down and pressing the cigarette against the sole. Then he hid the stub back under the thick layers of his black fur coat as if he said "It will be good another time." Like the coat itself.

"Anyways..." Maltke's voice returned as he walked back to the railing, leaning against it, watching the waves of the sea that was calm and gentle on this day. "Ye said ye here because ye work here which be fine. I know stories of infamous captains who started as swabbies...ye however do not seem someone who would want to be on the sea." As the pronunciation became slightly less confident it was observable that it was the old pirate's turn to loose the focus. The greenish-blue waves bellow swayed hypnotically, making Maltke almost too calm, too relaxed.

"What I wanted to know be...what are ye searching for on the seas?" He sounded serious because he was. Maybe he realised that to someone like Horace he had to approach differently, maybe he was just annoyed because of the hangover, in any ways, after he posed the question, he straightened his back and looked at the sensitive, nervous swabbie. "If ye look around, everyone's searching for something..." He made a generous gesture with his arm, slashing through the air erraticly. "Wealth, redeption, adventure..." An idiotic, enthusiastic expression appeared on Maltke's weathered face.

"Ye don't have to answer if ye rather kept the truth to yerself..." The old man filled the silence before Horace could even answer. "I need to eat something than drink something, then more...but I can't just saunter in for food after what happened yesterday, maybe I need a sleep, I'm old now, fuck I miss my hammock..." And he went on and on, grumbling under his nose with a painful, bitter grimace. "Well, what's yer answer o' Horace?" Maltke looked at him again, waiting for any kind of answer to anything what slipped through his dry lips and wiggled between them on the dirty deck like fishes out of water.

 
mood :
Concerned

location :
Cargo Bay
outfit :
mentions :
N/A

interactions :
Kuku morcetyx morcetyx
Farmboy
;; milo
It was as simple as talking care of a horse. The majestic creatures had trust issues when it came to humans, and Milo couldn’t blame them. He knew, theoretically, all the wrongs that had been done to them over the years of domestication. Just as he knew, theoretically, the cruelty of the world. One of many concepts that lay undisturbed in his subconscious, never to be touched or thought about. Much like how he didn’t want to think about how this malnourished person who’d been stored in a crate for some reason.

There was no good reason for someone to be stuffed in a crate.

So Milo ignored the flinching, didn’t take it personally. He was a stranger, and a tall one at that—he’d be afraid of him, too. For now, he stayed close, but not too close. If they fell, he’d be there. But if they needed space to breathe, he could give that, too. Although he was concerned, he tried his best not to stare. That would’ve been rude.

Thankfully, they accepted the water. Milo couldn’t stop his lips from turning up, just a slight turn, just enough to show that he was relieved. He kept his hand near the cup, making sure it reached its destination before bringing it back towards himself, keeping his hands politely folded in front of him. The crouching was starting to hurt his thighs, but he pushed through that ache. This was far more important. A person’s life was always more important than any pain he could be put through.

Calmly, he accepted the cup back, holding it firmly as he watched the crate dweller to speak. The thanks made him smile, widely this time, and he tilted his head. “Of course. I couldn’t leave you without water. Though I’m sure it’s much better elsewhere on the ship.”

The touch of their hands on his startled him, and he peered down at his own hands. His calloused, farmboy hands. Were they… caressing his hands? Well, not that he could judge. Maybe it was to help them stay grounded? He waited, hoping for some sort of answer to why he was being petted. Again, not judging? Really, it reminded him of when the horses would lick his head, trying to find hair to chew on.

Then the question. What kind of answer was he supposed to give to that? He couldn’t help the laugh. It was more of a guffaw, as his mother liked to call his sudden laughs. Milo covered his mouth with his fisted hand, coughing to cover up how surprised he was. “Sorry, that, uh… That surprised me.”

He cleared his throat and continued, “This cargo ain’t from my family farm. We’re too poor for a ship like this to want food from us. We’re on the Leviathan, a ship important to the king or something? I don’t know much details.” The twang in his voice came out as he discussed the farm. He’d always been told by visitors that he had an accent that was a strange cross between Zenith and Freymoor. More Zenith came out when he was talking about pirates, but the Freymoor was always with him. That twang would never leave him as long as he lived.

“How did you get mixed up in the cargo? Do you know how long you’ve been in here?” Milo searched their face, trying to find some sort of sign, any hint of what had happened that got them in the crate in the first place. Although his heart clenched at the thought, he added in a whisper, “Did someone do this to you?”
coded by reveriee.
 
mood :
Forlorn

location :
Mess Hall
outfit :
mentions :
N/A

interactions :
Aurelia (Blade) Harrowhark Harrowhark [formerly], Parrat [now]
Decoy
;; madelina
Her entire body froze, just about encased in ice. The name—Penelope—gasped between lips that were wholly unfamiliar to her. How did this person know she was the princess? Thus far, she’d been relatively safe from recognition, though admittedly that was because of hiding out in her room. She couldn’t even look up at the person she had disturbed, fearful that the connection would be made. Please consider it a coincidence, please please please.

“It’s fine…” she managed in a whisper, trying not to audibly sigh in relief. In a rush, she added, “I get that all the time.” It was the truth, but only halfway true. Yes, she was mistaken for the princess all the time, but that was on purpose. Most of the time. This encounter was the exception. Perhaps she should have gotten the crown’s forgiveness some other way. Being on this ship with anyone who could “recognize” her was far too stressful.

Madelina completely missed the turmoil on the stranger’s face, not that she would have seen it anyway, with how she was avoiding looking up. From staring at both pairs of feet on the floor, she could at least tell that this wasn’t going to turn hostile. Thank goodness. That would have given her a heart attack. For a moment, she dared to think that perhaps… they could even be friends? From some of the stories she read, this was the type of meeting that started a friendship, right? Perhaps this was the person that would give her a reason to leave her room—

They left. Madelina looked up to introduce herself, steeling herself for possible rejection, or worse, an extension of a conversation—she was anxious, okay—and the stranger was making a swift exit. Like a flower, she wilted, absolutely downtrodden by this missed experience. She hadn’t even gotten their name.

But. It did make sense. Who would want to be friends with a slip of a girl like her? Twenty three years, give or take, that she had never been outside of the palace. She didn’t even know how to make friends, or interact with others, or anything like that. She was pathetic. Truly, who would want try and get to know someone who barely knew herself outside of the princess of Solas? And judging by some of the rougher looking personae here, it wouldn’t do to make that fact known.

The princess was going to be very disappointed by her first report if things kept going like this.

Still, Madelina allowed herself some repose. Just a little. For now. She slumped onto a bench, folding her arms upon the table. A bit sticky, but that was to be expected from a ship this size. Considering where she was, she didn’t have the heart to mind. That was for another time, as the princess, perhaps. Not that she was ever donning a ballgown in the midst of all these people.

Resting her face on her arms, she sighed, though it sounded more like a groan through the muffle of her limbs. What’s a nobody to do? she pondered.

“Mrow.”

Turning her chin up so she was peeking over her arms, she spotted a cat on the table in front of her, waving its tail excitedly. The cat had three legs, and Madelina’s heart immediately swooned. If there was one thing she knew about herself, it was that she thought cats were adorable. “Hey there,” she said softly, reaching out to pet the kitten. “You’re so sweet, checking up on me.”

The small bundle of fur purred, nuzzling up into her hand enough that she had so straighten and sit up to fully enjoying petting him. For the first time since boarding the Leviathan, Madelina didn’t feel quite so alone.
coded by reveriee.
 
mood :
...Happy?

location :
Shadowy Corner
outfit :
mentions :
Ilya & Ren

interactions :
Magnus Pepsionne Pepsionne
Enamored
;; rosaline
Amusement. Yes, spectators often had that reaction when they saw her stash her money, which was part of the reason she always did so in plain view. She wanted to be looked at, but more than that, she enjoyed the embarrassment, the revelation that staring too long was perverse. There was nothing wrong with being looked at, but everything wrong with doing the looking. Most times. What a wondrous hypocritical double standard. But then, as a harlot, she was the epitome of such things, wasn’t she? Independence of the female form and yet trapped by the “decorum” decided upon at one point by men. But that was neither here nor there.

She truly did not wish to explain why she would rather not witness a bounty hunter at work. Rosaline had experienced plenty of a different sort of violence in her life, and while she had never admitted it to anyone out loud, she was of the opinion that that sort of violence was objectively worse to the gory kind. While it was true that she would prefer her clothes not get stained—blood was so terribly hard to wash out of things, take it from a healthy woman with normal biological functions—she simply did not have the stomach for blood. In some scenarios, she did not mind it, but witnessing the death of her mother had been enough. The blood mixing with stone as the woman who was supposed to love and care for her perished. Weak. It gave her no pleasure to see another scene like that ever again. Give her ancient noblemen with strange tastes any day.

Not that she had ever faulted Magnus for his occupation. Rather, she admired that he could handle it, as she was sure he must have felt in some vein towards hers. Or really, she would have liked to think that. Why else would he treat her as an actual human being, instead of an object who only had one use (or multiple, depending on your preferences)? Then again, perhaps she was deluding herself, as she had earlier when she’d been sure she was about to be propositioned in the hallway.

…was it so wrong to hope that the soothing feeling she felt in Magnus’s presence was shared by him?

Enough of that. It wouldn’t do for a harlot to go soft for non-sexual reasons. She didn’t mind the short notice of the warning, as she had asked for him to give it to her. Rosaline gave a coy smile, a trade secret of hers, and nodded. “Don’t worry about it.” Her eyebrows leaped as he offered a key, a sanctuary, a room where she would not have to share with two gangly men who, while not the most unpleasant company in the world, were not the most suitable of bunkmates. “Are you sure?”

She gently took the key, and, as she had with the money, tucked it into her bodice, feeling the shape of it against her skin. The thought of a bed to herself pleased her. A genuine smile, one very few saw from her, crossed her face as she thought of how comfortable such a bed would be. No expectation of clients, no limbs whacking her in the hip in the wee hours. Oh, yes… she liked this idea very much. “Thank you. I will have to take you up on it. Tonight, you said. Perhaps I’ll get my full beauty sleep.” Not that she needed it.

Tilting her head, the smile melting into one of her courtesan smirks, she said, “Is this the part where I wish you good luck on your hunt?”
coded by reveriee.
 
MOOD:

somewhat Not Okay.



The Leviathan's deck.:

The Leviathan's deck.
OUTFIT:
MENTIONS:



The Agnate
Horace Neumann


Interactions: Maltke, escapist escapist

"A bit boring of ye ask me..."

Horace supposes that was the point of him not going too in depth.

The mop he was holding squelched as he ran it across the vomit-coated deck. He whiffed a lick of smoke, Maltke was still puffing his cigarette. His grip against the mop tightened.

"Listen ye..." Maltke muttered, voice raspy, "Ye clearly new on the sea, so put that mop down! Yer hands be bruised that means ye clean wrong..."

Horace looked up at Maltke. Cleaning wrong-?

"Back 'n my days I learned a few way to clean the deck better...First option be not even cleaning it up just waiting for someone else to do it...ye already missed that opportunity."

Bloody hell. Horace opened his mouth to object, he was not getting fucking fired-

"Second option: not cleaning, only wipe the dirt under something...I don't see anything around that would be perfect for it..." Maltke drawled, ash from his cigarette falling to the floor.
...Bloody prick. frustration bubbles behind his frown.

"But I suggest ye take a break now and talk to me..."

Horace stops himself from ripping at his cuticle again.

"Anyways... ye said ye here because ye work here which be fine. I know stories of infamous captains who started as swabbies...ye however do not seem someone who would want to be on the sea."

No bloody shit, Horace thinks. He mops harder. Tries to put all of his vindictive energy into something productive. He's a little scared that he'll end up reaching for his flask if he stops.

"What I wanted to know be...what are ye searching for on the seas?"

Treasure, yaargh, pirate. Is what Horace bites back with in his head, bitterly sarcastic.

"If ye look around, everyone's searching for something... if ye look around, everyone's searching for something..."

Searching for something, huh. His third bottle is what he'd be searching for. Fuckin'-

"Ye don't have to answer if ye rather kept the truth to yerself..."

Horace stays silent.

"I need to eat something than drink something, then more...but I can't just saunter in for food after what happened yesterday, maybe I need a sleep, I'm old now, fuck I miss my hammock..." he continues his grumbling, bad day indeed.

"Well, what's yer answer o' Horace?"

Horace's answer is quick, thoughtless nearly.

"I need to hold a job," he needs to prove he can hold one, "I need to."

For his mom.

Horace sighs, he's going to be writing a poem about this later isn't he.


coded by reveriee.
 






The Physician.















scroll

Ilya



Jovanović




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




I AM NORMAL I SWEAR











OUTFIT




No mask, unfortunately












LOCATION




Medbay












MENTIONS




Grog, Lucrezia










INTERACTS




CrimsonInk CrimsonInk




















Cigar — Tamino.






























































scroll






Humanist's Folly.




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































Chapter Two.

Dark soft eyes of understanding softened around the corners with a small nod as the words rolled around his head, the reasons filtering through, though somehow seemingly even more burdened by that heavy melancholy that seemed to cling to him.

He was lost in thought, taking the considerations of how to respond to her questions with the care of someone that was trying to genuinely connect with the person instead of just meaningless small talk. Like every word had a gravity which he was weighing.

“I worked an emergency practice for a while, but the work is tiring. I felt that a break was needed in order to help reconnect once more.” He was, at the very least, candid. But he seemed relatively apologetic about the idea that he needed to take a break. “I have always been a bit on the restless side I suppose.”

A small sip of tea to punctuate this quietness that seemed to loom over the doctor. While seemingly not a person prone to big displays of emotion, there was a truth in his wayward nature. That was a sign of youth, and despite his rather sickly older appearance, he was quite young.

Just… also he seemed the type to be prone to a lot of stress, considering the occupation that he took upon himself.

“I am sorry that you are under some duress though, perhaps we both will find what we’re looking for in this journey.” That same wane smile, though perhaps a more encouraging version. Not quite poking out of his shell, but still perhaps a bit more of personality showing. “They say it’s the journey, after all.”

Not necessarily the most specific advice, definitely on the generic side, but neither was the complaint. Sometimes small platitudes were necessary in such conversation.

“I wouldn’t share any personal information of my other patients, as you know, but… I don’t think you are alone in your circumstances being… peculiar.”





























♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE GLADIATOR.















scroll

Tiberius



SANCTUS




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




U Alright Pooks?











OUTFIT




Siroc Robe.











LOCATION




Docks












MENTIONS




Alta & Percy Boo ♡(˃͈ દ ˂͈ )










INTERACTS




roxybirdie roxybirdie


















It's Alright — Mother Mother
































































scroll






Sanguine Stains




your path like a carpet of carnage. Its bloody jaws snap shut on your limbs, forcing you to walk upon the heap of carcass you created.






























CHAPTER TWO.

T.W: Mentions of death, and violence.

Tiberius is a man who has become well acquainted with the limits of humanity’s insanities and the product of mania’s final shove for survival. From petty kleptomaniacs protecting their loot to the crazed assassins the sands of Siroc could muster, the blood-soaked gladiator has fought them all. The Colosseum seems to have garnered one other thing aside from the glamour of entertainment: it also gathered desperate souls lured by the irresistible nectar of opportunity. Those who covet a triumph must kill, eliminate, and sustain the rotting guilt deep within the aperture of their heart. An invisible sheen of ichor continues to cloak the champion’s every step, and every stray gaze strangers have given him. What was once a shroud of victory is now a mantle of neglected hope.

Each fading soul, each last claw for life, and each final gasp of breath, his memory paints the whole picture all too well, like how an art enthusiast would sit for hours in front of a piece of mastery, absorbing its very essence, technique, and meaning. The titan has always pondered the currency of his actions. Soon enough, Death became his most despised foe and begrudged ally. A foe for cruelly and greedily monopolising the souls of those who matter to him the most. And an ally for being his only salvation in desperate times where he must once again take for his own sake.

Forced to look upon his own undoing, he paints himself a good picture of what genuine fear looks like. And in Aryon’s eyes, that’s precisely what he captured.

Even for a split second, Tiberius felt the sharpened points of his ribs clawing at his already bleeding heart. Perhaps the reputation he has garnered for himself was nothing but a piece of adornment that is to be used for tactics of intimidation. Not that he would ever willingly or consciously frighten those he considers a companion, but the thought of his friends flinching at his presence would make him undoubtedly melancholic. He wonders if Percy feels the same way, and the thought alone is enough to leave him disturbed and slightly worried about the state of their friendship.

When his azure eyes met back with the archduchess, he was met with a reassured expression before spotting tiny water droplets slowly forming at the corners of their eyes.

Oh great, first you made them flinch, and now you almost made them cry. What an awesome friend you are. The sarcastic voice in his head declared without a hint of remorse. Tiberius only shrugged the annoying voice away. Remaining oblivious to the multiplying whispers and curious eyes that enveloped the two.

As his eyes observed the noble before him, a switch suddenly flicked, a change of persona, as Aryon exclaimed Tiberius’ mistake. He could only respond with a confused series of blinking of his own. Last time I checked, that’s how you politely address an Archduchess. Unless… Tiberius mentally gasped as if he just uncovered all the mysteries the universe could offer. Did the poor soul suddenly develop amnesia and find themselves a brand new identity? The pitiful, smooth-brained man thought to himself. Not long after that conclusion, Tiberius could only look at Aryon with a newfound pity.

Either that, or he’s again in desperate need of an etiquette lesson from Aryon.

Alone in the depths of his own amusing thoughts, the towering servant perceived the approaching Aryon at the last minute. Worry filled him as he leaned forward to listen closely to what Aryon had to say. However, what he was presented with was something horrid compared to what he had in mind. Once his eyes darted downwards at the golden chains that entrapped their figure, the titan’s eyes were lit with the type of fury that can only be witnessed in the arena. If the rattling chains were his opponents, he could’ve quickly burned holes through them. The more he examined Aryon’s- or, well, Altalune’s physical state, the deeper his heart sank.

“Wha- What the…” Disbelief seized his throat, and something feral within him threatens to emerge. Tiberius eyed the plume of bruise that nastily blossomed on their cheek.

One question remained to marinate in his mind at that moment. Who’s the fucker who dares abuse someone as kind-hearted as Aryon. Disgust with a mix of anger threatens to effervesce the more his mind wanders towards the dark and twisted scenarios Altalune must’ve experienced at the hands of whoever planted the bruise and adorned them with golden chains.

Despite his throne of popularity built upon spectacles of strength and violence, he has never once condoned the act of hurting another human being outside the arena. Abuse will never have a place of tolerance within his heart. It takes the sickest of individuals to take pleasure in the endangerment of another person’s likelihood. And it seems like one individual in particular wishes to have a taste of their own medicine.

A solemn facade soon covered his exterior. All he could do at that moment to contain the fluctuating emotions stirring within him was simply follow the orders.

“Yes, My Lady.” With a more calm demeanour, he politely accepted Alta’s request. Not only to help with their luggage but also to keep them safe from harm.

“As for the cabins, I’m not sure where everything is at the moment since I’ve only been on board for three days. So, I’m a bit sorry if I can’t help much in that department.” He confessed honestly. “But I’ll gladly be of use to you, My Lady. Whatever you need, I’d be more than happy to assist you with anything.” Perhaps his tongue has grown accustomed to that sentence regarding nobility. “Maybe a doctor’s visit, eh?” He playfully nudged, hinting at a much-needed health check.

As Tiberius’ words drowned the sound of his messy act of collecting Alta’s luggage, the hiss that escaped from their lips didn’t go unnoticed by Tiberius’ sharp ears.

Before the two Siroccans could step on the wooden bridge, Tiberius swooped the second suitcase out of their delicate hand. “Allow me to carry that, My Lady.” The gladiator professed. Before he could hear a word of protest, Tiberius gave them a look, an expression pleading with them to simply agree and let him take a weight off their already plentiful plate. “Please.” Aaaaaaand, of course, anything is possible with the magic word in effect.

If all else fails, he could sprint away with the luggage anyway, so it’s a win-win.






























♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE CHIMERA.















scroll

Dante



Fiocchi




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




Yellow flag











OUTFIT




Formal











LOCATION




Deck











MENTIONS




Ren









INTERACTS




Gao Gao

















Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito




























































scroll






Icarian Cloud.




To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils






























Chapter Two.

“I know why you’re single.”

The comment sending a jolt through Dante for a moment. What could he possibly say? Attachment issues and a struggle to connect with others after traumatic experiences?

“Women don’t like leaves, they like steak.”

... Is it still misogynistic if it’s in the opposite manner that it usually is?

Dante never had to consider that one before, and he wasn’t going to now, presuming that everything out of Ren’s mouth at current notice was barely thought through filler word vomit of the stupid degree.

“You’ll learn.”

Well, it wasn’t like Dante had any particular issues with picking people up, it was just he preferred none of them to stick, to slide off him and his malleable form. Ren didn’t need to know that though.

“What’s your job? I was a painter once”

Biting back the initial response of before or after you became a stowaway the petty barb slid backwards down his throat to be swallowed down. It wouldn’t be good for Ren to know his occupation just yet, the real one. The one that made him most definitely a criminal if not by association than definitely by aid given.

“I’m a businessman, trader, for my family’s business mostly.” His clothing and the small showcases of wealth meant that it was definitely not just a mom and pop store. “Part time contract enforcer, maybe a part time lawyer, I float between whatever I’m needed at most.”

While the truth, his eyes appeared to take on this innocent blue, a rich boy playing games with his family’s money. Frivolity and riches oozed off of him, the sliminess perhaps only coming in with the upper class always being just so slightly condescending, even if Dante hid it well on most occasions. Someone who was probably unemployed, living off the inherited wealth.

Certainly, not the type of person to beat or kill someone to send a message for crossing the Fiocchi family.

“In your menagerie of jobs, would you say painting was the one that stuck out the most?” A simple smile of pleasantry, a step back from the flirtation of before now in the small talk portion of the conversation once more. “Usually I’d save this for the pillow talk, but now is fine as well.”





























♡coded by uxie♡
 



the raven.





































  • mood



    Engaged
















Chapter 2

Her head moved slowly up and down as she listened to his tales of his past shrouded in shadows. The hint of guilt she detected was of haunting refrain, echoing through the hearts of those passionate about their work, as if they bore the weight of a darkened world on their shoulders. To rest felt like an unforgivable sin, a betrayal of the very society that relied on their fervor. No one should endure such a burden, especially someone with a heart as tender as his.

“There is no shame in taking a holiday, my dear,” Lucrezia intoned, her voice a soft, soothing whisper that seemed to wrap around him like a velvet cloak. Her gaze, steady and penetrating, implored him to release his fears. “Your body and mind crave rest. In nurturing yourself, you’ll be far more equipped to help others. Both in the present and the future.”

She lifted her cup, the steam curling like phantom tendrils into the dim light, and took a sip, savoring the rich warmth as a soft breath escaped her lips. Thoughts of his age danced in her mind, intertwining with visions of a childhood steeped in shadows and whispers. He must have raised from a place where the specters of community and family values lingered, perhaps even from the frozen tundras of Umbra. She made a mental note to inquire about it when the time felt right.

His smile, a flicker of light in the oppressive gloom, brought her a comfort more profound than he would ever know. How her ribs ached from her heart growing in size to see such beauty.

“The journey is what excites me,” she mused, a playful smile tugging at her lips, “though I dare say, even the unexpected thrills me. Imagine if we encountered a Kraken along the way. A near-death experience would certainly provide a fun story to tell.” Her eyes glinted with morbid delight at the thought of the mythical beast, as if darkness itself beckoned her.

“I wouldn’t share any personal information of my other patients, as you know, but… I don’t think you are alone in your circumstances being… peculiar.”

That sentence drew her closer, as if the very air between them crackled with an electric tension. It was a moment that illuminated her more melancholic musings—a flicker of hope amidst the shadows of despair. Finding someone who resonated with her oddities felt like discovering a kindred spirit in a desolate world.

“My, oh my, Doctor… you are a bundle of curiosities,” she said, her voice low and inviting. “Allow your wings to spread, my dear. There’s no need to conceal them in my presence.”


































Radecliff's Fate



Chris Vrenna










♡coded by uxie♡
 



UNFAITHFUL





Zaira Sezen



































Ain't no rest for the Wicked
















location

A mixture a displeased and amused






outfit







Mentions

Tiberius, Altalune, Vasariah.






Interactions

Cadence Nifty Nifty












Truly, what a day it had been.
--The Journey--
Things had run smoothly. So smoothly she couldn't ask for better. Zaira had traveled in the company of some noble to the small port town. They were low ranking, but had all the arrogance wealth brought. Luckily for Zaira the man had been a believer of the Stars.....and a sucker for a pretty face. Laughable really, how noble men were often predictable. A smile went along way with people like him. He was all to eager to help Zaira in her journey to the port. "Aiding her mission to spread the word of The Stars." That's what she told him, promising to put in a good word for him. As if the Stars or Oracles would ever listen to her. Zaira almost felt bad for lying to him....until he began praising himself. Bragging about his title. By the time they reached the port, she had tuned him out. Only nodding along and acting infatuated with his tales.

Ramblings aside, she was able to confirm a few things thanks to him. The major being that the ship she sought was docked a the port. She hadn't gotten turned around or arrived too late. Perhaps she should have thanked him more.....

.......What had been his name again?

The port was bustling as she navigated the crowd, eyeing them with interest. Talks of tickets and boarding gave Zaira an internal laugh. The memory of swiping the ticket she held now coming to mind. It had been a noble woman's a few ports back. The lady had missed the ship by a day and was raising a tantrum about it. The ticket left unattended made all too tempting. Zaira had quietly grabbed it as she brushed past the table and kept walking, melding with others who passed by.

Why pay for a ticket, when someone just left theirs around? She wasn't one to just go around taking things of course. It's just would that noble woman really miss it? She had been throwing such a fit like the boat docked on her time. Like she had owned the vessel or something. Surely, 'losing' the ticket was just karma. That's how she rationalized her actions, though she'd do it again without hesitation. Any opportunity to not have to dip into her own funds was a stroke of good luck.

Just as Zaira began boarding and awaiting for her ticket to be observed, something flew overboard. A distressed shout was all that was needed to find out what exactly it was. A clip board. The ticket collector's clip board. Oh how Zaira hoped her amused grin wasn't showing. The all too familiar sting told her it was. What a day it was to see someone so worked up over a clipboard. Two figures stood ahead as she slipped past the wailing clipboard man. One of those figures had been the one to throw it. Regardless, Zaria didn't linger her gaze on either for long. She took her chance and proceeded on board. Making way past the two figures and others standing around watching. The hall had been even more crowded and as she pushed through yet even more masculine figures to find her room something caught her eye.

Had that been The Nightingale....? Had that been Vasari........

Nope. What were the odds? She only saw a blur with the lighting and how fast she pushed past. There was no way. She convinced her self she had simply seen things. Though she would be taking a look around later. Merely out of curiosity. There was possibility of coincidence or maybe a lookalike after all.

The rooms weren't the most luxurious place she'd stayed, but it was expected. Zaira set her stuff down, quickly discarding of the traveling attire she had worn. After a quick change she moved on from the rooms and continued her exploration of the ship. It didn't take very long to find mess hall area. Zaira had just barely pressed a glass of water to her lip when she heard a voice call out.

--Present--

“Oh hey, do you know where I can find some ginger tea or at least some water? I have a killer hangover.” Zaira's eyes darted over to the women standing not far away. Lowering the glass, she very notably looked the stranger up and down. Noble. Or at least wealthy. The dress isn't cheap, the material looks too expensive to be. She must say even in the lighting, the dress did the woman justice. It was very well fitted. The golden color was a perfect contrast to the woman's dark hair that would have put raven's feathers to shame. She caught the stranger's gaze lingering on her face.

She couldn't help the smirk it brought to the corner of her lips, vain as ever. Zaira had been planning to ignore her, tired with handling nobles for the day, but she changed her mind.

"Cadence, was it?" The words were left to linger as she moved closer. Slow yet calculated steps. A pretense of authority following each one. If there was anything she was good at, it was acting. "Here, take mine. I haven't drank from it yet. You look like you could use it more." She kept her voice low as she held the glass out to Cadence. "My name is Zaira. The pleasure is mine. Not everyday I get to meet a pretty face needing my aid. Is there someone I can get to assist you? Surely someone like yourself has an attendant or handmaid?" She made herself seem like some knight ready to aid a damsel, even if she really wasn't enjoying the idea of possibly being ordered around by a noble woman.

After all Zaira had almost ignored Cadence's request for water. It had seemed like a order mixed into a request. It had brought a wave a displeasure that Zaira hadn't shown. Zaira's skewed view of those with authority always clouded her perception of their actions. Even a simple request was seen as a hidden order, and sometimes it had been. There was no certainty Cadence's hadn't been the same.

"If not an attendant, a guard maybe..? I can help you find them. Or escort you to your room if you need rest?"

Truly, what a day it was. A most entertaining one indeed.










 





THE LAZARUS.















scroll

RAT



THE

LAZARUS




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




CONVERSATIONAL KING











OUTFIT




COTTAGE SLAY











LOCATION




MAIN DECK












MENTIONS




SAAR, PERCY.










INTERACTS




sollie sollie (Saar)


















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 TWO.

Royal botanist.

A tale as old as him, something else must always take credit for the work. Whim of the stars or grandeur of the King, those constellation trimmings and aurelian regalia are worth more than a rodent’s withering lifetime. Pledging oneself to a simple objective is one thing, but banished as an afterthought to the shadow of another’s emblem is another. Something irks within him and his jaw pulses teeth before he has the mind to suppress it.

“Yes,” is the tense response, absent of the commonly chirped ya. What smile steals to his face feels only a flickering echo to Saar’s own, and he watches the well treated leather of her gloves take supple shape in her mirthful clasp. What promise of carnage is entwined between the meat and bone of one's hands? Rat does not find the tending of plants to be a complex one, they are not untouchable as the moon or a bleeding liturgy. Predator feigning thanatosis, they are all yet to learn she is no green-thumb but the red-hand who incites death.

It should be known, Rat is no fool and he will take no interest in bootlicking— but that is not to say he’ll reject an astute observation of being capable. Saar’s presence has something invisible but tangible, a self-possession that arrives in tandem with its own physical gravity. The very pull of it, willpower exerted to stop his tongue from running with Botany, a spider dancing along the soft-palate.

But Rat is a hag.

A mean wretched not-so-little hag.

And good grief, thinks the rodent, with rambles like that she could benefit from her own column in the paper.

Gaze darts back to Percy who seems to have decided to dissipate in the faces of these two lost causes. The unusual sight of a bow is not out of place for a performer, they are creatures of action after all, and the botanist has no doubt in his mind that the man will find some kind of trouble to fill the rest of his day.

Yet for a self-proclaimed busy man, Rat had yet to observe anything busy in how they’d been lounging in the sun. He supposes busy can be a subjective term.

“Upsets your boytoy, Ratthew fears.” It seems even without Percy’s presence, the acrobat will leave a haunt. It’s an easy prod, but the botanist won’t overlook a jibe just because of its simplicity.

“What a fascinating individual.”

“Fascinating?” Muses the generosity of the word while watching the acrobat dissolve out of view. “I’d deem abnormal. Miserable little thing he is.”

It’s childish and he knows it, but the shrapnel of throwing their arm over his shoulder had left Rat with an annoyed sting. Stood idle with the woman to make their flat commentary, the sight of the retreating acrobat spares little guilt in the botanist.

The thing about lying, despite every endeavour he takes to deny himself from others, is the signature of a scholar remains branded like a boil through veins. Ease can be found from engaging her interest in the topic of plants, and the diminishing notion to be annoying is temporarily set aside.

“Morning glories,” eyes are front to watch the deck in absentminded rumination, “decorative but dangerous if handled without care, they have a duality much like people. I suppose that is what makes them interesting to you, first-mate. Being responsible for all these fragile, fleeting lifespans.”

The arc of the conversation is an unexpected one, and he fears he has spoken too much.

“As for the job,” Rat shrugs to downplay it, “plantsies teach patience and I am naught but a juvenile student.” When one spends so long getting used to the theatrics, the freeing weight of not utilizing it feels unnatural. He slips back to how he always speaks for the comfort of saying and being nothing of importance.

“Whats of you, Firstie? Must tells Ratalie of your hobbies.”





























♡coded by uxie♡
 
mood :
Contemplative, anxious

location :
The Leviathan
outfit :
mentions : sollie sollie


interactions : Nina Molotov
the magpie
Tallulah
You can run, but you can’t hide, you stupid bitch! You’ll pay for this with your life.

Tallulah could still feel Carrow’s spittle hitting her face. See his twisted expression and hear his raging voice. It lost the lilt it once had and instead was replaced with a sound like nails scraping across a metal sheet.

It was still a miracle she managed to get out. But she’d always been gifted at getting out of tight spots. This time she did it entirely on her own, and from a man who used to be the one she’d run to for safety.

Yet here she was, with the salt air ripping through her mass of curls, and nothing but the bag practically glued to her side and the few things she could fit on her body. She’d been here before, many, many times. It just meant a new adventure was on the horizon. A new name, a new identity. A new life. A new story to tell.

Speaking of, she needed to get her own story straight before anyone decided to question her. Inhaling deeply, she leaned over the railing of the ship. Waves lashed at the body of the ship as the bow sliced through the already excited waters. Sea foam collected and mixed with the salt water.

She went down the list.

Name? Tessa.

Occupation? Trader.

Why are you here? To find new places to trade and things to collect.

Good enough.

She didn’t have to give anyone any information she didn’t want to.

She pushed off the railing and headed back towards the main parts of the ship. Threading her way through the people and wandering toward something. She wasn’t quite sure what yet. The ship was huge; she’d only been here a few days. So, she slipped down the hallways and peered through cracks in the doors. Behind one of them, something golden glittered on a shelf. She almost stopped to snag it but wrapped her fingers around her bag and forged on. She’d make a mental note for later and come back. No reason to start risking her position yet. Not until she knew how to escape or the best places to hide.

She rounded another corner and found herself nearly colliding with a young woman in a soiled nightdress, with her cheeks stuffed full of something, balancing some plates. Her eyes were wide, almost like some sort of prey animal caught in a trap.

“Oh! I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.” Tallulah tilted her head and looked the young woman up and down. “Is the kitchen back there?”

The woman placed one of the two oranges in Tallulah’s hand before scurrying away without another word. Tallulah watched her go before dropping her gaze to the small orange ball. It wasn’t like she had sought out snacks, but perhaps this was exactly what she was meant to find all along.

Shrugging, she dug her fingernails into the top and peeled back the orange casing. The scent hit her like a wave, threatening to throw her straight back into a memory. Evangelie gave Tallulah an orange for the first time when she was only ten. They had never been her favorite fruit, but they were something she rarely got to have. A luxury only afforded to the disgustingly rich. Or to those willing to take matters into their own hands and restore balance to the scales.

She tossed the peel to the side and pulled off part of the orange before popping it in her mouth. Sugary sweet, and dripping with flavor. It was still just like she remembered. And even if Evangelie had proven to be just another disappointment, this was another reminder of where she had come from and where she was going. A time when she felt safe, even if it was ultimately all a lie.

Soon enough the orange was gone and she was back on the deck of the ship. More people were milling about now. While it provided more ability to conceal herself, she could not take stock of every person present, so she pulled the black hood of her cloak over her head. She would not make it easy for enemies to find her until she knew of every single person on this stupid boat.

Tallulah slowly waded through the people around her and took up a spot by one of the walls that protected the inner rooms of the ship.

She barely had time to take in her surroundings before something pressed up against her legs. Looking down, she found a fat cat rubbing himself across her skirt. And suddenly, a cloaked figure appeared. “You stupid fu–” The young woman glanced up at Tallulah, words dying on her lips. “You must excuse him. He’s quite affectionate. He’s such a attention-whore–” , she coughed. “Whorton. That’s his name. Excuse me. Cat hair in my throat.”

Tallulah raised an eyebrow as the young woman started giggling. She was probably around seven or so years younger than Tallulah. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hood was pulled up much in the same fashion. But what was most striking were her bright eyes and familiar voice. Tallulah had seen her before, she was sure of it. And based on the way her heart started to slam against her chest, she was fairly certain this young woman was not a friend. Even if her memory failed, her gut never lied. So Tallulah turned her head to the side instinctually, pitching her voice up a bit. “It’s no bother, truly.”

But the young woman stepped closer, brushing her hair back as her nervousness melted into self-confidence. “Ma’am… I swear I’ve seen you before… Do you come here often?” She asked, her voice taking on a flirtatious lilt. “Of course not… I jest. I’m Nina. And this is Whorton, obviously. Who do I have the pleasure of making acquaintance with?”

Nina. Fuck. Nina Molotov.

Of course. How could she have forgotten? It was the same young woman she had run into countless times before. A thorn in her side during her time in the Stygian Order. And while she could easily handle her, she couldn’t risk her identity being threatened. Which meant that she needed to extricate herself from this situation and fast.

Her eyes flicked about her surroundings as she dug up her rehearsed script and kept her voice pitched up. The same one she used years ago when performing. Or perhaps during her brief stint as a barmaid. Who could remember at this point? “The name’s Tessa.” Finally, her gaze landed on a space between Nina and the railing of the ship. “I’m glad you were able to find Whorton. Seems like he enjoys making his own way through the world.”
coded by reveriee.
 





THE KINGSLAYER.















scroll

船井 蓮



FUNAI REN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




THE LOVEMEISTER (DUBIOUS)











OUTFIT




NO HAT SWAG











LOCATION




DECK












MENTIONS




DANTE, MAGNUS, YANLIN










INTERACTS




qunqun qunqun


















BAD IDEAS — THE 5:55.
































































scroll






HERETIC BOY,




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






























CHAPTER TWO.

“I did not know someone could be a maybe-lawyer.” Ren echoed before he had the mind to nit-pick something else. Contract enforcer explained the boring fascination for deals and rules, but to the likes of a thief with little concept of law (and how to abide by it), it was empty words and sawdust filler; saying both everything and nothing simultaneously.

But Dante is fluent in money so Ren is willing to listen.

“Whats your family do?” He does not mean to pry, standing there chewing away at the leaf like a kid on an ipad (Dante is the ipad). Questions come easy to a man garrulous as he, and judging by the lawyer’s polite essence, wouldn’t assume it to be an odd topic to talk about.

“I too float where I’m needed.” Nobody needed him (maybe wanted, maybe a certain bounty hunter should get a better hobby), but the thief nods sagely as if he could in any possible way relate to this man's occupational history. “Bit of a freelancer myself,” unemployed, “go where the streets take me.”

Oo, rugged.

“In your menagerie of jobs, would you say painting was the one that stuck out the most?”

Why can’t this bitch ask something simple like favorite color.

This feels like an interview.

His mouth presses together. Stares at the sea with intense consideration of what answer would impress the man. He is not sure why he is still trying to dazzle Dante after already securing a bed for the night. It’s not the rarest feeling to have around a complete stranger, can only assume it stirs from feeling as their lesser in status and wealth.

“Maybe.”

Oo, mysterious.

But what the fuck was a menagerie.

It had the word men in it. Maybe it meant jobs specifically for men. Or maybe Dante is asking about his occupation with men. Oh no. Maybe he radiates art slut. Dante might assume he is a little ankle flashing floozy for anyone who can hold a palette. He has not seen Yanlin in a while.

“I only had sex with one of them.” Blurts it like he does everything else, fragments of regret spurring him to utilise his favoured skill: distract!

“But that’s old news,” Ren slowly leans to the railing with a nefarious purr— not just any lean, The Lean. “You could be my new menagerie.”

It’s written in the scripture of his troubled features; that flirt does not sound right and he knows it. The longer he loiters the further he dovetails, and Ren realises he should leave to maintain the mystery.

“Anyways!” Clears his throat and drums a hand on the railing as he rights himself to stand straight. “Later you can tell me all about the part time lawyer-ing. But I am very busy, you know. Lots to do.” He makes a display of casually sweeping hair over the shoulder. “Letters to sign and– and stuff.”

He stands there idle, uncertain. Feels considerably smaller than he did just moments ago.

“I’ll, um.” Goodbyes are always awkward. “I’ll... see you later?”

Should he bow? No. That’s weird.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 
MOOD:
focused

LOCATION:
The Leviathan: Hidden Alcove
OUTFIT:
MENTIONS:

the huntsman
magnus
Interactions: AnimeGenork AnimeGenork , Rosaline

The bounty hunter attempted something of a smile. Twisted by the smudge of shadow, the act turned into a crescent of white bone. Cut from a fabric of darkness, the jagged edges of his teeth were emphasized, like something sharpened to kill. Unnerving enough in the daylight, it was haunting when placed among shadows.

It was a given that Magnus had lost the ability of a natural smile after enduring the horrors of his past. After Celine released him from service, he had spent a fair share of time attempting to relearn how to smile. Hours spent standing in the mirror, lifting the muscles in his face over and over with dismal results. Magnus supposed it was fitting--how any act of kindness would warp under the pressure of his influence. The baring of a dog’s fangs, whether in excitement or aggression, would only elicit one message. Centuries worth of DNA woven together in a hair raised warning. Stay away.

In Magnus’ smile, no matter how many times he practiced pulling his lips upwards, only one message called from the abyss. Do not trust me.

Even through these smiles, even knowing the violence that could lay behind them, Rosaline allowed herself to accept the key held outstretched in his palm. He wondered why it was that she was able to trust him. Magnus knew he was never going to kill her--he had no reason to, yet Rosaline had no proof of this. He hadn’t even given her his word.

Did she believe him to be a man of morals? Nonsense. He had forsaken morality long ago. Maybe it was when he killed those guards trying to escape from Celine. Maybe he never had it at all. Would a moral child harbor jealousy the way Magnus had? Would a moral child lie and steal from the weak?

If there was any morality left in him, he supposed it might’ve kicked around when he collected bounties of those who could be considered innocent. He’d butchered them without a second thought. So long as there was a bounty, Magnus would collect. Blood was blood. Innocent or damned it smelled the same, felt the same, washed away the same.

Righteousness, right and wrong. What was the point anymore? Celine had scrubbed away any sense of moral alignment. How could he believe in justice when he himself had committed the most brutal miscarriages of it?

But it was not his place to question things. If Rosaline trusted him, she trusted him. Her life was not his to gamble.

He couldn’t deny that the soft halo of her trust softened something within him. He didn’t want to break the mask balanced so precariously by her fingers.

“I don’t need luck,” Magnus answered flatly. Half a joke, half the truth, the delivery of his line fell on its face, leaving an awkward silence to thicken the air. “But thank you,” he added after a small lapse and a re-flushing of his cheeks.

The bounty hunter shifted in the dark. His movements were fluid and practiced, saved only from deft silence by the barely audible rustle of his coat. When his hand reemerged from the dark, it was accompanied by the thin stick of a cigarette. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to step away for a smoke. Enjoy your evening, Rosaline,” Magnus’ eyes softened, but any kindness within them was swallowed by the flattened onyx of his irises. Depthless and dark, they were incapable of escaping the predatory glint that had made its home there.

With a bow of his head, Magnus slipped from the shadowed alcove. He paused at the junction of the hallway only once to capture a glimpse of Rosaline’s departure from their hideout. An odd feeling pressed the muscled flesh of his lungs when her figure reappeared. Before he could dwell on it too long, the bounty hunter rounded the corner and was gone.
coded by reveriee.
 


mood
Chillin
outfit
idk bro
location
on deck
tags
CrimsonInk CrimsonInk Yasmine



Jackson couldn’t help the wide grin on his face. It was rare to find someone who played his games. He hardly expected it to come right away.

Boooooo. No, don’t end this turn so soon. They’d barely just begun. “Allow me to join you. I make an excellent accomplice.” Jack took her moving his hand as a yes, for she could have, just as easily, pushed him away. No thought in his mind considered social convention.

A warning, but not a refusal. Yippee! “You wound me.” Spoken with fake offense. “I have been nothing but good company since the day we first met. It is you who gives the cold shoulder.” A bit of bickering, which he has heard is standard for the common married couple.

It was only a faint distraction. His wife should know better than putting sticky fingers near something valuable. “It’s a wonder you agreed to marry me at all.” Yasmine had made it very clear he owed her for this elaborate ruse. However, blackmail could not be the only reason she didn’t leave him to rot that morning.

“I know you love me, even if you cannot show it.” A subtle hand in her coat pocket. What treasures were held inside? “I promise I won’t distract you too much.” Nothing in the pocket, so he searched further, into more dangerous territory.

“I can even help! I’m not useless, you know.” Hand barely hovering, just searching for metal, anything of value. “What do we do? Count? I can count very good. Make sure everyone is alive? I can do that too.” Ow! Finger pricked, Jackson’s eyebrow twitched as he did his best to hide his reaction. Now what could that be?

Jackpot. Broaches were fancy! He knew that much! Careful not to poke himself again, he unpinned the fabric, and pressed the metal into his palm and down his sleeve. “On second thought,” arm withdrawing completely, “You do such great work. I’d only slow you down!”

“Have a wonderful day at work my beautiful, talented, smart wife.” Now he was ready to run off and admire his prize!
The Bard
© reveriee
 
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 — 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐍
  • Index
    • font callfont callfont call
    IN-CHARACTER

    HAVEN INN

    ROGUE WAVES
    OFFBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.
    SEASON FINALE
    2ND OF OCTOBER
    It had been an overcast omen for seven days, the slew of clouds that writhed and demanded to moult. She is navigated to a wider arc with intention to thread around the tapestry of furore, but how abominable and cruel for the storm to set upon her during nightfall.
    Guests are ordered below deck with the direction of officers, and it does not take long for noble confusion to substitute understanding when the ship begins to tip with the growing turbulence of the sea. Crew furl and secure the sails as salt spray begins to sear itself over the bow, and they must constantly arrange their graceless footing to be malleable enough to accept the depolarising weights.
    What crystalline purity could once be engorged from the ship's sun-baked deck is left forgotten in another lifetime, toiled away by pelting rain as the churning undertaker of the ocean seeks to flood over the sides. A creature void of form, the water is black as a gash crowned by fate lines of roiling seafoam, swelling with intent to consume the vessel whole.
    Each slamming wave is an obsessive demand to the tissues of the hull, sending the ship askew with aftershock tremors. Porcelain chatters are its trembling teeth, neglected beasts rattling in their cages, and those onboard can align only briefly with balance till it is usurped from another impact.
    Offering recalcitrance and repaid with scorn of the sea, some cower in the recesses of the ship and some huddle to practise tongues of prayer, all are scabbed with insomnia as lined shelves empty their contents across solid wood grain. The oesophagus of the Leviathan is cleaving open with the aches of bruised timber, resonating noise like a clawing birth, and the brief intervals between one contradictory wave and the next resonate with straining wood and nauseating stirs.
    Wrenched this way and that like a flimsy meteor diverging from one surface to another, it feels hours till the pulse of the storm slowly gnaws itself down, chewed and corroded away to be an onboard fable. The waves ease, rain abates, and damage has worn its way deep into the grooves of the vessel, into the splintered and leaking freshwater reserves that had been poorly tethered.
    The speed of the storm’s withdrawal could almost divine it apocryphal if not onboard bruises and destruction a testament to its vigour. The masts are intact, the hold lesser so, with water glowering through cracks and crew scrambling to bucket the salt-fresh melange.
    It is an unsettling interval for the crew with the essence of time bleeding around them. Legs slosh their way through the flooding to plug cavities with wood and caulk, and only once the ship is repaired enough to be considered stable does the crew gather guests into the dining hall to avow security.
    The squall of shaken guests is louder than the prior storm, swilled with alarm like rabbits in bracken. Scorched with passenger’s urgency, the Captain stands silent in the surging questions with the regular unreadable furrow of his heavy-set brows.
    “Are we sinking?” a woman cried from the crowd.
    “Are we going to die?!” another man shouted.
    “We’re lost, aren’t we?”
    “What will we do?!”
    The crowd grows restless, and only with the help of the more outspoken officers is Lexis able to voice anything.
    “She is no longer sinking.” With quiet care, the Captain measures his words to answer only the most important question. But the unfortunate turn of events has the Captain linger in silence, a language he is most fluent in. Within that interval is the unspoken acknowledgment of uncertainty; words press heavy, but quietude is sisyphean.
    “There are lights in the distance,” he has found space for continuation in the rippling murmurs of the room, “a township.” Hopeless to be guided by charts of the skies when the canopy above is whisked with heavy clouds, stubborn in their resolve to loiter. “Locals will provide us with a heading to replenish our water supply. We will proceed with our voyage by dawn.”
    Something settles the passengers, perhaps contentment to have the pressing issue demeaned into a simple objective.
    “Anyone who wishes to participate may make it known. Longboats will leave within the hour.”
    The ship and sea is a quiet hover, wood still lacquered wet with sheets of rain yet quelled by this new, unfamiliar and eerie calm. Unmoored from their path and without direction, but as per the Captain’s claim, rich yellow glows await, dotted in the black distance.
    Longboats slice through waters with the dip and pull of oars till they can slide onto the shore with a sigh, tugging the boat to rest on the sand. Inhales, oxygen and petrichor annex lungs, and the ascent up the beach is not one of arctic wind, instead hangs itself humid and heavy on the nape. But even the give of wet sand undersole is a more trustworthy bedrock than The Leviathan’s current state.
    What greets them first on these unfamiliar shores is a building, reared with wood that faces the coast like a pyre. The closest of glowing beacons, crowned with a carved wooden sign penned with honorific:
    THE HAVEN INN.
    It could almost feel insincere after the night they have endured, a half-dream.
    They push inside with the chime of a bronze bell, and what tension is bound through the sinew of shoulders now loosens a fraction to gravity’s pull. There is a certain type of luxury to it, mahogany panels saturated to a rich red and the aroma of honey and spiced cider. A polished flooring easily associated with weeks of swaying, now solid and steadfast despite the padding of thick rugs; a comfort where one can worry no longer on the mercuriality of the sea or leaden night.
    Some may welcome in it, may bask in this reprieve as salt chill is drawn from their bones. Others may repulse the gleam of soft warm hues.
    Only one patron is in view, a receptionist that is nothing if not expectant. Dripped in strings of yolky gold, a syrup of metal that ripples fluid in the lantern ambience is draped over layers of tailored grey, assortments of patterns and textures that part to reveal loose bracelets that clink softly as she moves.
    “Come in, come in.” Fracture-sweet as a melody is their voice, but settles soft as ash. A gold clad hand motions the crew inside, tames them from damp stray to welcomed guest. “Haven’s as good a place as any to leave those outside troubles behind.” She rises from behind her desk, sharp carvings of her features now softened by the rounding shadows of the room, but holds a smile that is far too knowing for a stranger that is yet to learn both the name or face of these visitors.
    They had been unable to garner many answers. Their location is betwixt towns nobody had heard the name of. Enquiry to water resources had been met with reservation, only the innkeeper can help with that, but she will not return till later.
    The crew will settle till dawn in wait for their return, and in the meanwhile will have to pass time at the Haven Inn.
    The receptionist smiled, told them “Haven can keep you as long as you need,” then took an ornate master-key from the wall behind her and gestured them to follow. Her shoes padded softly along the carpet beneath the drag of grey fabrics as she led them down hallways, indicating amenities such as a library, common area and taproom.
    One by one she assigns them a private room, unlocks the door and stands politely to the side for them to enter. It is not comparable to Sirocco luxury, yet the furnishings are comfortable and the rugs are thick.
    She’d made sure to note a light supper would be served in the common room. The apprehension of the storm is to be swallowed, and by the time any arrive to investigate this promise, there are couches circling a hearth, and a table of small platters with cheese, fruit, spreads, thick-crust bread, golden and dusted in flour, await the crew.
    The rooms had been ready for quite some time now, but one should remember:
    People are nothing but a shell of ringing desires and the promise of endless horizons. There will be no outstripping something that is built into your very being.
    {IN-CHARACTER}
    night owl
     
  • Index





    • THE LAZARUS.















    scroll

    RAT



    THE

    LAZARUS




    ㅎㅎ















    MOOD




    UM HEY 🧍‍♂️











    OUTFIT




    GRANNY VEST











    LOCATION




    HAVEN INN HALLWAY












    MENTIONS




    ZAIRA/KADRI










    INTERACTS




    peachpuff peachpuff


















    FOR THE DEPARTED — 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 THREE.

    He’d glimpsed her only days prior.

    A flickered shadow that is tranquil as a cat, skin clear as lotus, but enough to jostle Rat like a jarred insect, ricocheting back a decade.

    They were beasts of similar kin, once. The two of them lied too much for their own good, and what memories he had stowed away into dark recesses had been dredged back into the light by its teeth. Resurrecting something from Rat’s spirit, sampled directly from the marrow, it pledges something blade-soft; blunt, but not unkind.

    Time with his studies lends itself to understanding that things need quiet to grow. Roots spider out in all directions in search of stability, delicate threads of capillaries and sheaves of skin that fall victim to the drag of time. He has learned how to be still, to reach for nothing and hold onto nothing, and the profit of those efforts will yield when the upheaval of his death will register little impact. Grief will not be dragged in by a mangy neck, foul remains left to impolitely spoil their clean floors.

    It is a sentiment that sticks like paint, need nobody and not be needed in return, but one might suggest She had been one of few outliers. He did not hope to forget when their orbits ceased, just hoped not to linger on it.

    Connection made foreign by their absence, Rat hesitated in the hallway, idling with the susurrus of crew resonating from nearby rooms. He weighs the risks of what he is doing, dragging the repetition of index against inner thumb— he is not the type of man to dabble in wasteful uncertainties, but he is also not the type of man to worry about the inconsequential.

    He turns to go back to his own lodgings, deciding otherwise to confront the woman. There are questions, the botanist often has them, but rarely do they emerge with tethers of important history. The Oracles are a pressing topic, the anchor of their connection, and her presence can no longer go ignored. Why, is the denominator above all else. Why is she here?

    As it stands in this peculiar inn plagued by a skirt of salt and sand, they are both far from needing to cower from the watchful eyes of the Covenant. So he yields to the curiosity, turns again to march back— albeit frustrated, only to find the raven haired woman stood in his estimation.

    “It is you.” He exhales. No longer can the man avoid the truth of it; it is real, she is here, and it is easy to slip-slide into nostalgia when she looks almost the exact same.

    It’d be a foolish bid to play pretend, to clutch to that safety blanket of theatrics. Information is currency and as far as Rat is concerned, this woman is comparable to the Siroc bank. It is not a guise he can use around her, the characterization of Rat, cannot choose to pull it on or off throughout any segment of their play.

    Speaks to her as Landon because she knows him better than anyone else. Substitutes the nasally nonsense for an even tone, smooth as sea glass.

    “You look well, Kadri.” Said from one liar to another, but he means it completely. “Or perhaps,” there is gentle murmur in the building, conversational noise from neighbouring rooms, but that does not render Rat without employing low-volume caution, “another name is of current preference?”

    Kadri has never fitted her, but names are fragile things and he knows he ought to be careful with their usage.

    He has no intention to cage Zaira in conversation with no opportunity to leave, but when has their association ever been without clandestine walls and verboten unions.

    “It has been a while.” A grand understatement.





























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