Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[peachpuff]

THE UNFAITHFUL.

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Zaira

Sezen

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Uncertain

OUTFIT

wooo

LOCATION

Her room at the Inn

MENTIONS

Landon/Rat

INTERACTS

Gao

Smile — William Crighton

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Violaceous Skies.

Even raging storms can find themselves stilled for a moment

Chapter Three.

Fate, should it exist in Zaira's life, was truly a interesting thing. Otherwise, how else would such a run in happen? It was as if the Levithan was a beacon for those who turned their backs to the Oracles. Even without believing the stars, she had seemingly answered some call. Some silent whisper of rebellious reunion. No words, no voice heard, yet there had been more than one familiar face aboard the vessel. It was truly the coincidence of a lifetime. Not only had she met up with the nightingale aboard, but she had seem the face of someone she truly never thought would be on some large vessel bound to the sea. Landon. Zaira hadn't had the chance to reach out, to find time to reunite with the other. Pulled every which ways by new companions, new experiences, and new schemes. It certainly could be said she was enjoying the journey the Levithan was offering.

All to come to a grinding halt as the skies turned dark and the waves turned unforgiving. Escorted to her small cabin aboard, told to stay there as the storm played out. There was no such moment she could recall where she had felt so uncertain of fate. Not even when she was called forth before the Oracles for the crime of aiding the Nightingale's escape. The tossing of the waves had matched to erratic knocking of her heart against her chest. To die at sea was not on her bucket list, that was for sure. Even as the storm calmed and the crew assessed the damage, the knocking didn't stop. It rung in her ears with each pulse. The uncertainty amongst the crew didn't help either. Murmurs of being lost at sea, and something damaged.

Word of land passed through out the ship. New orders, new promises of safe haven spread like the raging winds. Some Island, uncharted, had been spotted. Before long, with what few belongings she refused to leave behind, Zaira was ushed to this promised land of safety from the storm. An inn, with a private room at that. It seemed if the Oracles were trying to send some divine punishment, they were going to have to try harder. Lady luck had shown its hand, and it played in Zaira's favor yet again.

She busied herself, removing the storm worn attire for something of comfort. Something a bit more dry. A bit more warm. Feet began to traveled the room in circles as a hand ran a brush through hair. There was no telling how long she had been pacing. Enough, surely to have worn a tell-tale pattern in the rug. It was the feeling of something......no...someone, lingering at the other side the door that stopped her. Silence enveloped the room and the sound of knock rang in her ears again. What had made her decide to open the door, she couldn't say. As she watched the retreating figure of a familar soul, she was glad she did. The nerves that had ate silently at her mind calmed. Her mind finally felt a bit more clear seeing such a familar face, even if the clarity was fogged by old bittersweet memories she thought were long buried.

Zaira stood there, silently watching him grow further and further away. An all too common feeling when it came to their interactions. Yet, she didn't call out. Something in her mind told her he'd turn around. Perhaps it had just been her hoping he would. For all her poker faces, she couldn't hide the small smile that eased it's way to her lips as he did turn back. "Look what the storm dragged-"

"It is you" The words almost felt cruel, as if she wasn't supposed to be here. Maybe she wasn't. Everything had seem to good to be true. Every union too close to home. Perhaps it was all some dream..... “You look well, Kadri.” The name made her mouth dry and chest heavy. A vile taste found it's way to her throat. Pure. How she hated the the name sounded, even coming off the tongue of someone once so close. The intentions were likely well meant, he didn't know she had finally she'd the shackles the Covenant had on her. The ties binding her, including that name, long cast away. “another name is of current preference?”

"Zaira. It's finally okay to just call me Zaira openly now." Words flew so fast from her lips, she barely let the other finish their sentence. The promise of getting to hear her own name from someone close, without having to look over her shoulder had her mouth forming words before her mind caught up. "You seem well too....." Even as she said it it felt awkward on the tongue. How are you? Is your health better? Has there been any improvements? Thoughts raced to mind, yet not one was said.

Everything felt as it did back then, yet so much had changed. Time had passed, even if their time together had halted. Frozen in memories, faded from time spent apart. It wasn't as easy to simply pick up where things had ended, no matter how familiar his presence was. Indeed. A while it had been.

"A while....I suppose that's one way to put it. Silence filled the air between them as she tried to look anywhere but Landon's face. "I tried looking for you. After I left the Covenant. You weren't .....where you had been staying before. I had wondered where you had moved without good bye or if....." If you had passed No amount of trying could get her to say it. It was as if her throat constricted at the mere thought. She'd have no one to blame but herself if she was the last to find out about such things, her work with the Oracles kept her from sending letters or slipping away to meet.

"Ahem. Perhaps lady luck is still on my side today, or time has decided to be kind to us just this once. Much has happened in the time we haven't talked, perhaps a catch up is warranted.....?"A gloved hand extended towards the other, a silent invitation to come inside. Hesitant, yet hopeful all the same. "I ....took some refreshments from the receptionist. Join me for tea, if nothing else? You seem to have questions for me too, right? I promise to answer them. Zaira could tell he had questions for her. It was visibly eating at his own mind, and showed in his expression. Which likely mirrored her own.

Fate may also be on her side, just this once.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

small cw for his prologue for some blood yap ♡​

THE CAPTAIN.

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LEXIS

THE CAPTAIN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

I AM SO RUDE )): AaAAASJSDFLGKF

OUTFIT

THE ZESTY VESTY

LOCATION

HAVEN INN COMMONROOM

MENTIONS

DOLORES

INTERACTS

Nifty

FUNERAL — TIGERCUB.

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WHEN GOD TOOK

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

PROLOGUE.

He was always quiet, like someone whose part in the world was done.

Could assemble and disassemble a ship inside a bottle with the surgical precision of an aorta autopsy, but standing in the hold of unsutured pine that suffuses with water leaves him feeling more frail than river lethe.

To step down into the pooling brig, ever-flowing, ever-rising, manages to locate a fraying seam and tug a poignant chord in the Captain. Under the sway of waxen ochre light he is reminded that the chassis of a ship and a body are much the same; both fragile; both split easiest at the joints (at least you survived, their families resent it and what remains of you knows that).

Come home changed or be changed in return, the glare of the lantern is in your back as its casing oscillates from the dominion of the sea; the glare of the sun is in your eyes as it refracts shardlike off the frozen waste. Cloudy water lours below the steeple of your knee; winter leaks red and softens to pomegranate slush beneath tendering boots.

When you mallet pitch-soaked fibres into the seams of the Leviathan’s spewing belly, it is the same atavism that wedges the crescent claw of an axe between joints and gouges a cracking cavity. Soft sinew, sawing horizontally through frost-burned skin and rods of bone to toss aside limbs onto a burning pile.

The northern wind stings like acid on lashes— perhaps that was the smoke. The ebb and flow of the tide’s familiar nocturne washes into every inch of her ribs, and atoms of flesh— wood, splinter —nest beneath nails like scorpions. Resin and tar and fibrous oakum— skin, blood, —blunt-nailed fingers hover nail before hammering the plank into place. Wrap her jaws around her own wounds and sink teeth to cover the bite of the storm.

Crack and jolt, vivisection of bone. Bodies burn quicker when they are broken down, and that frozen skin once rigid and bleached with cold now bubbles and boils like wax. It is survival, the dissection of blade edge from clavicle to navel, as the blameless winter congests throat with thick despair.

Your teeth are gritted till red tang weeps, and any taste that you are still alive is soothing: you have never known how to exist with contentment unless it is in an environment of turbulence. In plumes of Antares gunpowder, in frenzied blood and raked bodies over frozen ground like venison game, in drowning waters in the nucleus of a ship.

At least you survived.

You are beginning to lose the very meaning of the word.

---

CHAPTER THREE.

She is vital to what remains of his purpose. Could recognize the scrape of her deck from a mile out, the wordless warning of an ashed railing, the protest of an aching beam. Sturdy as an arc he has relied on her, a bolster that kept him from dissolving into a mass of splintering sharp-edged pieces.

But now Lexis stands with his back to the crew, eyes trained to the dark sea. Admittedly troubled by their circumstance, yet not without caution. The flintlock rifle is slung over a shoulder like a faithful companion and he does not need to break his concentration to draw conclusions.

It is not right.

He thinks this in the common room of the Haven Inn, a widow isolated by the window to stare out at the encompassing black. The breaking tide is only a glimmer of lichen, the rest lost to the heavy filter of night. A morse of orange blurs vaguely identified as the Leviathan’s lanterns are the only comfort that she remains afloat, and the gentle noise of crew ruminating the area is the only comfort (or concern) that he is not alone here.

It is not right, he thinks. He should be with the ship.

Arduous churnings dizzy the storm-ache of his head, and perhaps things do not need to shatter to be disjointed. In the case of Lexis he is scraped from the lining of what he finds comfortable, feels whatever thawed ease of being at sea now ice over with solid land undersole. The ghosts of disquiet have nowhere else to go, and although his features remain impartial as ever, it is a wound betrayed through his window lingering, can be heard in his silence, that wellspring of tension knotted through his jaw.

Like a descent of carrion someone had neared, and that is what finally severs him from the loom of thought. He should have realised it was selfish of him to loiter the window as if nobody else wanted to appreciate the enlightening view of… vacuous black.

He must make amends with the Boatswain because she is scary. She might yell at him. He should know better, and is loath to make note that such flagrant displays of ignorant behaviour should not become a habit.

“I apologise, Miss Thorne.” Lexis takes a step from the window, lets his hand fall away from the drapery and allows the orange of the room to warm the side of his face. Hands fold themselves politely behind his back.

“I did not intend to be in the way.” Storms do not frighten the man, but people are a lurch to the hull of his countenance. Crushed beneath the snare of his attention, nerves rise to the surface in pestled turmoil. He does not wish to stare confrontationally, but also does not wish to be rude by avoiding eye contact. Everyone is deserving of full attention.

Eyes are lidded with natural repudiation as he ascertains the woman with an appropriate amount of eye contact (he had decided four long eerie seconds would be acceptable). Now he must make polite conversation to communicate their neutral standing. What do colleagues speak about?

Their children? Lexis does not have any.

Their weekends? Lexis did not do anything of interest.

The weather? Gasp. The weather!

“How did you fare through the storm?”

Yippee!

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Nifty]

THE SCOURGE.

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Dolores

THORNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Good Evening

OUTFIT

Boatswain Slay

LOCATION

Haven Inn, Common Room

MENTIONS

Lexis & Gallin

INTERACTS

Gao

Leviathan — Dirt Poor Robins

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Bronze Beauty,

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

Chapter Three, Part I.

Every morning for the past month spent on board, it has been her duty to maintain the ship properly. Within her schedule, she has dedicated her precious time swabbing decks, checking the varnish's coat, etc. While her brand new occupation proves to be a laborious endeavour with the reward of staying afloat, it is still a far better compromise than donning the ebony mantle she’s known all her life.

And so, as weeks go by with manageable winds and tranquil waves, the arrival of the intrepid storm became a difficult and stressful challenge for virgin sailors such as the young Miss Thorne. Among her tapestry of failures, there fabricates a new one. A complete oversight in her role as the ship's boatswain. While she may lack empathy towards particular people, she has found herself oddly devoting most of her time to the upkeep of inanimate objects. However, with all the time spent providing the proper care, it was confirmed to be a relatively useless endeavour in the eye of a raging storm where the life and death of many people hung in the balance.

During that time, an old friend of hers began to resurface: guilt. Perhaps the outcome would've been much different if she had adequately done her daily checkups of the ship's stability, analysing each flaw to the bone and properly delivering on her duties. Perhaps the ship wouldn’t have been damaged if she had studied her role sufficiently. An overarching thought became apparent as she emerged from the tempest. A much-experienced seafarer would have been far more efficacious.

By the time her sore body met the cushion of her private chamber, the thoughts quieted into thin air. The silence and the comfort of her own company are precisely what she needs after being cramped with an odd collection of strangers on a lone vessel. An elephantine weight is suddenly lifted off her shoulders as she ground herself with the soft, perfectly folded blankets beneath her. And just like a lounging feline, she bunched herself into a ball and drifted to a much-needed respite.

──── ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ────

Donned with delicate etchings of silver threads and montbretia prints, the silky ebony fabric swayed with each movement. Before she secured her belt, she snugly stuffed a small dagger in a hidden compartment within her robe. After buckling her belt, a sense of security filled her. With a final look in the mirror, the privateer stepped out of her assigned room.

Eventually, her steps soon led her to the Common Room. With the recognisable ruckus from her fellow crewmates, supper was more straightforward to locate. The sight of bountiful meals and simple silverware greeted the mistrustful Thorne. Her gaze was sharp with suspicion. It was as if they were the very roots of the narcotic that the lotus-eaters fatten themselves upon.

With leonine grace, she searched for the man she had hoped to have a discussion with.

And there her captain was, in an old widowed wife fashion, somberly gazing at the shadowed reaches illuminated by the vessel’s amber lanterns. One would mistake his behaviour for recently attending the funeral of a loved one. Even for Dolores, the sight evoked slight sympathy in her heart. However, her mind quickly trampled her commiseration as another thought entered her temple.

If this delay continues, the order of my overly detailed schedule will be all for nothing. The branded maiden deduced.

Lexis Graves. A man of stoicism and logic. From her subtle observations of the rare moments, he is seen outside his private chambers. She has noted him to be a rather peculiar specimen. Silent. Introverted. Solemn. Some aspects of him mirror Dolores’s own lonesome habits. Despite the man's non-threatening aura, she knew all too well the dangers of a quiet man. Perhaps his own set of secrets will never be known to the world with those stapled lips; nonetheless, there is undoubtedly… a semblance of innocence in the recent time she has been working under him. And in a way, she has grown fond of his dedication to the ship and, most likely, his stern demeanour.

As her approach was noticed, the gentleman made himself look available for a conversation. A relief on Dolores’ part as she won’t have to awkwardly reach over Lexis’ shoulders to catch his attention.

“I can assure you that wasn’t my intention, Mr. Graves.” The woman quickly dismissed his apology and shook her head because her interest didn’t lie in the view of the Leviathan. It lies in the very man in front of her.

Four total awkward seconds of eye contact passed. It was as if the odd man was in the midst of forming his response. And within those four seconds, Dolores had her own very enriching dialogue.

What do people talk about these days? The brand new Gallin Forrestson chapter? She mentally shook her head. No, I can’t let people know I fuck with that –

Oh! A response… I feel like I should be asking you that. She thought as she eyed the window behind him and the warm amber glow in the distance.

“It was… a valuable experience for a first-time mariner. I still have much to learn as the ship’s boatswain. That much I can see.” She answered honestly. In contrast, the man in front of her may not be the ideal individual to share her inadequacies with; however, she wishes to share her honesty with a colleague. After their conversation, perhaps the curious maiden will visit the inn’s library for a necessary revision of her role.

Before they could settle into a longer period of eye contact, she responded quickly with her initial reason for approaching the vessel's commander.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you, sir. May I inquire how long we intend to stay here? I fear if the stay becomes too long, it will affect our schedule.” She uttered with complete professionalism.

With a held tongue, she kept her second question all to herself. What will the plan be if the innkeeper refuses to participate to answer their questions? To Dolores, a simple solution remains plain if that issue arose; perhaps that’s why the King anointed her presence in the ship. If so, her purpose, aside from being its boatswain, becomes overbearingly transparent.

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[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

[SIDE-EYE]

OUTFIT

SNEEKi SLEEKi

LOCATION

HAVEN INN BEDROOM

MENTIONS

DOLORES, ROSALINE, ILYA, GROG, DANTE, VASARIAH, YANLIN, DAHLIA, TALLULAH, MILO.

INTERACTS

Pepsionne q r o w CrimsonInk AnimeGenork ComplexDragon

RUN BOY RUN — WOODKID.

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HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER THREE.

Let us not forget the sacred oath. Ren is an honest, creative, and law-abiding man.

But let us not overlook his bravery in times of great peril. After all, it was only the first impact of heavyweight waves that served the simple accordance:

He needs to find Dolores.

It’s a terminal sickness, being in love. He has known the pulse of her wrist but knows the absence of it deeper, and now must carry the memory of her with the flattened origami tucked close to his chest. He’d wasted no time in his decision— nor much thought to how he’d achieve this, apparently. Left the Doctor’s room with arms outstretched, hands splayed flat against the wall and lacerating nails through the pine polish. Shoulder resonates an ache as he rebounds from one side of the hallway to the other, bouncing off the surfaces with no indication he’d ever been there.

A regular afterthought, it strikes Ren (like another wall) that he had not planned ahead. A decades long habit, maybe he hasn’t ever, and the determination dims quickly. There is a cost to the reminder: Ren cannot swim. He is trapped in a floating coffin, painfully ironic when this path is what he thought he needed for so long. He thinks briefly of what he’ll leave behind: namely his mom, tries not to imagine the wood splintering open and bursting water up to the ceiling.

He may be built sturdy despite the wiry build, walk nimble with the nostalgia of forgiving pine undersole, but this wood has a rejected softness, a wrong kind of butchery. Reels the man both physically and mentally, malevolent motions that obscure his confidence.

The re-evaluation of his prior decision is not to say he does not care for Dolores' wellbeing— it is with great frustration he knows it will always be the opposite, but that is also not to say he wants to make her job harder by clinging onto her like a wailing drop bear as the vessel is thrown about. Ren knows she is capable, scary when she needs to be, but there is traitorous doubt if even Dolores can kill an ocean.

He’d trekked (half crawled half stumbled) to the dining hall in search of the woman, and the dread continues to push him forward. The luxury of the ship is no longer wanted or mourned, and the landslide of another lurch has him falling into somebody.

Tall. More space to float on if they capsize.

Grabs the frail stranger before they’re both sent into the demise of the floor, pulling them upright and close with enough momentum to hollow a socket. With such urgency, it is hard to decipher who needed the anchor more— them or him.

“Yanlin?” Ren is suddenly lit up with all the knowledge he had ever needed. His favourite boss. “Yanlin!” A smile and laugh tried to follow, but it died somewhere in his throat, replaced by a shaky exhale that mimicked the tremor of the aching vessel. Nails embedding themselves into the painter’s shoulders unlatch, and Ren has invited himself to wrap arms tightly around the man’s warm chest, demeaning the individual into nothing more than a long teddy to drag with him. The painter seems annoyingly taller than Ren remembered, but this is no matter for the thief.

“I have to confess.” How convenient that Ren becomes religious only in times of need; he can worship things he does not believe in. “I stepped on one of your brushes by accident. I never told you that. The nice fan one wasn’t lost, I broke it. Threw it into a garden so that it wouldn’t be found.”

“You can’t be mad at me because we could die and you'll be a vengeful spirit.” He has never known Yanlin to be angry— probably because Ren would assist with creativity by sleeping with them rather than keeping their dynamic professional —but that doesn’t mean he wishes to invoke any potential ire at what may be the entrance to their tomb. He would like to stay friends in the afterlife.

A collision so loud it rattles his teeth like ringing bells, and the whole ship lurching sideways has Ren releasing Yanlin to stumble against a table. There is fresh bruise pooling in his hip, but Ren has barely noticed because he has made eye contact with a woman on the opposite end.

A limn of umber hair and what he imagines to be soft features if she smiled; the thief does not recognise her but has acknowledged (and will continue to do so) that the ship was a realm of pretty people.

“Hey.” He leans.

It’s foolish for a number of reasons. Foolish for recalling exactly why his shoulders and hip bone are in pain, the bruising of them, the reminder of why he’s even in the dining hall at all. Another wave, albeit slightly gentler than the last, rocks the ship’s anatomy. He stumbles, recovers before he hits the floor with an improvised spin on the heel, and leans again on the table— this time on an elbow.

“You know,” the genesis of a throwaway brag, “I have survived many storms.” The man is primly inspecting his nails as if he’d prefer to be anywhere but here. It is not any different from his usual habits, faking left then turning right, no time or space for his theatrics but he indulges the distraction all the same. Makes a slow side eye to check that she is seeing and admiring his bravery.

But then it arrives, another plough of waves into the side of the ship. It surprises him as if he hadn’t expected it, and Ren is defanged and deboned back down to sheaves of shaking skin and spools of inky hair. Pounces at the woman and hugs her arm against him while nails lacerate into the fabric. Condensed below deck with little airflow, Ren can feel his throat constrict with all the elements that are lacking, and the surrogate of his backbone has been melted from arrogant crucible to withering candle. Holding his salvation Dahlia even as he feels flayed down to rattling opal, how nice to not allow the woman to escape his rose-thorn grasp.

“I’m Ren.” Less bravado, brokered that courage for the barely audible admission of his name.

Wide-eyed and haunted, he is snatching wildly at Yanlin (the long teddy) with his other hand, dragging them back into his orbit as if this will stave the pelt of judgement ready to cull them into a wreck. He feels useless as a newborn, and the truth of the evening is very simple: he does not want them to die. Whatever patently domesticity underlies this, Ren disregards, allows the weirdness of the situation to be ignored while he shepherds them towards a support beam to crowd around.

“As friends,” his words spill fast with barely a breath between, “we should stay close—” There’s a hitch as the vessel bucks again and the whole room tilts, and he barely catches the tip of gravity with a dropped knee. In this latest scramble is when his hand sets atop someone’s shoe. He looks up, feels the flutter of it, the way curls give glowing opacity around the edges. Could say, Sorry. Almost says it: Nice shoe. But we all know Ren’s sentiments towards those with curly hair.

Purr.

Meow.

Perhaps a Nya if we feel truly passionate.

“Hi.” He’d brush and coil around Hopefully-Single-Tallulah’s legs if he wasn’t preoccupied with potentially dying. Instead climbs his way back to his feet using Tallulah as a ladder, ignorant to the annoyance of a strange leech-like man clawing their way up your leg to stand upright. Then he is snatching the woman by the arm— another victim! —pulled to join the other two.

Grabbing at anyone close enough to reach is serving a quick collection, and it would not be complete without a token blonde. Heartless to let the man stumble about in the tumult. Hand swipes out like a black blur pendulum, seizing a platinum Milo by the scruff of their clothing and yanking them into the huddle with little care of being gentle. Another claimed by the sea that was Funai Ren.

In this herd of hostages he cowers, back to clinging onto Yanlin and Dahlia with milky knuckles and round eyes. Counters any traitorous attempt to break out of the group with scrabbling limbs and incomprehensible panicked screams. It was no easy thing, being a single mother. Harder still, to keep the rebellious ones from traversing out to certain death. He is shaking in the lair that is his skin with the velocity of northern cold, thinks his heart and stomach have swapped places, and it is only minutes after the strong waves cease does the man regather some reins of composure.

He is still trembling when he dares to ease the nails out of other’s limbs, but makes a display of setting hands to hips to hide their quake. Tries to channel boldness but has never been good at lying.

“See?” A cleared throat and motion to the gentle atmosphere that had settled the ship. “Had it all under control.” Ah yes, all Ren’s work. He’d saved them all by lacerating any open skin with his nails.

"Storms like that are nothing, really. I barely even noticed it.” His voice is too loud, too bold, the rasp of it in betrayal of vicissitude.

The arrival of a final rogue wave has Ren throwing himself at Dahlia with a cry of alarm.

---

Iodine dark iris are rummaging through the bedside drawer in hopes of a forgotten ring or comb.

The latter is an admittedly vain gesture in the wake of the evening’s frenzy, crouched while thieving hands delve beneath a spare blanket, an action easily considered improper by anyone that cares for social standing. Fortunately Ren does not have to care about what he does not have, and with the prospect of a bed with no additives like Rosaline or Ilya or Grog or Dante or tangle of Vasariah (a growing roster), the simple ritual of brushing his hair before rest feels a small luxury.

It is during this search when that tug of attention— urgent, insidious, warns he is not alone in the room. Movements freeze and eyes fashion suspicion, and the penance of silence that stretches out in that hesitation allows the truth to unfurl itself.

Who could understand it if not he, a boy who liked to loom over shallows and frighten minnows with his shadow. To be seen, noticed in some capacity, it is always nice to make yourself into something bigger so that you may fill the grand stage of it. But this one is gilt in silence, slipped aside like an unexpected knife between ribs.

He disappoints the quiet with the habit of his loose mouth.

“Were you planning to stand there until I undressed?”

There is fondness to his tone, he expects it to be someone he knows. It could be Vasariah being weird— though he supposed that would be no different from blondie’s usual behaviour. It could be Dante— the 17 night stand who was ready for the 18th. It could be Dolores— that would be incredibly unfortunate, and that panicked thought is enough to decide he should not debate their identity any longer. Looks over his shoulder to meet the stranger’s eyes, but does not speak. He does not need to when questions are rising in the stretch of space between them.

Pale nestled in the dark plumage, black-eyed but there is something famine haunted in the formal features. Unrest quills itself over the nape, that uncomfortable static Ren has grown familiar but not comfortable with. He’d seen the man onboard, noted for their possession of cigarettes— Ren was yet to haggle, had been averse to approach due to their morose features and assumption someone must have died to look so gloomy.

Originated from nothing more than an absentminded notion, planted and nursed into uncultivated bloom since boarding night; the feeling of being watched is a distasteful one, and as of late this must be the one making his skin crawl.

It’d be easy to behave as tactless as he always does, lean and ask if the man was single. Brash, yes. Stubborn, at times. Brash and stubborn and childish— many occasions. But to completely ignore the ambience that rumbles with a warning of far-off thunder, rarely. A small glimmer of rationality plays a part in this, at least until he can gauge the stranger's purpose of being in his room.

“Peeping creeps should look happier.” He turns his head back to his rummaging, but not all the way. Keeps the shadow of the man in the demarcation of his vision with several degrees of caution. If he is lucky, the accusation of lechery will help the stranger make the connection that they have entered the wrong room.

For the first time in a long time Ren would like to enjoy a bed with no company. Will instead deter the voyeur through conversational jabs.

“I am not so interested in the timid types. Perhaps another time.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
focused

LOCATION:
The Leviathan, The Haven Inn

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

the huntsman

magnus

Interactions: Gao , Ren

With an elusiveness akin to slick scales immersed in water, Ren managed to slip through the gaps of Magnus’ fangs the night he had met with Rosaline. And the next night, and the next. By the time the storm had begun rocking The Leviathan with a fury only attributed to the gods, Magnus had tried and failed to corner him more times than he was comfortable admitting. He had never hunted at sea before, and assuredly it would be his last attempt.

The bounty hunter missed the freedoms that land provided. What was once a salivatory opportunity now felt like a wooden prison, damning him to gnash at heels for eternity.

A particularly harsh wave careened the ship to one side. Knuckles bled white in an attempt to ground himself to the door frame. Any normal patron would be huddled with knees married to wood, frenzied prayers escaping their lips for a last grasp of salvation. But something in Magnus seemed to thirst for the salt laden waters that rattled the ship’s foundation.

Drifting down into the cold dark of the sea, lost in oblivion, made the damnation of such a fate seem almost peaceful. More peaceful than he deserved, at least.

His dark thoughts quieted in tune with the sea, until both were coaxed back into a placid rest. He dared a glance into the hallway of his ill gotten room only to be met by a rising tide of bodies shifting towards the deck in a petrified trance.

Their search for guidance led them toward the Captain, and Magnus’ search for Ren left him trailing behind in their wake. Stowaway or not, a storm as immense as what the Leviathan weathered was bound to stir up all the rats.

Magnus tongued the sharp edge of his canine. Dark eyes burned through the faces of those gathered in search of the striking gaze he had studied for so long. The crowd of passengers roared for answers around him.

He slipped from the crowd having not found his target, opting instead for a cigarette away from the commotion. The crew bustled aboard the main deck to prepare the longboats that would venture off in search of fresh water. Weary from the restricting confines of the ship, Magnus stood to join them. Even if it was not his first choice, there was a chance that another bounty might shake loose from the ship, the fear of the storm cutting their escape short. If that was the case, he would be there to collect.

---

The Haven Inn was a rather small establishment. The group that had abandoned the ship in search of supplies was much lighter than he anticipated, which made it next to impossible not to spot the vortex of motion and sound that Ren generated.

Was he aware of the price upon his head or simply too naïve to expect anyone would come knocking?

The entirety of the situation became almost laughably easy the longer the night went on. Ren carried on unaware or uncaring of Magnus’ tail, which resulted in the bounty hunter’s current predicament. He stood silently in the shadows while Ren rummaged through his room in desperate search of something too insignificant for Magnus to care about.

Black fabric dipped up and down in silent, shallow breath. It almost seemed too good to be true, how easily this situation had unfolded before him. Witnesses tucked safely in bed in an unfamiliar inn, too shaken from the storm to care about anything other than solid ground beneath their feet. He could already smell the dried parchment of bills that would be traded for Ren’s lifeless body.

“Were you planning to stand there until I undressed?”

Magnus didn’t respond. Analytical eyes scanned Ren’s figure while the man kneeled before a drawer. The look in them was calm, filled with the predatory confidence of a confirmed kill. No sign of weapons, no hidden tufts of armor or padding to get in the way of a fatal blow. How lucky indeed, that after a month of evading the privacy Magnus craved for a clean kill, Ren seemed to crawl so vulnerably into the palm of his hand.

Ren was no stranger to strangers, it seemed. A vulnerable mouse who gambled his fate on the kind nature of those whose paths he crossed. But Magnus was not kind. His fist would close tight--crushing bone and flesh into an interwoven dance far closer than nature ever intended. The ink puddles of pupils spilled outward to overtake the storm of his irises. Adrenaline had finally decided to stretch its lazy legs through the stream of his blood.

“Peeping creeps should look happier.”

Magnus shifted his head to the side. The smooth metal of the bounty hunter’s weapons burned against his skin. Whispered pleas grew louder in his ears with each second that passed. Unsheathe me, wield me, pierce me into flesh. Let my teeth overflow with the taste of blood.

“I am not so interested in the timid types. Perhaps another time.”


Dark hair cascaded in a silk waterfall from the man’s shoulder, head swiveling back to a focus on the drawer. Magnus’ teeth set into the form of a scowl. Not yet. Not yet. There was still too much room for error. Ren was on edge now. Perhaps he could sense the danger lurking through the tips of Magnus’ fingers. Perhaps he could smell the bloodlust that dripped from his pores like expensive cologne.

Something vile bloomed in the back of his throat now that he was in such close proximity to Ren. He’d examined him for quite awhile now, but always from a distance. The way his limbs moved made him nauseous with the taste of memory. Nonsense. That part of him was dead, and with it too were any ties to that world. Perhaps he’d been studying the man too long. Ren’s theatric expressions carved into his memory with the tunnel vision of a kill, nothing more.

He smiled, but unlike the kindness he had attempted to imbue for Rosaline, this one dripped with the promise of bloodshed.

“I’ve been following you for some time, Funai Ren,” Magnus finally spoke. His voice was soft and mellow, no hint to the wild beating of his heart.

“You’re a hard man to track, I’ll give you that.”

The bounty hunter maneuvered from his place in the shadows. Each contact of his soles to the wooden flooring rattled with the echo of a death knell. “You can call me Magnus if you’d like.”

He stopped squarely before the door, the dark smudge of his figure blotting out any hope of escape and spelling Ren’s fate in blood. The gleam of metal danced against his sleeve like a white star against the painted darkness of the sky. Magnus turned the blade to the side, exposing it in clear view.

“But you might know me better by my reputation. I’ve heard they call me The Doctor,” Another smile, briefly, before he began again. “Tell me, what betrayal must a man like you commit to be bestowed with such a high bounty from the Baron himself? I’m rather fascinated by it.”

coded by reveriee.

 

[CrimsonInk]

THE OPHIDIAN.

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YASMINE

LAVIGNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Enchanted

OUTFIT

Don't Gaze Too Long

LOCATION

HAVEN INN

MENTIONS

ROSALINE, ILYA

TAGS

AnimeGenork @qunqun

ALIBI — SEVDALIZA ft. PABLLO VITTAR, YSEULT.

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POWER IS POWER

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

CHAPTER THREE.

The storm

Yasmine’s eyes darted to every person fleeing down to the barracks. Her voice hoarse from roaring her cries over the sound of waves for the guests to find shelter. Adrenaline pumped through her body and her heart beated like a drum against her ribcage. Years of building her body as a force against the seas. The fabric of her clothing now became skin, and the leather of her boots squeaked harshly against wood trying to stop herself from thrashing about.

Sea waves obsessively crashed into the side of the ship where Yasmine felt the waves constantly adore her, or if you’re a pessimist felt its grim hand trying to grab another body for its deep-sea cemetery. Even the harsh pelts of rain didn’t stop her from surveying the grounds for unwanted guests, allowing the sailors to cry and yell in their positions to get this ship from sinking. Yasmine held tight to the railing with her eyes adjusting to the sight of color against the gray storm that caught her attention, and it made her all the more furious.

Oh, you better have a good reason to be fucking out here…

“Oh Captain! My Captain!”

Yasmine took a deep breathing and lunged toward the woman running. In honesty she would have rather taken in the tight, well made burgundy dress this woman was wearing instead of having to do her job. Gazing into the woman’s eyes she grabbed her by the arms, using her own body as a shield against the waves hitting them. Yasmine took in her features. The light freckles, the plump coral pink lips, and the heavenly florals that somehow came to her nostrils filled her with — a sense of thrill.The storm raged for their divide, but it only grew her fascination more. It was as if this woman captured her heart lacing it with lust and envy. As much as she would like to continue her gaze upon this woman, Poseidon was clearly being a jealous bitch about it.

“You need to get inside!” Yasmine yelled, tasting the salt that dripped from her hair, “before you get hurt!”

In honesty, she was unsure about whether the woman had heard her or not. The woman’s gaze seemed everywhere and was almost frazzled by the disparity of the storm. Dropping her guard was a mistake as another wave hit them, causing them to fall to the floor hitting the wall. For the lady in question, Yasmine saw how she hit her head and began to work fast. Hands pressed against the wound hoping the pain hasn’t settled in.

“Come on!” she shouted, lifting her up and holding her close in place near her breasts.

This really was a test of strength between her and the sea. Yasmine knew better. She knew how there was a way to beat nature in its dangerous game. All the more reason now trying to keep such a gorgeous woman out of harm's way. Yasmine caught the pattern of the rogue waves, traversing through down the stairs with each step in a transfixed focus. While she wasn’t invincible to a few sways of motion, she stood grounded helping the woman down. The captain was a lucky man to have such a jewel fawn over him.

It wasn’t too long that Yasmine found the doors of the med bay. Quickly using her hand to turn the handle and kicking it open, practically carrying her damsel.

“Doctor…”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Dwelling in the corner of the room was the Doctor. Doctor Ilya Jovanović. The most brilliant medic from Umbra. Only right now what she saw was sad. His head was deep in a bucket as the boat continued to sway. The sound of his hurling grew more grotesque with each swaying motion, and the god awful smell of his misery created an odor in the room. She almost felt sorry for how pathetic he looked. It seemed that he acknowledged their presence, but was momentarily busy with throwing up his guts.

Yasmine took the initiative to lay the woman down and look for something to clean up the wound. The woman knelt down looking through the cabinets and drawers until another sound caught her attention. It was the sound of a soft feline roar nearby. Her brow raised high as her head moved over to the cat. It’s puffy white fur well groomed and cared for. Beady eyes that stared back. Only she didn’t like that. She took offense to the creature who eyed her back.

“Who the hell are you looking at?”

---

The Inn

The woman tapped her nails vigorously against the wood of the var. Her other hand gripped the cup filled with dangerous contents of alcohol that was spiraling in her bloodstream. The aftermath of the storm was finally settling in. Light discolored bruises formed on her skin, muscles tight and stressed were now relaxed and heavy, and different parts of her body pulsated to remind her just how painful it was. What seemed to be keeping the pain low was the amount of alcohol she was drinking, and she was having her fill of it.

“More please,” she gestured to her cup after downing the last half of it.

Emerald hues watched the liquid spill carefully with her thoughts now spinning. Closing her eyes she rolled her neck back until it popped and moaned in satisfaction from the stretch. The image of the mysterious woman popped into view and when she opened her eyes she wasn’t there. A wave of disappointment filled her.

Just who was she? She was tied to the captain somehow.

A mistress perhaps? No. Not with a man like him. His true love was the ship. He was in mourning.

How infuriating it was for all these sad men to be around gorgeous women throwing themselves at them, and they choose to ignore them. A woman like Yasmine would treat them well. She would have treated them more than a lady, dame, countess, or even a Queen. She would have treated them like a fucking goddess. Oh how these kinds of thoughts could get her in trouble. Such dangerous thoughts that could turn into an unhealthy obsession.

Following the gaze of the barkeeper she gave a quick smirk their way.

“Thanks for the drink,” she winked, tipping them kindly and downing the last contents of her drink.

The time was young in a way that she wanted to get a better sense of the place. Standing up right, she began to make her way looking about. Taking in the Haven Inn as the beautiful reds continued to remind her of that woman. A woman who was as beautiful as a rose.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

VULNERABLE AS SHIT RIGHT NOW

OUTFIT

GRANNY VEST

LOCATION

ZAIRA'S INN ROOM

MENTIONS

ZAIRA

INTERACTS

peachpuff

FOR THE DEPARTED — S. JAMES.

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YOUR JOURNEY IS

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

CHAPTER THREE.

“Zaira.” The last time he used that name it was different, they both know this, but reminiscing should be left for sad poets and drunks.

A docile attempt to act as if that name is not a relief. He has not thought about his home in weeks; about who once shared the space with him, about the reasons that reduced it back to an inhabitant of One.

"You seem well too....."

Do I? He is almost prompted to rebuke, but holds his silence. Perhaps her company is enough to bring some health to the man, some color to his skin, make him look more like himself. He feels like he has missed her— a foreign nostalgia, but he also misses the chess-game of keeping their relationship a secret from the religion.

“Tried something new with my hair.” He should be able to think of a way out of this, but has nothing. Glosses that joke because he has nothing else to offer— nothing but admission: I am not well and I never will be.

Can feel the unspoken, passive, manages it, exists with the permanence of it. The aversion to even acknowledging the sickness is childish, perhaps foolish in the need to hide from it. Instead of the dying and dead he wished to focus on the living, and it was selfish for his health to haunt their conversations even now, years later. Something tightens in his chest like a spool of wire, the topic went against his entire decision to behave as he did; nobody else deserves to suffer.

Her eyes have slanted to gaze elsewhere, and in their shared silence he can tell how hard they’re both trying to coexist after the fraying of their separation. Not unreasonable nor angry, just soft understanding.

“I tried looking for you.”

You idiot. It’s frustrating that she’d tried at all, and it needles him with a phantom pain that has him turning his head away with unrest. After all they’d done and agreed on to ensure safety was paramount, to make sure she was not at risk around the Oracles and that she was the most important thing in the world to him, she confessed to the misdeed like it is nothing. Put sacrifices at risk like it is nothing.

Perhaps making someone see reason is impossible when they share different views of it.

The exasperation falls flat in the man, ingested without flinch. He’d spent years steeped in the safety of his antagonistic remarks that he forgets he is not standing in a hostile space where he must bark or bite at any extension of kindness. It is Zaira, all that recognition and familiarity, and she has never been deserving of his bad moods or juvenile deflections.

“You weren't .....where you had been staying before. I had wondered where you had moved without goodbye or if.....”

“I know.” Gentle, something in his eyes implores her not to finish that sentence. “I–” he stops, falters; she has always been able to see right through him, must remember that trying to lie will get him nowhere; honesty has not been his friend for months now.

He instead shakes his head and musters a smile, and for the first time in a long time it does not feel so hollow. Ignores the implicit for what comes after.

“Lady luck? I myself believe the stars are feeling generous with their cosmic blessings.” Tea solves much, but not the spite he will always hold for the constellations. With a theatrical bow and boyish grin he takes her extended hand. “My gracious hostess, I would not dream of refusing such an invitation. Lead me to this grand affair.”

It’s an odd feeling to have around one of your closest confidants, picking up pieces of what they left behind as if the yawn of time had not adjourned them. He accompanies her into the room by rearranging his arm to hook through hers, chain link liars.

He notes the layout of the room is much like his own, less the gathered refreshments.

“Ah, love these tasty little things.” Shortbread perched on the saucer, it is standard procedure that the sweet tooth must try one or two or three. “I always found Cascadian bakers never understood the simplicity of a nice cookie,” he is turning the treat in his fingers with subtle inspection, “always had to find a way to make it weird.”

But opinions on cookies is not why Landon is there.

Taking a seat with one leg crossed over the other, it’s the sheer existence of her presence here that makes him ask the most pressing question. He has seen those that leave the Covenant, or more accurately, seen their disappearance and heard nothing more.

“You are not wearing Covenant attire.” It’s carefully spoken, for he is not sure if he wants to hear the answer. Eyes are studious to the third sugar cube stirred into his tea, unwilling to meet her eyes on the topic. He now knows she has fled the religion, knows he must ask, is prepared to hear the worst. “Are you in danger?” It’s truly dreadful how he has always wanted Zaira safe, but even more that she has exchanged one risk for another.

At least at the side of the Oracles she could survey the hazard.

He sits back in the chair, knolls of his spine nesting into the upholstery while cold hands nurse the warmth of the teacup. The folly of the situation and reunion makes him smile behind the sweet drink, then have a quiet giggle to himself.

“It is just like old times, don’t you think? Us hiding. Drinking tea.” It feels stupid, he knows better than to reminisce, but the parallels are multiple and he can only assume every interaction with Zaira will be one of this nature.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE CAPTAIN.

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LEXIS

THE CAPTAIN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

BONDING WITH COLLEAGUE !

OUTFIT

THE ZESTY VESTY

LOCATION

HAVEN INN COMMONROOM

MENTIONS

DOLORES

INTERACTS

Nifty

FUNERAL — TIGERCUB.

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WHEN GOD TOOK

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

CHAPTER THREE.

Mister Graves.

Fitting when he can feel something curl up and die everytime he is called that. It’s a name only a stone’s throw from Mister Death, and death is not a topic he aligns comfortably with.

“Lexis is fine.” The scarce murmur meekly interjects. It always feels wholly inappropriate to voice his preference— he has no right to say what others should or should not do —and his chest feels heavy with the wrong kind of tension to dare speak his mind.

Eye contact is exchanged, societally successful, how polite of them. Four seconds truly is the ideal eye contact time, and he is glad to share this trade of attentive respect with the woman. They must be bonding. It is essential to build trustworthy connections with work colleagues to further encourage smooth operations onboard.

“I still have much to learn as the ship’s boatswain.”

“Yes.” It is not a reply intended to demean her efforts, the tune of the Captain is often out of rote, downright rude were it anyone unaccustomed to his conversational mistakes. He works best under glacial pressures, shrapnel and violence and bubbling adrenaline— not so much the chess-play of dialogue. The prey-brain that seems to operate all his behaviours does not take a backseat even now, for people are just another problem that require a solution.

There is much to learn in any position, is what he means to say. Even I do not know everything. But like always he has lost the right words, the right tone, how to communicate her perseverance through the storm was a feat in itself.

His head turns to survey Dolores. Not intrusive or judgemental, but a calm estimation of her health. She does not appear to be mortally wounded, and that is a satisfactory outcome for their current situation. Speculating she cares greatly for occupational performance, he decides to convey she did well.

“Your survival indicates competence.” How hospitable! Grown just confident enough to speak out of turn, he then decides to share he looks forward to her development at sea. “Improvement will be expected.”

How intimate he knows the change in northern cold, how disoriented he is in the mappings of social cues.

He needs to get out more.

More eye contact, but Lexis is in the throes of contemplating whether four seconds is now too long. Four seconds felt appropriate for the genesis of their exchange, but now mid-consultation, the fractured mess of his mind is scrabbling between two and four. Four? Two? Perhaps three?! Dolores makes the decision for them at an anxiously counted two.

Excellent choice.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you, sir.”

Oh no.

Oh no no. No. Let us not do that.

Rare do those that seek to speak to him, specifically him, have something good to say. It is always reports of damage, of complaints, of sailing advice, of noble introductions, of dreaded paperwork. His head turns back to the window as something cold dilutes his veins, she knows, only to simmer back to a nervous boil. The schedule. Beloved schedule. Oo. Yes. Like that. Circumvents that unease and forges on through the jagged landscape of conversation.

“The schedule.” He echoes like an afterthought, though the tone of his mutter suggests he was conversing solely with himself. “I do like the schedule.” He is quiet for an interval, lost in thought and staring at the black abyss before he halts the diversion to pivot back to the boatswain. It was rude of him to get distracted.

“I must share appreciation for your dedication to organisational planning at once, Miss Thorne.” So here he was, a blonde man sharing the culmination of said appreciation:

“It is most reliable.”

Appreciation delivered.

He’s beyond the comfort of the vessel, but that is the only way to handle this; he has always needed a goal, something attainable to work towards, and that is now concentrated on the return to the ship. It is hard to imagine what motivations he possessed before setting sail. If there was any at all, they’re all rendered irrelevant now.

“Dawn is the most we can afford. We must trust in the innkeeper to provide us with what we need before then.” It is a difficult word for them— for her: trust, he knows this and won’t demand her undying loyalty to the unknown.

“If things go awry,” the man always has his gun on him for this very purpose, “we divert the plan.” The turn of the cards held close to chest, the reveal that he does not sit passively in the uncertainty of these conditions without contingencies in place. He is sure she has felt it too, mistrust for their surroundings. It is comforting in a way, to look at someone who understands to never accept anything for what it seems.

The deadliest part is not the loud eruption of a volcano, but the aftermath of pyroclastic currents.

“I do not mean to occupy your night, but may I ask and receive your opinion?” His voice is always soft and mild, but here it seems to drop another increment.

“This location, what do you think of it? Do speak freely, profanity is acceptable in your assessment.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

ROSALINE TOUCHARD.

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ROSA

Enamored

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Hey Sexy Lady~

OUTFIT

Red Like Her Blood

LOCATION

Taproom

MENTIONS

Yasmine, Lexis

INTERACTS

Nina

TAGS

CrimsonInk sollie

PUT YOUR RECORDS ON — RITT MOMNEY.

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THINKING OF YOU

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART ONE.

Alcohol had always been liquid gold to a harlot like Rosaline. She enjoyed a drink at the parties she was taken to, letting the buzz in her veins get her through the dreadful conversations of the pretentious men and women around her. Oftentimes, she turned to drink to allow her to get through an evening, numb her muscles and her body so that she was not forced to fully experience anything, especially for the particularly undesirable clients. Of course, it also helped her sleep on nights when her thoughts kept her awake, blinking in the dark about whether she would be stuck in this life of selling herself just to survive.

Tonight, alcohol was her savior again, to help her forget how much of an ass she’d made of herself.

Perhaps it was the fact that she had been in the Sands for the past few years, or perhaps it was the fact that the idea of a storm had never quite taken amorphous shape in her mind as something that could happen. Either way, when the storm rocked the boat terribly—but she was able to move much more recklessly, and she knew this—her thoughts had immediately gone to the captain. Though there was a danger present outside, she could not would not allow the love of her life to suffer all by his lonesome out with the raging seas. Surely she could provide some comfort if this was to be the last night either of them lived. A truly awful moment to confess one’s love and perhaps, finally, bring his head to her bosom in an embrace, but romantic nonetheless.

She knew the words she had used when she went to look for him, but the memory of it stung a bit. The fact that she had been heard was perhaps the worst part, likely because she had always intended that line to be used in the privacy of the captain’s quarters and no place else. But no, she had shouted them to the winds and seas with reckless abandon, and another had heard her passionate words that she did not, in fact, get to use on the man of her dreams.

Rosaline would never complain about the company of a beautiful woman, especially the one who stopped her. What an exotic beauty she had, the kind Rosaline wished half her clients possessed. If women were more likely to visit brothels, this was the type of woman Rosaline would have gladly serviced. Of course, her desperation to find the captain and make sure he was alright distracted her usual thoughts of the sordid. Though anyone’s concern touched her, since it was uncommon for anyone to care about her in such a fashion, she had one person on her mind.

The waves had other ideas. Their ferocity bowled her over, and she hit her head. It was all quite blurry after that, but she was sure the beautiful woman took her to the medbay and tended to her wound. Rosaline was angry not at the gorgeous lady, but at herself for damaging her face. There was no way an injury like this was going to be attractive to anyone. It was going to be a frustrating few days while she healed up. Lonely, too.

She would have to thank the woman, of course, learn her name. It wouldn’t do to never repay her for the kindness shown to her, and if she was being honest, Rosaline wanted a good look at the woman again. Perhaps she could repay her the way she usually did—with a night unlike any other. When was the last time she’d been with a woman? Far too long. The other harlots in her Sirocco Sands brothels had not been the experimenting type. Or at least, most of them were. Rosaline had her ways of convincing at least one or two of them that she could take very good care of them.

Running her finger around the rim of her glass, Rosaline looked over toward the bar, immediately spotting the woman who had heroically cushioned her wounded head on her lovely breasts. Oh, yes. She was quite beautiful indeed. While her heart may have belonged to the captain, her gratitude currently owed its allegiance to the devilishly gorgeous woman across the room.

Rosaline stood, if somewhat shakily, intent on making her way over to express her thanks, however the woman accepted it. Her eyes were caught instead on another woman also partaking of the drink. There was a familiarity to her, though Rosaline couldn’t place it, but she knew that she very much enjoyed the face before her. A harlot she was indeed, for her attention—and attraction—easily leaped from person to person. Or, in this case, woman to woman.

Beautiful women were perhaps her greatest weakness besides the captain.

“Are you perhaps also drinking away the wretchedness of the storm?” she began, leaning her hip against the table. “Care to have another beauty join you? I find it much easier to delay the attentions of men if our combined beauties dazzle them too much.” Though the alcohol was coursing through her veins and making her head tingle, Rosaline was not quite bold enough yet to suggest that perhaps she sit on her lap to really sell an untouchable aura. However, she would not be opposed if things moved that way.

Perhaps the terror of the storm had been good for something after all, if it meant Rosaline successfully garnered the attention of so many lovely ladies.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

MILO STAFFORD.

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Milo

Farmboy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Zzzcow

OUTFIT

Suspender My Heart

LOCATION

Kuku's Room

MENTIONS

Ren & Brood

INTERACTS

Kuku

TAGS

Gao morcetyx

DIRT — FLORIDA GEORGIA LINE.

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IT IS ONLY

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART ONE.

Milo could feel the tired ache of his muscles and the way his feet protested moving through the inn. He had spent most of the storm trying to help out around the ship, because it didn’t feel right to sit in his cabin while others risked their lives to keep them all afloat. No self-respecting farmhand would leave the rest of the crew to flounder on their own. It wasn’t just a point of pride—it was a matter of kindness. And Milo had practiced kindness from the moment he’d come screaming into the world.

At one point, he had been distracted from his errands and making sure the crew had the sufficient help they needed by a huddle of sorts. He didn’t know the members of the group making its way messily around the ship, at least not well. Yet he was captured all the shame, and instinctively he’d wrapped his arms around the ragtag group, keeping them as steady as he could even with the desperate scrabbling of the central force of the group. If one were to ask Milo about his impressions of the group he’d been thrown into, he could not remember. There was inky hair, curly hair, and the confused expressions of some of the participants. He would have to apologize to them all later—frankly, he wasn’t convinced he hadn’t somehow fallen into them rather than being pulled. Milo was also worried about them and wanted to make sure none of them had gotten injured after he’d managed to separate.

Speaking of checking on others, that was the reason he was even still on his feet. Although he wanted to sleep for a hundred years after the hardships of the storm, his concern outweighed the fatigue. His steps were a bit stumbly, and his vision was a bit hazy, but this was important to him. He’d been this exhausted before, and yes, while it meant sleeping in the barn, it had always been important for him to check on the animals before bed. While he did not consider his friend an animal by any means (although the similarities when they had first met were uncanny), the concept was the same.

He tried his best not to ram his head into the door as he reached his destination, rubbing at his eyes while he knocked with the other hand. “Kuku,” he called. “Made it out okay?”

Nearly falling on his face, Milo yawned as he was admitted into the room, sitting down heavily on the bed with his eyes closing in a doze. “Had to… make sure you were okay…” He struggled to keep his eyes open and fixate them on his friend’s face, but it was difficult with his brain producing melatonin faster than he was willing to sleep. Milo managed to snap his eyes open briefly to add, “You… hydrated?”

Always with hydration, this one. Milo has been on Kukuvajke about hydration ever since they met. A type of threat, perhaps to others, but a sign of affection from one friend to another. But after she nearly passed out in his arms, having emerged from a crate, Milo has felt responsible. Much in the same way he would feel responsible for Bruno, the most reckless of his pirate crew, always with a daring grin on his face even as he ran into thorns. Kuku is not like Bruno, but she evokes the memories of his old friends in a way that makes him smile rather than frown.

“’m just glad… safe… Ku…” Milo cannot even finish his statement as he starts drifting into a doze, his head slumping while his body threatens to fall onto the floor.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

MADELINA VOLKOVA.

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Maddie

Decoy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

OH NO OH NO

OUTFIT

Dainty But Not Royal

LOCATION

Her Room

MENTIONS

The True Princess

INTERACTS

Tallulah

TAGS

ComplexDragon

DEAR MARIA, COUNT ME IN — ALL TIME LOW.

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A PRINCESS

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART ONE.

Madelina had expected to contract some sort of seasickness during the storm, but per the captain’s instructions, she’d confined herself to her room. Not that she was new to doing that, as she often retired early to recuperate from her attempts to socialize. It seemed to be… going well. At least, she hoped it was. Still, there hadn’t been much to report on for the princess, at least until the storm.

It was her first time on a boat in a storm, with the rolling waves rocking her constantly. Yet there was a comfort to the movements, a reassurance that she was alive. A storm such as this one, that very much endangered the lives and safety of the crew and passengers, should not have been soothing, but something about it was the least stressful aspect of her experience thus far.

Of course, there was relief to make it to shore, to safely be tucked away into a cozy inn. Madelina knew this was an opportunity to write to the princess about what had happened, perhaps her first useful report so far on this voyage. Before eating supper, she scribbled down her account of the storm—not that there was much to tell, but the state of the Leviathan would surely be of importance—and snuck outside to send it. If someone saw her, they would hopefully only suspect that she was trying to update her family on her whereabouts and safety, not that her parents knew she was currently at sea with a collective of passengers. And though the truth wasn’t terribly sinister, she did feel a bit guilty that she had not told the crew and captain of her task. Even if Princess Penelope had sworn her to secrecy.

Supper itself was very filling, and Madelina was warmed to her bones. She ate by herself, as always, but the murmurs around her kept her thoughts steady. Unlike the ship, she was not caught adrift in her loneliness tonight. There was something about this place, or perhaps it was that she was slowly beginning to recognize the people around her from her daily wanderings around the ship. Odd, that. At the palace, she had rarely ventured outside of her room, save for occasions where she was needed, so this was a welcome change. Slowly, she was building up the courage, maybe, to even converse with those around her.

Just… not yet.

Having finished her meal, Madelina daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin and returned her dishes, inclining her head and thanking the staff for the delicious food. It was too early to go to bed, but she might as well get some reading done, so she headed back to her room.

Many of the doors bore the same look, and so for the next few minutes she stared at them, fascinated. The inn was lovely, really, and she was enjoying her alone time to be able to study every aspect of it. Even when she was in the palace, she was often studying the walls and floors as if she was seeing them for the first time. Which… sometimes, she was.

What happened next was most likely a result of her distraction. She opened the door to what she thought was her room and stepped inside to find—a stranger. Her eyes widened, and her lips folded into her face at the sight of the other woman. The first thing she noticed—gorgeous hair. Madelina had never seen hair like it, and she was floored by how gorgeous she was. It was a different feeling from whenever she and the princess had shared a physical space.

Why was her heart racing so much and yet stopped all at once?

Madelina tore her gaze away from the beauty before her and stared at her feet. “I’m so sorry—I must have the wrong room. A-all the doors look very similar…” She had no way of knowing that this was her room, the stranger before her was the real intruder. All she could feel was the red-hot embarrassment of having walked into another woman’s room. Who knew what she could have interrupted? How rude was she? The princess had a right to be disappointed in her.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she could only hope the woman wouldn’t scream profanities and insults that reflected the swirling void inside her head.

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[Nifty]

THE GLADIATOR.

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Tiberius

SANCTUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Day One of Fatherhood

OUTFIT

Ragscore.

LOCATION

Common Room > Tiberius’ Inn Room

MENTIONS

Bec! Welcome Back BBY!

INTERACTS

Mypilot

Shoulders — Forrest Day

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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 Three, Part I.

As the storm sang its cacophony of thunderous downpours, his eyes drifted to a lone soul seemingly parting itself from the huddles of anxious and worried lumps of people. There sat a lonesome boy who portrayed his isolation openly. Perhaps it was his stubbornness that led him to stray far from others' touch. Another conclusion Tiberius came up with was that he was simply a tad shy. Nonetheless, an echo of his younger self began passionately chanting a melody urging him to protect the strangely identical version of his youth.

However, the act of protecting an individual who simply doesn’t want to be protected proved to be an obstacle. After making eye contact with the boy, fate and feasibly even the waves themselves toyed with that very moment as the ship lurched itself sideways, shattering any attempt Tiberius could’ve made. Like a silent whisper, the boy disappeared. As if his mind simply manifested the boy’s existence.

Or perhaps the boy was genuinely non-existent, a figment of his imagination. Instead, he witnessed his younger self amid the possibility of death, ready to reap the frightened souls on board. Every feature was the same: greasy, ebony locks, chapped lips, a lanky figure, and… olive-green eyes? No, last time he checked, his eyes were a bright shade of blue.

---

In the aftermath of a destructive tempest, the sky would often open itself up, letting mortal eyes glimpse every speck of evening stardust, the amber-painted stroke of dusk, or even the velvety turquoise gradient of dawn. The beautiful vision it unfolds is only a small reward for living through a treacherous experience. And for a man like Tiberius, there is something beautiful about that event. To bathe in that sort of beauty will make any man grateful for what they already have.

As the road to gratitude continues to be bountiful upon Tiberius’ plate, his mind remains occupied by the ghost of the young lad. Despite the storm challenging his resolve, Tiberius remained steadfast in his search for the stranger. However, a few new bruises were all he gained from his fruitless pursuit. Even after joining the search for a freshwater supply, Tiberius was almost convinced the boy was an evil spectre who haunted his guilt-ridden self for losing his childhood innocence.

It wasn’t until he finally saw the phantom again in the flesh. When it was time to leave the ship and go on the path to the promised Inn, he saw the proof of his slowly faulting belief. He had to rub his eyes to ensure the sight wasn’t an illusion. When he approached the individual, he simply introduced himself by name and took a final glance at the ensemble. At that moment, he realised that the boy may just be a runaway. With a sympathetic pang from his chest, he knew what he had to do.

Through him, he gave the bird boy a choice: Follow the rest of the group or be left alone in the Leviathan.

And so, at this very moment, he has found himself stealthily operating on a brand new mission: to feed the skinny person patiently sitting in his room and to make sure no one suspects him of harbouring a runaway. And if his intentions were to be uncovered, surely he could appeal to their sympathetic side and see through his honest and noble objective.

Amber lights illuminated the maroon carpet as the giant navigated around the hallways. Neutral shades adorn his muscular build. The rough textures that line his clothing bring him slightly closer to home. If he tried to look hard enough with a magnifying glass, he might find a speck of dust from Siroc. And if he could, he would oddly hold it hostage inside a small jar. But that is completely and utterly irrelevant. Before entering the Common Room, he instinctively dusted himself off and made himself look presentable with his rags and ripped clothing embellishments.

Soon, his sapphire eyes met the sight of this evening’s supper. He amiably greeted those nearest to him. As the chatter surrounded him, he eventually joined in and contributed a few words. He filled two plates with mashed potatoes with gravy, chicken thighs, and a few veggies on the side.

With a satisfied grin, he delightfully excused himself and began his journey back to his assigned room.

“I do hope he’s still there when I get back.” He voiced his blind optimism loudly. Almost echoing along the long hallway where the rooms were located. And if the strange boy did choose to run away, the gladiator would simply understand and hold no grudge. After all, he was once an impoverished child, and for someone who was raised through cruelty, trust and the simple principle of vulnerability became a rare commodity.

As the echoes of his own footsteps reverberated through the timber hallway, a crawling anxiety within him began to arise. What if he came on too intimidating for the young boy? What if something terrible happened to him while he was gone? Does he know the type of man Tiberius is, like the horrid things he has done in that godforsaken arena? With that last thought in mind, he mentally prepared himself for a proper conversation with the boy.

“Oh!” A surprised gasp escaped him as he swung the door open; he saw his familiar tousled sable mane. “Hello again. Glad to see you’re still here.” He admitted honestly. Tiberius couldn’t help but hold back his smile as he presented the platter of food on both palms. The gladiator then laid one of the two platters before the boy—a healthy meal for a growing boy, as his non-existent momma used to say.

“I brought you food, as promised. Here, eat up. Be sure to eat your veggies, too.” And with a small glimpse of his sincere smile, he hopes to have gotten his message across to the poor boy.

You will be safe here. And god forbid anyone who comes to you with cruel intentions.

Between him and the boy, an invisible silver mirror stood. Whereas the strange boy sees a towering man with a goliath’s build, Tiberius, on the other hand, considers him as a miniature and petrified version of his younger self. In his mind, there is a simple concept he vows to follow. Protect and be kind to those in need, and when he gazes upon the boy’s lithe and slightly malnourished body, all he feels is simply pity and the overwhelming urge to take him under his wing. He merely wants the apparent runaway to remain safe for what it was worth. And perhaps even share his hopeful views about the world.

Tiberius sat on a spare chair that provided enough distance between them, ensuring the boy felt safe. And if he so chooses to sprint out of the room with the food he has been given, he would be free to do so. The mechanical cogs that turn behind a poverty-stricken child’s mind are something Tiberius knows all too well. After all, it would’ve been something his younger self would’ve done. But seeing as the boy was still in front of him, a smile slowly stretched upon his lips.

“Sooooo, do you mind sharing your name with me?”

Amidst that singular inquiry, he would like answers to a mountain of questions. Such as: Where did you come from? Do you have any other friends with you? What’s your last name? Do you like bread? Would you like some bread? With honey and butter, perhaps? CAN I ADOPT YOU!?

But for now, that single one will suffice.

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[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

I WILL CHARM YOU OOO CHARM

OUTFIT

SNEEKi SLEEKi

LOCATION

HAVEN INN BEDROOM

MENTIONS

DOLORES.

INTERACTS

Pepsionne

RUN BOY RUN — WOODKID.

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HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER THREE.

Funai Ren.

Truths always arrive easier in the shadows, and the stranger shrouded in a plume of spectral ash splits the thief’s aperture of uneasiness and dismissiveness into the cold acceptance of an omen. All the dishonesty and denial that once pinched inside now splinters and skewers skin, the kind of dread that dawns with crushing insurgence.

He feels it, pales to the affliction that slates his sun-warm skin with ice. Makes him glacial, statuesque, and resonates what is meant even in the gentle temperament of the stranger’s voice. The Leviathan is not a ship anymore, but the mythic grandeur of a killer, a hollow-cheeked hyena that looks at him not like a challenge, not as a threat or taunt: but with the smile of inevitability.

Ren’s stand from the floor is slow, a man to the gallows would have the same confidence, and over the pummelling pulse he only hears the remainder of their introduction in echoes, beneath the rhythm of his kiln heart and bruising ribs. He has expected this for so long that he’d brushed the threat aside as fable, forgets the language they speak is now real words and not just hushed whispers and warnings from acquaintances.

It was only a matter of time before The Doctor found him, before all the roaming and meteor trail of trouble served insufficient coverage. There are only so many lies, so many people to cross back on, so much running one can do without drawing attention. As it stands in the room of two men who are more shadow than bone, Ren appears to have discovered that limit.

The footsteps are like the cracked mandible of songbirds, feathers between teeth and wings snapped from the humerus. Thinks of them crunching between blunt wisdoms, gnashing down to marrow and wiping red across the mouth. It takes mettle to stare back at Magnus as their shadow splays across the doorway, but Ren has always been good at playing pretend.

Maybe he is damned, maybe part of him knows he deserves it. Maybe his eyes are searching for something in them that could be mercy, something that isn’t drowning apathy. Could ask for clemency but know it will be answered in violence.

“I did what I had to.” He is childish enough to think that admission will save him. Words are rendered obsolete, but it is said grief is love that was never given, and in some convoluted way this is the only raw and unbearable way to admit he is not ready to go.

“I’m not a bad person,” his small voice shakes, catches, can no more cover it like a flame in draft. “I swear I try to do good, I–” It’s a more sensitive plea than intended, and he is not sure who he’s trying to convince: Magnus or himself. Foolish to think hunters concern themselves with the gray-matter intricacies of good and evil instead of the weight of a body and corresponding coin purse. He can almost marvel at how problems outside this room seem to split apart, demean and dissolve into foam and salt crust.

Almost, not quite. He’d been worried about Dolores, about his mom, about drowning; now he feels like he is wading in water and his throat is crushed by the relentless flow. What air he does think is saturating his lungs now aches with regret. Bites down hard on the inside of his mouth to feel a run of copper but knows any excuse he can come up with is drowned in pressing truth:

“You don’t care about that.” An indignant tilt of the head because a bounty-hunter's fascination won’t save him. There is no levity here, and the defeat in his voice is tinged with the oath of a catacomb. Tension twitches along the blade of his jaw, and it has been long enough for Ren to lick his wounds. He is not quite ready to become introspective on his list of mistakes: that’s what eulogies are for.

Something recoils each time their blade refracts light off its smooth plane, but it is not death— not yet. What he feels is that regret, turning opportunities like kernels in his palm. Lives he could have had, almost had, visions that weigh heavy as lead. He could fight, at least try, but he likes options. Run, hide, fake; the unwavering cycle that has always given him the freedom to rebuild his sense of self.

“I’m flattered by your efforts, really. It’s just–“ fingernails uncurl from the meat of his bleeding palms, “difficult to converse with your handsome face when you’re waving around a knife.” To be cooperative rather than antagonistic even when every atom screams to back away further, he decides he can play bets with death, dare the man to take him before he has committed his objective fully to heart.

With an airy lightness he moves away from the drawer. Not towards Magnus and the route of escape, but a carefree pace that has him slowly stepping a wide arc around the hunter. He can feel every tendon wound taut with preparation to move.

“Listen, Doctor, Doc– can I just call you Mags?” Ren invites himself to the nickname, trying to schmooze himself into the man’s good graces with establishing friendship. “I’m a reasonable guy.” He was the least reasonable person to step off that ship. “How much is the Baron paying? I’ll double it– no,” a hand shoots up with an excited gesture to wait, “triple it!”

Nevermind that he is dirt poor, he can figure out the logistics later (also known as lying and running away the moment he is given an inch of freedom). The fact he has ambition to buy more time is naïve, really, but wistful Ren is willing to hold onto anything if there is even a blip of hope.

♡coded by uxie♡