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Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

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Gao

Gao

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IN-CHARACTER

THE PROLOGUE

ROGUE WAVES
YOU BOARD THE LEVIATHAN.
THE PROLOGUE.
The air has shifted, and threats like these do not arrive with just a whisper— not that there was any coy attempt to hide it, either.
From the shores of Zenith to the seedy alleys of Antares, word has carried, but unease in the mind can bring spoil to one’s palate. The Oracles sit intangible with their otherworldly silence, the Baron is a mythic blaze in the smoky dark, and wariness is dipping in and out of criminal eyes like a cautious pendulum.
In the rising crescendo, Zenith streets are akin to rabbits in briar, a sea of movement roiling beneath decorations that are ribboned between aching beams. Celebration is swift and so too are the merchants, bartering their wares of Cascade gemstones and Sirocco metals down cobbled streets. They haggle compliments and lies to both locals and travellers, and remain blissfully ignorant to how clandestine hands swipe from behind the periphery.
But even the finest of nobles have not adhered to civil expectations, in the midday sun, plumed feather fans conceal flasks and rose-crushed faces, corsets strained to a rib splinter, gaudy jewels heavy to the slope of their necks. It may be only noon, but it is easy to envision what is fated to unravel once the hull of the ship breaks from port. Caterwauling drunks and revelry to be heard across saltwater tides in glory of their sovereign’s new vessel.
Sight of The Leviathan disproves whisper and rumour, an apparition that manifests into something real. Idling at port awaits the eye of the storm, the very lodestone this maelstrom of carousing encircles. And haunting the same port are those that are not just sightseers, those that are to be captained, passengers and crew; fates lure them with promise of intentional prestige or blind consequence. That is the true Damocles sword primed for their necks, that they may board with indifference, may go in willingly with soft underbelly and readied jugular, may go in flightless and bird boned or iron-wrought and steeled with apathy.
The Leviathan is a cage of its own making, but one may just find revelations in her shadows.
{IN-CHARACTER}
night owl
 








You were three in your first memory, a bare scrap of a child made of nothing more than your caretaker’s smoke and ash. You smelt of spice, like everyone in Kestyr, but even that couldn’t undo the three years of dirt built right into the grain of your skin. You remember your caretaker’s hands, knobby with age, as she pressed stale bread into your hands and showed you how to split it. You remember those same hands with red knuckles raw from your cheek, split skin and flowering bruises. You think of how something can be two things at once: life giving, soul breaking. Blood dripping to the floor to join flakes of bread crust, unswept debris, and dust.

The home was a simple one, little more than four walls and a splintering floor. Your bed was a bundle of blankets next to her cot, but you had the privilege of being closest to the stove so long as you remembered to keep it fed through the winter nights and did not wake her. Little hands dragging the cracked and splintering wood to the furnace, finger pads burned raw from how many times you touched the too-hot iron.

You were eight when the matron died, rotting right there in her bed. She looked no different than in life, just as sallow and sharp-edged. Perhaps she had taken you in expecting you would care for her in this, the final vestiges of her life, but you were too small and unwilling to move the body, and you did not know what to do with it. Kestyr was your home, your birthplace, but you were yet still an outsider to its customs with no one to teach you.

The home was yours, technically, but only for a time. Eventually the smell of rot would draw the neighbors in, though they had long known the matron was in her old age and had been waiting on the edge of the stage for their chance to scavenge for parts. You do not blame them, but you almost pity them for there is nothing to take. Even the rats do not waste time to come here.

You leave the home, take to Kestyr proper. You are old enough to know what your people do, where the heady smell of seasoning and spice comes from. The people knew you, you who had ran to the markets in the fog-grey evening with a coin or two pressed into your dirty palm, mind set on your task and quick-tongue ready to bargain for what your matron needed and maybe yet still pocket a copper for yourself too. This is what allows you some small kindness from your community, rather than the hard-eyed look of distaste that gets served to those few outsiders who bother to visit.

Now you are coinless, hungry. You remember where quick feet and quicker hands can take you in Kestyr, how the fog can be an ally and not the call to home. You navigate the streets, eyes sharp as your hunger, and follow the swirling air currents to the market to filch dropped coins and scraps of food. You do not correct them when they call you Boy, and you do not think of what it means to have a name. The mist is only called what it is, too.

Your home becomes many things instead of one. You sleep in the curbed boughs of a tree in the thick forest that presses threateningly against the town, branches as knobby and familiar as your matrons’ hands. You find rest too in the rooftop of a local baker, the smell of bread infused with herbs and seeds drifting up through to you in the hands of the mists, but you are used to the smell of food and flavour and it does not make you hungry any more than you already are.

You are ten when you beg a job at a farm, let your fingers get stained red from tugging peppers off stems and drying, grinding, and feeding the powder into cloth bags. Your nails are no longer brown with dirt, but are constantly maroon in colour and you try not to think of the blood it reminds you of. Your feet grow calloused from running down dirt paths, back and forth from farm to cart, from cart to silo, from silo to docks. More people in Kestyr know you now, some tradespeople bothering to teach you their language to make the work a little easier on both your parts. Kestyr’s strange tongue mingles with that common one, and the words get mixed in your mind. You are made stranger when you speak, and so you try not to speak at all.

Your body adapts, ages, and you take to loose clothing. Your limbs grow sinewy muscle from the work, but near-starvation keeps you thin—spiced bread can only provide so much. The mists are yours now; you ignore the bells and whistles of your people as they call to each other for ease. You do not need this, you are half mist yourself now.

You are sixteen when you name yourself. It is a short, clipped word, as harsh as frog song in the night. You squawk it at the birds who beg seeds from you, and when you comply to their ask you are pleased when they bring you bits of string, lost beads, and other scraps as gifts in return.

This same year you lose your eye, and you think if you had cowed a little deeper and flinched a little harder, that perhaps you would have been spared. You wonder at the nature of those who prowl the river looking for an easy target. You wonder if you will ever stop being an easy target.

Time peels away from you, and you find that Kestyr does not change. Has not in all your life, for its people are hewn from forest and dirt, and you are like them too. You marvel at how similar you are to them, how despite being spat out into living with nothing to hold on to, you have eked out life in droplets. You marvel at how this does not make you family with anyone. Known, tolerated, but not loved.

You are twenty-two when the whisper comes, catching you at the docks when you look at the water a little too long. Other speaks to Other, tugging back the strip of ether that divides you from divinity simply to speak. A voice, a whisper, some god-thing clinging to your ear. You will go to Zenith, you will board the Leviathan, you will-

Purpose fills you, where before there had only been the swirling mists of nothingness. You feel unwoven and remade, an itch in your skin. You look at the people of Kestyr and think how odd it is you had ever thought you were like them. That they were like you, boy of earned nothingness, creature of kept secrets. The shadow is never like the sun-touched object it is born from.

It is but a few months later when you are in Zenith, where you watch the ship come into its final flush of life. You observe it from afar like caiman in the water, waiting for opportunity. Your fingers itch at your side, twitching along with the irreverent tick of second after second. You are Bec. Boy. Beast.

You have never been more certain.

At night you dream of wood soaked with sea salt and brine, of swords dripping with blood and a man whose face you cannot see. The dreams are laced with a sadness you have never felt, emotions that have never punctured the thick layer of apathy you have always known. In your dreams, you are not sure you are you or instead that god-thing crawling like a spider in your veins, your heart, your soul.

The journey is not something Bec could have anticipated. Every change of scenery showed him new things, conjured new experiences. He felt alien and alone, more so than normal, and thought he perhaps was the first person to miss Kestyr since it’s very creation.

Zenith was unlike anything Bec could have imagined, its streets refined and wide. How many lives could such a place hold? All the spice of Kestyr could not fill Zenith up, not if he worked every day for the rest of his life. The overwhelming urge to hide, to find some tree to take shelter in, almost leaves him cowed. Only the whisper, as tender as a lick behind the ear, keeps him moving forward one uneager step at a time.

And then he sees divinity.

The rivers winding to Kestyr like a crooked finger are nothing compared to this, the full breadth of the sea stretching outward like a yawning mouth. He has not seen but the first arching fingernail of its horizon before he is bounding through the street, startling fair ladies and grumbling men alike in his eagerness. He bursts onto a lookout overhang, his bare feet catching him before he tumbles into the stone wall that protects from just this thing. The masonry is sun-warmed against his skin, and he presses his palms flat against the barrier to lean forward and stare out at that twinkling blue eternity.

There is no one there to see him, but even if there was it would not stop what he does next. Bec draws one leg up onto the wall and then the next, crawling like a child to stand atop it for a brief dizzying moment before he lowers himself. The way down is long and daring, and Bec wonders if it would hurt to leap like a fish into the depths below. In his minds eye, he seem the splash as something spectacular, and then he is in the embrace of the sea.

Bec finds the stairs that lead the way from the overlook, and navigates the city like a lost ghost to find his way back to the sea. Zenith’s docks unspool before him languidly, like a stretching cat, and here where the workers are as covered in grime and dirt as he is Bec feels less noticeable. He meanders to the docks at an unhurried pace, finds some small unused portion where people don’t buzz about like flies.

Bec perches like a gull on the dock, hanging over the side of the old, damp wood to peer into the waves below. His pockets will soon be heavy with filched goods, little bits and trinkets to see him through to boarding. Bec hasn’t worked out how he will board the ship yet, but he knows some small secret way will alight itself before him ready for the taking. There is no rush, and so he enjoys the waves. The sun hits the water at an angle where he cannot see his own reflection, and the world looks beautiful when he pretends he is not in it.







the urchin



bec.








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♡coded by uxie♡
 
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In a home of politics and poise, Antarin knows he must pay swift attention at all times. Lord Estor is not a cruel man, but his expectations have always been precise and cutting. Failure is not something Antarin can afford—not even in childhood. He is the eldest son and two years older than his brothers, the twins, and that position puts him in constant motion, tugged along by responsibility and obligation.

Antarin remembers the change from being a carefree child to the heir, that young year his father decides it is time his son takes on a formal role in caring for his growing education, skill development, and progress in society. Adaption is a solution Antarin knows well, and he does it eagerly—for his father’s pride is something he reaches for ceaselessly.

One some summer day thick with heat, his mother smoothes his hair back behind his ears and says,
“Remember not to work yourself too hard.”
Even so early in life, her eyes look tired, dark brown rimmed with fatigue. Despite this, her face is soft and youthful, as arresting as her faith that’s buried like a sword deep in her heart.

Antarin is ten, juggling lessons and exercises that leave him weary in mind and body, and too distracted to wonder if she means more than these small things.
“Yes, mother.”
The words are an inattentive agreement, and he does not see the crease in her brow with his eyes buried in texts.

You remember the first time you held a crown-forged sword, how right it felt slotted into the palm of your hand. You were the very image of your father, and your mother had looked at you with that sweet quiet pride of hers, always laced with worry that was not quite hidden.

The night air twinkles with stars, Lady Estor’s gathering in full swing. Somewhere Antarin hears the echoing laugh of his brothers, those two hunting like wolves looking for someone to dance the entire night with. They are dressed smartly, twin bodies in matching blue suits and dark short hair curled in styles that are similar but with the curls facing in opposite directions. It is an effect that has all the mothers of the court smiling with pleasure as they push their young towards them.

Antarin is nineteen, in the full flush of strength. This is his final night before becoming a guardsman, before he is protecting these people instead of standing alongside them. There is a small, secret relief in this, because Antarin has always felt like a fool when in fine dress, and he is eager to wear a uniform that will mark him as one of many. He can pretend with the best of them, be the heir his father wants, but this will be his.

“Faring well, young Antarin?”


The voice is some lord Antarin cannot remember the name of, though he knows he should. This one is the head of a house that deals in trade to the southern territories, sending boats packed with weapons down the sea and rivers and receiving valuable ores and gold in return. It is a lucrative business, and it is built on the backs of those living in the territories these minerals are stripped from.

“Yes, thank you,”
Antarin replies with a polite bow,
“I hope you are finding tonight’s event enjoyable?”
He stands upright and looks somewhere above the man’s eyebrow rather than make direct eye contact. Distinctly, Antarin is too aware of his father’s keen observance burning even from across the room, hot as an iron.

“Of course. Your mother does know how to host.”
The man laughs a rich, belly laugh. Antarin contemplates how all the noblemen manage to laugh the same, how they must practice this before taking over their estates.
“Have you received your destination yet? Why, my own child was sent…”


The words fade out, Antarin losing interest he barely had to begin with as he listens to a monologue about the wonders of this lord’s children. How grand, how marvelous, how better they are than Antarin—worded in the politest of phrasing. The soliloquy would be lost on even the most stalwart of listeners, but Tarin is only just a man and cannot muster the energy to remain focused.

It is remarkable how much time is wasted on these events. What is marketed as a venue for good relations and civil fun is instead ruled by underhanded compliments and pressing inquiries into personal failings. Antarin envies his father in this skill most of all, the ability to work these people with such an innocuous air as to curry favour, rebuff insult, and slowly climb the ranks. How quickly will Antarin ruin the tower Lord Estor has built for them? How quickly will Antarin bring shame to the family name? He imagines his failure in every colour and shape it will take, how shame will taste on his tongue as heavy as blood.

“Do you agree?”
The words draw Antarin back from his roiling thoughts, and Antarin smiles politely and tries to imagine what his father would say.

The night was ink-black when you killed your first man, blood nothing more than some wet thing slick on your hands. On this night, you are not Antarin Estor, for it is not Antarin Estor who bares his teeth like a dog and swings the sword with enough force to cleave a man in two. The smiling firstborn son of Lord Ester has left you while you squeeze the air out of another’s lungs, while you pin someone down to the ground legs on either side one hand netted in hair blade swinging swinging struck-

The castle is refined, elegant, a beacon to everything Zenith stands for. Antarin resists the urge to rub at his wrists, feeling imaginary dirt marking him as dirty and ruined. He eyes the guards flanking the length of the hall, each imposing and defined only by eyes buried in the dark of their helms. Have they known killing as Antarin has? Do they too feel like they walk on sacred ground with muddied feet? Or are they trophies only, men decorated in silver and gold without the iron hewn in from experience?

The king is in his private chambers and Antarin wonders if this was intentional, to shake him and put him on the wrong foot. It isn’t their first time meeting, but it is the first private one. Something arranged by Antarin’s father, something that makes dread coil like a dying thing low in his gut. He hasn’t done wrong, he knows he hasn’t. He has only done what they asked of him, and isn’t that enough?

And the king is standing there, looking the same as before, but he is seemingly wearier than Tarin recalls. The weight of a nation, or the burden of tending to a wife who is not recovering fast enough?

Antarin is told to sit and made to listen. The king’s words are spoken evenly, not without kindness. As he continues on, Antarin feels pressure stretch like a rash across his chest, feels it seep skin-deep and knock against bone and marrow. The king’s request is an honour, yes, of course. It is the cumulation of everything his father has worked for, everything Antarin has done. If the king wishes him as his ambassador, he would be a fool to refuse.

But doubt creeps in.

It lands like a rock in the pool of confidence Antarin has been cultivating, cleaves him in two and leaves fissures running deep. Training more than anything gives Antarin the words to thank the king with a bright smile, to accept the offer with practiced decorum, to receive the king’s generosity and leave the room standing straight-backed. This training becomes new mettle, becomes the foundation with which he will build this new version of himself. He has never been anything without some burden to ground him, and Antarin thinks he is simply changing the size of the weight.

Your father would weep if he knew. Cold sweat clinging to your back, uncertainty making your fists slack. What was once a spine made straight with justified duty is now whittled away, devouring failure carved into muscle and sinew like a curse. Your father’s image haunts you as you stand there, hands trembling, as you try to ignore the horror of what you have done. Killing men on a field was kinder than this, denying these people what they need to survive. Who are you to stand in their way? Oh, how they must hate you. Disgust rules you like a god.

The ship is poised and ready for sail—an effigy to Zenith, something so beautiful it should be prayed to on hands and knees. Antarin feels awe at its resplendent sight, as well as that familiar, cold string of hesitation that has become more familiar than his own family. It is a known ache, and therefore in this moment easily ignored. Antarin hopes this ship will bring him stability, will assuage everything…everything that has unfurled wretchedly in his heart. There is comfort in a new chapter such as this, the kind that cannot be fully eclipsed by his constant unease that it should not be him that stands here.

Antarin turns, the sun warm on his cheek, and studies the harbor. Across the floating city of boats life is buzzing fruitfully. He watches sailors dredge up anchor, haul crates to and fro, and call in loud throaty voices to each other from across the water. There is pleasure in sailing, something Antarin has always enjoyed, and for a brief startling moment he feels a sense of clarity and peace.

His mother waits behind him, hands folded neatly before her.
“What do you think?”
she asks, only when she is sure he’s looked his fill.

Antarin does not speak immediately, mulling the question over. There are so many ways with which to answer that, and he chooses the simplest.
“It’s impressive. The King must be proud.”
He turned to face her, no longer blinking away the sunlight, and finds her smiling at him.

“I am proud, too, Antarin.”
She reaches her hand out and Antarin steps forward to take it, squeezing it before letting go. She continues, leaning forward to whisper,
“Of you.”


Antarin smiles and worries for a moment that it doesn’t reach his eyes, but she looks pleased, and he is warmed by her happiness.
“I am sure father is eager to see its exodus. He’s waited some time for this.”
He drafts this sentence carefully, unwilling to meet his mother’s gaze and reveal something he’d rather keep to himself.

Lady Estor sighs, so softly it might be an exhale.
“Oh, I imagine he is.”
She raises a hand to cover her eyes, squinting up at the ship.
“He might as well have built it himself, what with how he boasts its sailing prowess.”
She sounds exasperated more than anything, as if she has heard nothing but in the months since it was announced. She does not lead up to the blow before she asks it, the words sliding out as casual as she can make them.
“Will you visit? Before you go?”


It is hard to resist the urge to tense, like warding off a flinch. He presses his lips together, breathes, and answers in a calm voice.
“Perhaps, if I have time. There is much to do before we depart.”
It is not a real answer, but his mother allows him the kindness of pretending it is.

“Come,”
she says, laying a small hand on his arm,
“let us get out of this heat. We can have tea, like before.”


Antarin hesitates, and he knows this second of pause hurts her. He atones for this by nodding agreement.
“Of course, I’d like that.”


Every action feels like a chess piece sliding across a board, even with something so slight as a conversation with his loving mother. Antarin feels guilt for approaching such an innocent talk with the same overthought as a diplomatic meeting, and he cannot help but hope things will be different over the months to come as he settles into this new role. As before, he will draw strength from the surety of each day as they come, and the rest will follow. One step, then the next. That is all.







the ambassador



ANTARIN.








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♡coded by uxie♡
 
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  • XI.
    the soothsayer





    armağan "kader" kaplan.
    mood
    anxious

    location
    The Cascades

    interactions
    N/A

    tags
    N/A





designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ
 




Luc posts.jpg

The Gemini

Luc
Cardin

The moment was more than he could ever have asked for. Her embrace carried the warmth of the sun and her touch sent electricity crackling down his spine and then out through the rest of his body. There was a peace that came in the kiss the shared; a desire satisfied, a longing fed, a void filled. All happiness he had previously experienced felt like the bitter taste of dry leaves compared to this - this was bliss and every part of him wanted to stay in the moment. He no longer cared that he was a secret - if this is what being her secret meant, he would happily be her secret forever. The very lights dimmed without needing to be touched, as if they had gained a temporary sentience.
He opened his eyes that he may take in her face that was oh so close to is, wishing to capture every inch of it and save it in his memory forever. But, despite her fairness, her face wasn't the first thing his eyes saw when they opened - it was a shadow.
Standing in the crack of the doorway - the doorway he had sworn he closed - there was a shadow. He wanted to pretend that he had seen nothing, he didn't want to worry about what the shadow was or what it was doing there. But then the shadow made eye contact with him and grinned. The grin was evil, sinister. If it could be compared to anything, it was much like a predator knowing it had caught its prey. The shadow ran and Luc's reflexes and survival instincts sent him out the door after it. The shadow was fast but Luc was faster, catching up to the shadow and tackling it into a, thankfully, empty classroom.
The two wrestled, the shadow trying to kick and punch and push Luc away but Luc, unrelenting, fighting back to keep the shadow from running again. At some point, it is unclear when Luc's vision was tainted red. He could feel his blood running hot within him and his heart hammered ruthlessly against his chest, each heartbeat as loud in his ear as the cannon on a fearsome ship. Luc didn't know when or how, but a large book found its way into his hands. With a cry, he brought the book down on the shadow's head.
The first strike.
The wind was knocked out of the shadow and it fell to the ground. Luc wasted no time in getting on top of it, pinning it to the ground using his knees. With the shadow finally, relatively, still beneath him, Luc could make out the face and noticed it was one of his classmates, Gallin. Gallin tried saying something, but there was no time. Luc had already brought his hands back over his head and brough the book back down on Gallin's skull.
The second strike.
A sickening sound indicated that something in Gallin had broken, but something had broken in Luc as well. "Luc wait! I wasn't going to say anything! I wasn't going to tell anyone! You can trust me! You know me!" Gallin cried, but Luc heard nothing. The words were muffled as if Luc was under water and Gallin was trying to call to him. Luc's hands came up once more, crashing down on Gallin's head with ferocity.
The third strike.
The fourth strike...the fifth...the sixth. At some point, the strikes lost their number and Luc had lost himself to a pure need to survive. Just before the life left Gallin's body, his face warped and contorted, turning into Luc's face. There was a pause, but the book came down nonetheless.
Then darkness.
His eyes opened to the stars above him, his clothes soaked in a cold sweat. His eyes darted round, taking in everything around him. He was no longer back in The Cascades, this was Zenith now. He was on a quiet roof. His notepad was beside him, blown to a blank page by the wind. His breathing was rapid and uneven, but eventually stablised. He sighed as he sat up, slowly regaining his bearings. He picked up his notepad and closed it, sliding it into an available pocket. The dreams haven't been that vivid for a long time. Perhaps it's the nerves that come with boarding The Leviathan tomorrow. Perhaps it is because this was the anniversary of him taking the name Gallin Forestson. The reason was unknown to him, but it didn't matter. He often thought back to that moment, even when he wasn't dreaming. To be honest, he couldn't even remember if Gallin had actually said those words or if that was just his conscience betraying him. "It doesn't matter. Even if he said them, I couldn't trust him. I did what I had to. I did nothing wrong," Luc mumbled to himself, much like he was trying to convince himself. It wasn't the first time he had to tell himself such things to give himself some peace. But with each time he had to say it, it sounded less and less true and brought less and less peace.
With a huff, he pushed himself off the floor and began making his way back down to street level. He was done sleeping for the night. It was time to prepare for the journey. Hopefully burying himself in planning and preparing for the biggest adventure of his life would provide sufficient distraction from the horror he had just woken up from.

Mentions: N/A

 
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DEVANA ACINDIUS ─ THE SHACKLED
tags: n/a ; location: n/a
interactions: n/a;


She could feel the servant behind her trembling ever so slightly. Shaking hands and combing through her mess of curls with the utmost care. Void-like eyes met lovely greens for a brief second. The woman seated admired them in the soft glow of the candlelight. Her love for precious gemstones kept her gaze focused, and the two of them locked in a staring contest before the emeralds disappeared behind pale lids. A grin appeared behind her fanged mask. She dropped her gaze, instead looking at her own visage. The girl could be no other than could be no older than ten and seven. She was new, unaccustomed to the ways of her mistress and her family, though she had heard the stories.

The silence around them stretched as she lost herself in thought. The invitation had made it to her safely. However, the messenger had an entirely different story. He had arrived at the entrance to their estate—or rather, whatever had taken his form had arrived with the letter in tow. There was no way of knowing what happened to the body, and she could only hope that the animals had gotten to him first before they snatched his form. Despite what some were led to believe, the Acindius Clan were more than brutes. The king’s invitation to board his newest ship had been nothing but thinly veiled threats and strong arming.

Nevertheless, her family had decided that the invitation called for a celebration. Oh they would send off their heir and she would go quietly even. Before long it would come to be known that the king’s subjects were trapped on a ship with her, rather than the other way around. The night before her journey had been quite a revel. They had taken to the forest in a frenzy. Screams, howls, and cackles filled the night air, traveling far off into the wilderness and inviting more to join in their celebration. She had noticed how their numbers grew and the forms that crept from behind the trees. Together they schemed and plotted within the forest of their ancient home.




coded by archangel_
 
MOOD:
Stoic, curious, resolved

LOCATION:
Zenith
OUTFIT:
MENTIONS:

the huntsman
magnus
The streets of Zenith were home to a great many things. Among them; bustling, chaotic life, passionate love, and of course--the cold grasp of death. As his boots thumped against damp cobblestone, Magnus liked to think of himself as an embodiment of the very death that stalked such dark areas of the city. A shadow of a man, wearing the expression of apathy on his face like a mask.

“Please, please,” A strangled voice clawed its way out of a rapidly closing throat. The man that kneeled before him swallowed harshly. It was an audible gulp, one that echoed off shallow puddles that pooled on the cobblestone at their feet. His hands held a tremble that was saved for a very particular kind of fear, the kind that sends such a viscous dread into the pit of your stomach, it might as well have been tar.

“I--I have a family, I have kids. They can’t survive without me. If you kill me they’ll be no better off than orphans.” Tears streaked down dirt smudged cheeks.

Magnus looked down at the man, lips tugged into a straight line. In the darkness of the alley, grey irises turned into a syrupy black, swallowing his pupils whole until all that was left was a placid pool of onyx staring back.

A sharp thwip singed through the air in a fluid movement. The man’s eyes widened, mouth opening to protest--but the only sound that came out was the wet choke stemming from a slashed throat.

“They’ll still have their mother,” Magnus stated, his tone flat and matter of fact. “Being an orphan is much worse.” The dull shuffle of a body slumping to the ground reverberated through the alleyway after and then--silence.

The embodiment of death. What a fitting notion. His eyes followed the movement of his sword as he flicked his wrist to the side with a sharpness befitting such a deadly blade. The blood that had made its home on the steel edge now mingled with the puddled water below.

The man’s body twitched once, twice, spilling whatever was left of its life onto the cold street. Zenith continued bustling around them with the same apathy towards the loss of life as the man who had dealt it from his own hand.

“That’s a good boy,” Celine’s voice cooed in the recesses of his mind. Magnus’ expression twitched momentarily before he stifled the emotion. He had hoped the years apart from her would dilute the stench of her training, but like the obedient dog he was, her voice always rang in praise each time he fulfilled the role she had conditioned him for. It was as if every kill by his hands was ordered from her directly.

He gave a sigh, eyes drifting upward to take in the pale light of the moon that peeked from the closely packed buildings. The huntsman pushed backward to lean against the cold wall behind him before fishing around for a cigarette and match from his pocket. The burning end cast an orange glow far too soft for the severe lines etched upon his face. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and the caress was gone, replaced by the much more fitting cut of shadow instead.

Magnus exhaled, heavy brow furrowed. The blood from the man below him looked black in the moonlight. It inched forward, puddle ever growing, towards the toe of his boot. Like it was reaching out for him. Look at me. Look at what you’ve done to me. This blood is yours. This blood is yours. Take it.

He took another drag and slid his foot backward, loose pebbles groaning from the movement. Smoke curled from his nostrils as he examined the corpse. There was a time when this sight would’ve had him doubled over in nausea, fear taking the steadiness from his limbs. Now, it only made him sigh. The mess wasn’t even worth the bounty on the man’s head.

Magnus flicked the end of his cigarette onto the ground. The hard toe of his boot snuffed out the still burning ember, causing it to emit a wet, pathetic hiss. The office wouldn’t be open for several hours yet, and the longer he loitered here the higher the chance of someone stumbling upon such a gruesome scene.

Haste lined his movements while the bounty hunter worked. Deft fingers moved with an almost mechanical precision, like each digit was tethered to an invisible string that tugged him along. Although it was his hometown, Magnus didn’t like staying in Zenith for long. The ambient sounds, the smells, they all carried with them the ghost of memories from a life he had long since left behind him. If he let himself drift far away enough, he could still hear the way a certain name rang out through the rat infested streets. A name he swore he’d never hear uttered from another’s lips again. Not towards him at least.

Magnus finished packing up the body for transport. He hauled it over his shoulder with a light grunt and began his journey towards the law enforcement office in town. The sooner he collected the string of bounties that led him here, the sooner he could be on his way--before the very source of his trauma had time to leave deeper scars on his body. His boots splashed loudly through the alley, disturbing the previously placid pools of gutter water and blood.

“This must be what the march of death sounds like,” He thought to himself bitterly. That, and the jingling of coins in his pocket.

Magnus rounded the corner upon reaching the end of the alleyway, traversing the narrow side streets until he’d spill out upon the well trodden paths that served as the central arteries of the city. All that was left in his wake was the sticky coating of blood splattered against stone.

---

“I see you’ve been busy,” The clerk quipped, eyes raising to peer above the thin rims of his glasses.

“Ambrose Taylor. Five hundred gold bounty,” Magnus responded, dropping the lifeless body from his shoulder. The man hit the ground with a jarring thump.

The clerk paused in his paperwork. He let out a low whistle, eyes wrinkling in amusement “That slow of a week huh?”

Magnus simply raised his eyebrows at the man.

“Not like you to take on a pissant like this is all,” The clerk replied. He shifted behind the counter, picking up a stack of bills that he began to count with practiced dexterity.

The bounty hunter sighed. He entered further into the office, resting blood flecked hands on the counter. Small sprays of crimson stained the formerly pristine white of his undershirt. “Don't plan on being back in Zenith for a while. Decided to clean house while I'm here,” He admitted.

The clerk set the bills on the worn wooden counter with two fingers, eyebrows raised as he slid them towards the intimidating presence of the bounty hunter before him. “Yeah well, if you’re aiming for the best bang for your buck, you might want to check out that new ship they just finished.”

Magnus pocketed the cash, gaze following where the clerk motioned. On the wall full of bounties, newsletters and flyers of missing persons, was a recruitment poster for something called the Leviathan. “What is it?”

“They call it The Leviathan. Some plan of the crown to extend its reach out into the water or something. If you ask, me,” He let out a short sigh. “I think it’s just a safe harbor for criminals looking for a clean getaway. We’re doing all we can, but--there’s bound to be a few rats that slip through the cracks.”

Magnus’ critical gaze honed in on the poster once more, a black fire burning deep behind all that glassy grey. “Thanks,” He said, offering the man a curt nod.

The sun was high when he exited the law enforcement office. Ambient noise floated high into the cloudless sky, colliding with the oppressive beams of sun that drifted downwards. Magnus fished a cigarette from his pocket, soundlessly smoking while he weaved through the crowded streets. The pungent scent of salt grew stronger the more distance he covered, mounting upon itself until the bounty hunter found himself at the port.

Dark eyes surveyed the large ship that had managed to generate such commotion. He stalked around the crowd who had gathered to see the big event, talking giddily amongst themselves. To onlookers, he appeared to be a gentleman admiring the subject of such excitement and news. But there was a sharpness to Magnus’ grey eyes that the sun failed to refract upon. A predatory glint that scanned the faces of those gathered.

The ship wasn’t set to sail until the day after, which gave him time to wrap up his affairs in Zenith. The hunger for escaping the city began to grow teeth within him, gnawing away at what little resolve he had left. The longer he gazed at the gleaming ship docked within the choppy water of the port, the more clear his resolve. So it was decided then. The Leviathan would serve as his new hunting grounds.
coded by reveriee.
 





THE KINGSLAYER.















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船井 蓮



FUNAI REN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




Big Boat. Let me in.











OUTFIT




PROBABLY CLOTHES











LOCATION




ZENITH












MENTIONS




N/A










INTERACTS




N/A


















BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.
































































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HERETIC BOY,




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






























THE PROLOGUE.

It is not so fitting, many can agree, a spitfire of a man characterised by its aftermath. A personage of flame that cuts a figure of coal, he is both dauntless and cowardly, both enigmatic feline and a quaking mouse, both gentle and cruel, both ruby and sapphire.

To render an individual down to rumours or traits, to pick one or the other, is to overlook his most treasured attributes.


For one, Ren is a very honest man.

I would not lie to you.​


Sun-blood son in the bruised nights of Antares, easily blinded by brazen reverie when in the thick of its chaos. A stage once littered with foaming pitchers and tallow candles is cleared by weary hands, working around the heap of limb and hair that haunts its surface. Amidst dwindling patrons and arrival of dawn is the incandescent shadow, a tempest of black sleeping atop the tavern table.

A nudge at his shoe— an act of treason. Were it up to Ren, he’d outlaw every individual that dared stage such a coup, and he fights insubordination by irritably shifting his leg away. Dragged a few inches with molasses enthusiasm, limbs are too stubborn to obey moving further inland, settling back in the silt of his slumber. Through the bottleneck intoxication is the retaliation that stirs him from drowsiness, enough to bat weak hand at whoever had resorted to shaking his shoulder.

“Up, you lout.” The voice is intolerant of nonsense, he can hear this much. Can imagine she stands with hands on her hips and scowls at the man curled atop the tavern table. He must squint and crane his head from the dappled sunlight that crushes acid orange into iris, and it takes moments to recognise it is already morning and the tavern is empty. Hair splayed like wine, dark and bloodlike, it’s unruly silk swoons question marks for the figure leering from above.

He briefly matches her demeanour, an expression reeking with attitude. Silver woman with matching eyes lidded in repudiation: he knows her type, the mean ones, and thinks he knows enough to wrangle mercy from being particularly droll.

“Fair lady of the ale,” Ren greets as if she is a myth, dreamily coy smile divulging his residual inebriation. Five more minutes could not go amiss, but if luck was with the lamb, predator might spare weakness for something of better fulfilment. “Hii–”

“Out.”

His mouth inverts sour. Selfish.

“You are mean to me,” he broods softly, a voice and palate dry as crushed velvet. With what feels to be gravedirt ground into tongue, he lays there with seemingly no urgent intent to rise. “Am I not decorating this table handsomely?” Ah, he realises the issue after a curious interval. “Too many clothes, madam?”

How telling that she has weathered exhausting men for many a year in this tavern's sepia light, offering no more than a stern look as she leaves for the bar. Only out of earshot does Ren claw himself upright, feels axis careen with a reeling skull and leaded blood.

“Out," like a petty child he mimics, drowsy hands drag his missing boot within arms-reach and wrestle it back on with a grumpy sulk. “I‘ll have you know 'm not even drunk.”

Ren stands, gravity revolts, and he collapses below the sightline with a heavy thud.



But honesty is only one trait, and Ren is a multi-virtuous individual. One often forgotten is his creativity. ​


A taste for bad men and worse women, he reconsiders the latter when watching the artist be torn apart by the noble lady.

Arriving late only to be welcomed with weaponized smiles, it brings a sour taste to Ren’s mouth seeing the clique of rich scorn and holler their shallow grievances. She remains seated, apricot tulle gown and postured like a bollard as she sloughs the painter raw with verbal warfare. Ren hopes he is a phantom, a mirage that haunts the background and will remain untouched from spat shrapnel. The injustice and audacity of wealth would have him scowl in disgust if the fear of coming under fire was not at the forefront of his mind.

“Can you paint?” The question falls to the artist’s assistant with a volley of eyes; usually a man that holds ambience like a spark of ash, but beneath the pistol-aim focus he is only a silent nod. He is not certain why he agreed, frequently finds himself in trouble due to a need to prove himself to others, and within minutes he is sitting at a canvas with a palette disc in one hand and a brush in the other.

This is insanity.

But Ren has no intention of cowering from a claim (one may call it a lie, but we have now established Ren is honest), and he has watched his employer— an actual artist, slather and bruise pigmented yolks into linen with such conviction that he believes he can do no differently. Problem is his oldest friend, trouble is his favorite lover, but what he is yet to understand is people-pleasing can take a different name, can wear a different coat, can have you impersonating a portrait painter in a noblewoman’s house just to avoid being seen as inadequate. It’s a constant burn to be wanted, from ember to kindling till a whole forest is consumed, he knows nothing else but these paper tiger parades.

He stabs the brush resolutely into canary yellow, the message is clear: I know what I’m doing, and the room hums with sophisticated gossip as Ren begins his new purpose.

“Get my good angle,” she’ll remind and ruffle her bust, push coiled hair over a shoulder. “Emphasise my assets, Lord Mel always appreciates those.”

He reckons it would hardly soothe her demands, but he nods sagely and hums agreeably, deliberate in his features to appear thoughtful and ever so studious. Stupidity makes it too easy for him; whether drunk and declaring his Baron narrative from atop a tavern table or entombing nobles in a caricature of capability, his entire persona is so thick with contradictory falsehood that anyone with enough scrutiny could choke at his folly. Stupidity also makes it too easy for him; Talk Shit will often result in Get Hit, but consequence is hardly a feasible option when the canvas bleeds into a beauty such as this.

It must be a calling, a prodigy recognised too late in his years. Hours have passed when he slowly stands and is ruptured from focus. Silence settles upon the nobles, all expectation and awe. His fingers are coated in a greasy paint and his heart is coated in a warm pride he has never encountered before. He has never made something he likes, only ever taken, and he feels that he has scraped spirit from his own muscle to lather this canvas in the magnificence it deserves.

To their requests he picks up and turns the canvas. Revealed the crude portrait of what may be a disproportionate woman, what may also be a greyhound with imposing bosoms.

Nobody speaks.

Ren would deem himself impervious to other’s opinions but silence from the flock is enough to stir discomfort like warm bile. He counts each second like a moon-leaping sheep, a match to the heart which pummels bruises inside its cage of spindled ivory.

“What is that.”

A match to the heart now dropped to his stomach.

She is all demand, no question. Liquid dread floods the hollows of his lungs and Ren does not want to reply. Round eyes have averted like a guilty canine, perhaps something divine or something prey-instinct whispers near his ear Don’t Move and he chooses to obey. Their horror is tangible, offence palatable. He is not sure if they are disgusted with him or what he has created, and like always he feels he must seek that dividing line, must press a blind hand into what could be steel maw or plush appreciation.

“My art.” With a blink he holds the canvas against his chest in search of comfort or a shield. At least he has survived the reveal, he can say this much, and their lack of retribution coaxes confidence to speak again.

“You asked if I could paint.” The turn of the ruse; his cards splayed flat to the table. “You did not ask if I was good at it.”

Get Him.

It’s an unreasonable thing to order and his mouth opens in defiance, but too short is the time to bicker and so quick is the linchpin need to run. With a clumsy clatter of the canvas, Ren is screaming apologies as he sprints through the manor for an exit— backtracking only to snatch a silver fruit bowl he’d provocatively eyed on his entry.



And let us not forget Ren’s everlasting, everdying respect for the law. ​


“Hey.” Once volatile as the stewing sea, how quick honey is coaxed from the dark hive. “Hey you.”

Make no mistake that this holding cell is no tragic epilogue, merely a temporary consequence of fishing sly hands through pockets in crowded markets. He could make a game out of this, the amount of times he’d been wrangled from street to cage in a sooty cloud of shouting and animalistic pacing, only to temper into something domesticated and friendly hours later. How pampered he is, how harmless, how unfathomable to think this chatty man could make violent lunges for keys or bite at unarmed ears.

“Have I ever said you’re my favourite guard?” A floor-length shade, slender stem fingers coil to the bars like ruinous ivy. Delicate, if one can overlook pythons do the same with a throat, if one can overlook spiders do the same when cocooning their victims in silk. “Out of every bloke that stands there, all mysterious and cute in that uniform, it is you that I like most.”

But the thief is just human, after all. No serpent or arachnoid, and the guard can admit in the safety of his mind that there are worse to be wary of in these halls. Ren stands at the partition like it is a window of some imperial mansion rather than a cage he has been forced into, watches with sunny languor unbecoming of a man with no feasible exit. Perhaps that is why he looks at the guard the way he does, a gaze turned prising.

“You single?” A fool conversational as a sugar cube is no threat, and it is ire that instead fills the void of what was once the guard's caution.

“Can you shut up?!”

“Open the door and make me.”

A metal gauntlet slams the bars to warn him off, but they should know better than to offer a limb to something hungry.



The same honest, creative, law-abiding man now stands at Zenith port, hands on hips with head craned to look up at the idling vessel.​


In its midday shadow he is darker still, tar black in the honeyed cobble glow and eclipsed in both virtuous lies and despicable truths. A hair pin is spun between restless fingers, egg yolk metal cold to the touch and absent to his focus (all blondes deserve to be humbled, and devotion to celestial stardust won’t protect you from the sin of a robber's knife).

Not for the first time in his life does Ren stand before something new, wondering what he is doing there and if he even deserves it. At a certain point he figured he’d grow familiar with it; how many times must someone be buried to give up and resign into sleep, how many times is someone to claw themselves from crumbling edifice with bloodied nails and copper teeth to siphon another stubborn breath? He is trying to build something out of nothing, cannot bear to stand aside and wear helplessness for another decade.

If the King is to draw breath, it is only because everyone has allowed it to be. He is tired of waiting for others, fighting over the same discarded bones, and it is a narrative like many others when a hero undertakes a journey only to succumb like Achilles or Theseus. The distinction is that Ren is no hero, not even a martyr, and this phantom nobody has a consuming need stirring from an adolescence of maltreatment. It’ll be worth it, he’s convinced himself of this, even if an epilogue means mutual quietus.

The regicide is to be his healing, his inheritance, and while this gnarled hunk of wood may be a floating coffin, he does not doubt worse men have succumbed to the churning salt for lesser purpose. Bravery is well-practised, earned by a river waif who never agreed to play this game of push-and-pull politics. A lotus ripped from earth as an unwanted sapling, all teeming roots and grieving water tossed aside and buried with the kernel of apostate faith; persists tempestuous as weeds and learns to live in a constant choke, serpentine writhes its way from the grave to the light to the canopy of the heavens itself with intentions to swallow the sun whole.

He is a heat source so intense; Zenith should have found ways to monetize it before he brought about ruin.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 
TW: Death of an infant featured heavily... and technically a named character (but a throwaway)​









The Physician.

























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Ilya





Jovanovic







ㅎㅎ


























MOOD







... Okay!



















OUTFIT







He has 0 style sorry



















LOCATION







His Clinic



















MENTIONS







Alone

















INTERACTS







N/A





























Cigar — Tamino.



































































































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Humanist's Folly.






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














































Prologue.

Darkness, Ilya was putting out candles as he packed up his clinic for the night. Iron candelabra illuminating the rather dim space that he’d settled into. Despite being pristine, cleaned regularly and thoroughly scrubbed between every patient, it always somehow smelled like blood that permeated through everything. Though his clients never seemed to mind or be bothered, perhaps that was just another strange idiosyncrasy that he was developing when he’d gone a couple days without good sleep.

A scrape against the dirty window, a new red streak of blood from the frosted glass and a moan of pain. A plea for help.

Ilya rushed outside, exhaustion forgotten, what else was he to do after all? There was something in his soul that screamed to aid when people cried for it.

Outside, there was a man with a baby who’d gone limp and blue, face completely morphed in pain with too much blood dripping from its still small body. He was missing a leg, ripped off completely and trailing behind him. It dribbled from his lips, there was a hole where his eye should’ve been. A rattling to his breathing. Wild and crazed desperation flooded delirious singular eye as he crawled to Ilya’s feet and gripped his ankles. The ramblings of madness from pain, emotional, physical. That had been his child. He needed a miracle worker.

His patients called him that sometimes when he healed things they thought for sure they were to die from, but this was lethal. There was too much blood. Too late.

Some leadened weight entered his chest. Sometimes, though, it was not about healing people but putting them at ease.

Gentle coos in his ear that it would all be well. That everything would be okay as he swept up the two bodies in his arm and carried them to his table.

He made himself seem busy through the moans and the cries for pain. Tourniqueted the lost limb, poultice and bandage wrapped around the face. The baby he stitched the wound shut while the man clung to his arms and thanked him over and over and over again.

What was there to thank him for? He was caring for a dead man. But sometimes it wasn’t about what was true, but what was going to make him at peace.

This man, Bram he’d introduced himself finally, seemed to get some clarity as help was being administered without question. Just as quickly as praise and declarations of sainthood had been made, Ilya felt the rush of pain and heat as he was struck across the face and to the floor.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he fell and hit his head and his elbows banged against everything as he scrambled to catch himself unsuccessfully.

Bram had learned that the baby was dead and that he was simply being appeased.

A bone crushing grip upon his wrist, Ilya watched as the last words this man said were
“All doctors are frauds, you’re just trying to steal my money.”

He had to pry the stiff fingers off of him to get away as he sat on a wooden stool he had for loved ones of patients and collected himself once more. A slight touch to his face drew blood from his cheek. With a shaky type of breath, he stood and walked over to a mirror he kept, dark eyes sliding to the two still bodies against his better judgment. A small cut, but still annoying.

Ilya looked back to the dead man and the baby that now laid still and cold on his table, there was a creeping grief for the desperate father Bram. And yet, selfishly as much as he loathed it, there was a tired resignedness he felt as well as he realized he wouldn’t be going home and getting sleep tonight either. As he went to go get whatever late night watch was patrolling the streets, he silently swore to himself

Stars, I need a fucking vacation.
















































♡coded by uxie♡
 
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THE BUTCHER.

























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Aurelian





Fiocchi







ㅎㅎ


























MOOD







FINE.



















OUTFIT







BUT A BLACK SHIRT



















LOCATION







Docks



















MENTIONS







Dante

















INTERACTS







N/A





























... And Justice For All — Metallica




































































































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The Tertiary Sin.






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














































Prologues.

It was the gray hours just before dawn as a black carriage drawn by black horses clattered down the cobblestone road. Fog seeped from the ground as they thundered through the forest. They had no bodyguards, why would they have such luxuries? Despite that, the carriage which they sat in screamed of wealth, well, if the fact that they had a carriage at all didn’t already whisper such knowledge the gold decor that swirled up cabin walls shouted it. Slight and careful, tasteful in execution, not gaudy but expensive. The inside was plush and lavish. Velvet downy pillows strewn about on cushioned seats of bright reds. Patterned and embroidered with multi-colored strings, the life of the wealthy in all of its comforts.

As the wheels clattered upon the ground, the inhabitants inside were piled on top of each other despite the relatively spacious coach. Slumped against the wall in varied clothing, dyed and arranged in a pleasing way with soft skin that had never seen a day’s life was Dante Fiocchi. He was not the heir, but the second born son. In the words of his parents, the one that did none of the work, but reaped all of the rewards of everyone else’s labor. A halo of dark brown curls cushioned his head but were currently slicked straight back in a truly disgusting amount of oils, a handsome face that looked both young and old at the same time, kaleidoscope eyes that seemed to change color as he moved his head or blinked. Proper. A man born with a silver spoon stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Ink blotting paper as he scratched out lines and lines of legal paperwork. The laws did not bind the wealthy as lethally as they did the poor, but it was still a hassle all the same. And people paid money to not have to fill out the paperwork themselves. Sprawled over his lap slept his latest project: Aurelian Fiocchi.

Well, he was at least happy that Aurelian had chosen to take on the name Fiocchi, but perhaps when given the choice between “Ari” and “Aurelian Malatese” it was better to go with the lesser of the evils. For someone born in poverty, it was really no wonder that the upper echelons of their society had taken to him. Tanned skin, calloused and rough where he’d been fighting but otherwise perfect. Thick black hair, straight and easily styled, lately he’d taken to shaving the sides in order to seem more threatening. Long lashes framed light brown eyes, very pretty. And his vaguely symmetrical features were soft and innocent looking when he wasn’t purposefully scowling and looking like he was about to fly into a fit of rage if someone looked at him wrong. He almost appeared to take after their father, though a more idealized version. There was a twinge of some sort of feeling that normally didn’t resonate within himself when he looked at Aurelian. Some sort of jealousy at how easily he would’ve fit in had he been born into this life, had he not thrown it all away in a fit of rage. He placed his hand upon a warm muscled shoulder, no. It wasn’t good to think ill of family, so he wouldn’t. Instead of the rising anger, he realized he instead was feeling a strange loss. His “younger brother” made life in the palaces slightly more entertaining, to be honest. It’d be such a drag now that he was quietly exiled. A shame, really. Perhaps it was also a feeling of knowing that there was a small betrayal of trust: that Dante had promised Aurelian he’d be safe now from the horrors of the outside world and had instead served him straight to the wolves waiting for his blood.

Dawn’s first light streamed through the glass of the coach and there was a light stirring of movement behind shut eyes, opened to reveal the amber of whiskey as he sat up with a scrunched up face, rubbing his forehead. There was a shuttering of expression, soft youth flushed away for a more hardened appearance. Marginally more open than how aggressively misanthropic he normally appeared, but still a far cry from how he was when he slept, trusting that he would both be safe from sabotage and attack under his brother’s care.

“You drooled on me.” There were no greetings. Aurelian didn’t like them, and Dante was nothing if not agreeable, lie passed instead through a silver tongue used to spitting out nonsense.
“Fuck you.” Aurelian’s voice was scratchy in the morning as he cleared it a couple times. Without looking up from scrawled ink, a pitcher of water was raised, poured into a cup of water made of silver. Greedily, the younger of the two grabbed the drink and slammed it.
“Fine, be that way.” Barbs traded back and forth, though a slight smile pulled at the brothers’ lips.

The slightest lift to the corners of Aurelian’s eyes. The smallest twitch of a smile.
“Dickhead.”
“Bitch.”
“Fuckface-”

He pulled out a platter of cheeses and meats and bread and began eating as the carriage approached the capital city of the empire.

“Try not to start a fight on the first day.” Dante was brushing invisible lint off of simplistic black linen clothing, a mother cleaning up her son before sending him off on the first day of school as his brother finished shoving food in his face. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do… Maybe this’ll be good. Maybe you’ll make some friends.”

“Do you have a fucking problem?” Aurelian finally snapped as he batted away fussing.

“I worry.” He did, actually worry, that Aurelian had a tendency to make more enemies than he did friends. And he had the tendency to make enemies out of the powerful and the wealthy more than he did the disenfranchised.

“Don’t.” Petty and simple.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”


The carriage ride continued in silence as they moved through the gray buildings contrasted by a bustling marketplace towards a place to be dropped off near the docks.

“... I’m going to miss you.”
“If you’re going to miss me so much, you should’ve decided to come with.” Aurelian snapped as he was drawn into a hug as the carriage rolled to a stop. Dante felt something in his shoulders relax marginally with the physical contact. He chose to ignore that minefield of a conversation.
“Be safe.”
“I hate you.” He let Dante squeeze a couple times before letting go and opening the door for him from the inside.

Aurelian slid out of the cabin in calm practiced movements as amber eyes took in the morning rosy light. Senses immediately assaulted by the bustle of a large city as he strode towards the docks, chasing the cool sea breeze against the rising heat of human bodies packed into small areas. The ship stood there, tall and proud against the morning sun. Surveying the crowd, he settled into a spot to stand, not too far away from the main throng of people so as to become a target for muggings, but distant enough to be left alone as he crossed his arms and leaned against a building.

Waiting, watching.
















































♡coded by uxie♡
 
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  • click here



    "I've wrestled with the truth for quite some time, and I've been drowning in this restless mind,"



    "I'm sick of being so unsatisfied tell me that the answers right, God are you awake at night?"


























    aawake at night


    half alive









    "the drowned"




♡design by miyabi, coded by uxie♡
 



sir judas of zenith.





































  • mood



    paralyzed with anger, determined.
















the sun hadn't yet risen to all its glory, casting long, eerie shadows across the courtyard where judas hastings stood. his leather and armor bound body felt unusually heavy, each piece a burdensome weight pressing down on his spirit. overcome by dissociation that thickly veiled the celebration around him, his unnaturally stone expression was a stark contrast to his usual wrinkle-ridden smile that could only be tugged at by the sound of king rowan's decree.

still, the unwavering grief had only given the king permission to snake in one ear and leave out the other as judas slipped into his mind again.


yesterday morning.
- trigger warning for an execution scene. details present but not extremely graphic. proceed with caution or skip otherwise.

the courtyard was already filling with a silent, somber crowd as the gallows loomed against the morning sky, its stark wooden frame a grim reminder of the fate that awaited the condemned. judas took his position near the kingsmen he was appointed alongside of for the morning, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. and as the king and queen arrived, their faces stern and impassive, he couldn’t help but steal a glance in his direction as king rowan’s decree echoed in his mind hours earlier: oversee that the execution is complete and ensure no one disturbes the dead.

and with an unwavering loyalty such as his own, the task was elementary to complete.

the heavy oak doors creaked open, signaling a sudden hush of the crowd and stealing judas’ attention almost immediately as two guards led the prisoner outside. their masked identity made the crowd murmur in anticipation, a low, anxious hum that seemed to vibrate the cool morning air. a sense of uncomfortability ran down judas’ spine from underneath his armor at the sight.

as the prisoner ascended the wooden steps, each creak of the boards under their feet resonated like a death knell, the executioner waited—hooded and impassive—a silent specter of death. but time seemed to have slowed as a breath caught in hastings’ throat, the guards removing the hood to unveil someone who would shatter the world around him.

“isabela hastings, you have been condemned to die for your unpardonable act of piracy..,” every word sounded muffled as a shrill ringing in his ear drowned the voice of the king out.

there, standing before the crowd with demise around her neck, was his daughter. her face was pale and gaunt, a shadow of the vibrant girl he once knew. her eyes, filled with a mixture of fear and welled to a paramount with tears as they met his across the courtyard.

"no...,"
he whispered, his voice breaking with anguish. the realization hit him like a blow, leaving him reeling. how had his beloved daughter been accused of such a thing, condemned to die so mercilessly? at all? memories of isabela’s childhood flooded back—her laughter echoing through the halls of their home, her small hand in his as they walked through the meadows, her bravery when she first learned to ride the horse that he and margaret had surprised her with for her birthday.

he surged forward, his instinct to protect her overpowering all sense of his ingrained servitude.
“stop! please, let her go!”
but before his feet could pound across the floor to her aid, a strong set of hands clamped down onto his shoulders, holding him back.

“judas, you can’t! what are you doing?,” a kingsman asked, his voice firm yet filled with concern at the palpable reaction.

“let me go! let her go!!”
judas pleaded, struggling against their iron grip as he desperately tried elbowing his way out. his forehead quickly began to slick with sweat as his heartbeat pounded in his ears, a wash of desperation and anger painting his face as he couldn’t seem to move fast enough.

isabela’s eyes found her father as she watched him struggle against not one kingsman, but two now, the silent plea for mercy dissolving knowing he couldn’t grant it. her fate was absolute; there would be no pardon, no last-minute reprieve. and all she could do was attempt a goodbye as the salt of her weeping began to creep in between her lips.

the lever was pulled, and the world seemed to slow. judas’ thrashing stopped as the sound of a hard, yet familiar thud of the trapdoor stopped him in his tracks. the snap of the rope, and then the horrible, final silence making it impossible to turn around.

for the first time in all his years of service, the armor that had always been his shield now felt like a prison, trapping him in a moment of indescribable shock. the knight who had faced death a thousand times over, even inflicting it himself, wept openly, shuddering uncontrollably as the sound of the rope grinding back and forth burned into his memory.

the other kingsmen stepped in to guard isabela, ensuring the king’s proclimation was upheld and no one disturbed her. yet, judas could only stand paralyzed by his own emotions, his mind a whirlwind of sorrow and disbelief. a pained look managed to meet the gaze of king rowan, their eyes locking with an intensity of a knowing yet mournful man who couldn’t give up his authoritative position for some feelings of another. especially one below him, no matter how valued.

and as the crowd began to dissolve, the weight of the moment pressed down on judas, leaving him alone in the courtyard, a broken man in the remnants of a dissipating nightmare that he couldn’t wake up from.


now.

a cacophony of cheers and laughter pulled judas from the depths of his anguished memories. he blinked, the scene of the gallows dissolving into the bustling port of zenith. the courtyard, now a blur of festivity, was filled with people celebrating the arrival of the leviathan—a grand vessel, majestic and imposing, awaiting the people with acceptance aboard.

judas stood amongst the throng, the remnants of his grief blending into a cold, steely resolve. king rowan had appointed him to ensure that the leviathan’s voyage was smooth, its passengers behaving in accordance to his expectations. but he had his own intentions. the spark of anger that washed over him now flared into a determined inferno. he would board the ship, not as a mere puppet to hold a default recording on his tongue, but as a father driven by a single, unyielding purpose: to find those responsible for snaring isabela from a life he attempted to shield her from. his heart, once heavy with sorrow, now burned with a righteous fury that nothing could extinguish.

as he made his way towards the sturdy, wooden gangplank, the sounds of celebration faded into the background, replaced by the rhythmic pounding of his own heartbeat. sure, it would sail under his watchful eye, but its journey among the vast seas would also mark the beginning of the end of whoever was deserving. whoever was responsible for the astonishingly painful feeling of a fullness in his heart no longer existent—destined to forever remain empty so long as isabela’s stopped beating.

































no song linked













♡coded by uxie♡
 














XVII















the

star















"the heart"









mood

...






location

cascades -> zenith






mentions

Elera. (Briefly) Ren.






interactions

n/a


























XVI















the

tower
















vasariah "nightingale"









TW: Depictions of child neglect and murder

It is your fourth birthday.​

You sit alone, hands threaded carefully through dry grass. The blades scratch the palms of your hands. Flesh still so delicate, still so gentle. The dress you have fit yourself into with practiced ease stained with blood from the time you scraped your knee 3 weeks ago. Your blonde hair tangled into dusty mats, hairbrush long forgotten on a counter you can’t stretch yourself far enough to reach. Your stomach growls as you stare at the faded outline of teeth along your forearm. You had stopped reminding them you were hungry long ago. When you look up, you find the stars shine extra bright through this night. You can almost feel their warmth enveloping you. Almost. They ask if you wished you lived a different life, free from this pain. You say you’d give anything, no matter the consequences.

It is your eighth birthday.​

You feel the cold tiled floor bruising your knees as sharp metal is gripped tightly within your hand. Fingers claw at your face, fist trying to find purchase in your hair. Your gaze is fixed to the metal. Pools of crimson spill onto stone. You will yourself not to look up. You know you will find a friend on the other side of your knife. He is still clawing. His heart is still fighting. The blade won’t cut deep enough. It is only prolonging the pain, both yours and his. Eventually, your savior comes in the form of large hands encasing yours. They sink the knife into his most vulnerable flesh. Fingers finally fall away from your face, only to be met with new ones forcing you to look at what you have done. You watch light fade from onyx eyes. You listen to a heartbeat finding slumber that will last for the rest of time. You are told you did well for your first. That you are weak, but your devotion means you can be taught. Your loyalty is rewarded. For the first time in your life, you have been called someone’s favourite.

It is your fourteenth birthday.​

It is the first time you have left the temple basement in ten years. It is the first time the world has seen you since those that birthed you had forgotten you. You are presented to the people, shown off like a decoration on a string. You have never felt so pampered before. Hair tucked neatly into a fanciful show of braids and curls. Jewels, pins, and rich headpieces nestle into your rose hair. White cloth and golden accents embroidered into shining fabric. The people are told that you are the Oracles beloved heir. You are their child. You are their son. You are the people’s Seer. You are to have all of the answers, just as your parents do. As they lay their palms on your head, you see the blood on their hands matches the blood on yours. You look to the people. There is no greater feeling than to know you are a mirror image of your saviors.

It is your twenty-second birthday.​

Are you sure you want to leave?

Nightingale’s hands tremor as the quill is set back into its resting pot. The ceramic clinking against metal and making his ears ring. Though, he is not certain they haven’t been ringing all night. The only star that has never left him, still ringing, still calling out to him. Delaying. He is. Selfish. That too.

Nightingale leaves his leather seat and hand carved desk, turning. His room, the one he had earned after falling into the public’s eye, neatly filled with gifts from the people that have worshiped him for the past eight years. Displayed above all else are his prized possessions, the few gifts he has received from his parents. Missing from this display is the golden metal melting into ruby hues of gem. An expensive thing. One of a kind, made specifically for the heir. It burrows neatly into his curls, done this morning by the Apostle in charge of dressing him. It was his birthday after all, and a grand appearance was to be made.

He wondered how heartbroken the people would be.

The Nightingale leaned over, careful hands lifting freshly dried paint settled on canvas. The paint itself handmade from the finest dyes and mixed with crushed gems to allow for divinity to seep in. On his twenty-second birthday, he is to give a gift to his creators.

The carriage is on its way, says his loyal guard. It will be his last chance.

He makes his way towards the foyer, painting still settled carefully in his hands. His eyes lean on hopeful when he looks up at the Oracles, thought the light had long faded. “Parents dearest,” he pauses, waiting for them to look at him. He should know better.

“What is it child?” One asks, not glancing up from a collection readings left from the stars.

“As it is my birthday today…I thought I would do something for the two of you instead. A gift for taking me in, saving me.” He had learned how to steady his hands in their presence. Show no sign of cowardly behaviour. He turns the canvas over, displaying the paint at an angle to them.

Please…give me something I can stay for.

A mere glance, brief. The other, a more purposeful look, though, it was quick to turn sour. “Darling, is that…paint…on your hands?” A pointed look and an Apostle steps in to take away the painting, allowing the oracles better access.

The other, pointedly shaking their head. “Dirty child. You are to make an appearance and you have soiled your hands with such useless things?”

“You are wasting your time pursuing such hobbies you have no talent in. Haven’t we told you to stop straying from the stars? Disobedient.”

Nightingale goes rigid under their gaze. Useless. “Yes, of course dearest Creators.” Fight the tears. Eyes up, don’t blink. Don’t show. “My apologies for disturbing your preparation time with unfit reasons.” He tried.

“Be more mindful. We have raised you with better behaviour than this. Use it,” one reprimanded.

“And wash those filthy marks off. You will embarrass us,” the other hissed.

“Yes, of course. I won’t embarrass you further.” Nightingale bows politely and excuses himself.

He won’t stay. He can’t stay. That lonely star is chanting in his head. Begging. Pleading. Urging. The carriage waits, and yet he still resides in his room. One look. One meaningful glance where they truly saw him was all it would have taken for him to stay. Call off the carriage, attend the event, release a lantern into the sky, follow blindly for the rest of time. Yet, it did not happen.

He is rushed into the carriage, practically shoved, with only the few belongings resting on his back. The elaborate getup, the hairpin to remind him of his parents, a bag of coins he had been carefully siffling into his own funds, the painting he had seen from the stars long ago, and a journal of all he has been. He couldn’t take more. If he had, they might not believe it to be a kidnapping. He needs them to believe, so one day he can come home. He will come home…right?

Beside him rests a girl, around his age. The daughter. He remembers many stories of her. He knows her faith is blind. Not yet ready to be severed from the lies of the Covenant. He ignores her, despite her trembling frame, shaking like a chihuahua who has just discovered what treats are. In her eyes, he sees the reflection of the Seer staring back at him, not himself. Did she realize the great Seer was shaking, that he was terrified to leave the sheltered walls of all he had grown to know?

It is your first time outside of the tower temple walls.​

Life outside the Covenant exists. Life outside the Covenant exists. Life outside the Covenant exists.

Born reaching for hands that would never hold his, light that would never reach him. He had always lived in the cold grip of darkness, the eternal night that shrouded the domain of his parents' religious cult. Taken from a life he could scarcely remember at the age of four, his existence had been a carefully constructed prison of scripture and fear. The towering walls of their compound, draped in creeping vines and shadow, had been his world for as long as he could remember.

Virgin skin melting against rays of the sun, finally feeling its warmth for the first time. Then, met with a searing pain as he stares into its golden glow. How was he meant to know it was going to attempt to burn a hole through his eyes? He decided then, that the starry night was better than any sky the sun could create.

He was quick to learn not to put shiny objects on display. Golden pin, treasured deeply despite the pain, lifted by nimble fingers and a knife to his back. He’d do well to remember those onyx eyes that paired strikingly with a silky sheen of brunette hair. He’d ensure fate would allow them to meet again, and the punishment would be frightful.

Tired feet drag along the bridge, reaching into the depths of the ship. The wood creaked and moaned as weight passed along it. The wind blows into the crevices of the ship to make an eerie whistling noise. The Leviathan.

One bestowed upon with a ticket, the other without. It was no matter. Anyone could fall victim to snapping teeth and sinking claws if you had the right information.

Slipping away as soon as he turns the first corner. A silent refusal to stay with an apostle such as her for longer than he is prepared. Faith cannot be broken in one day. Even his, though weak, still reaches and tangles in their threads.

His hands reach into fabric bag, bringing out the leather bound journal that rests cold against his skin. Turn the page, find your quill. Write.

It is your twenty-second birthday.

You are free.​

























II















the

high priestess

















"the seer"









card

the tower






This Post's Tarot Card​

"The Tower is the one you really need to brace yourself for. The Tower Tarot card represents chaos and destruction. It is the Major Arcana card of sudden upheaval and unexpected change. This change usually is scary, life changing and often unavoidable. The destruction it brings is usually directed at something that was built on a false beliefs and foundations or unrealistic goals and dreams. Imagine having a home you thought was solidly built and would shelter you for the rest of your life. The Tower would be a big storm that reduces your house to rubble, destroying everything you thought was secure and showing you that the foundations were not as solid as you once believed they were. While you would still have to experience sadness, loss, grief, anger and confusion at this horrible turn of events, out of the rubble you have the chance to build a new better home with more solid foundations. The Tower in a spiritual context represents the destruction of old beliefs. "



















 
mood :
hopeful, in her weird way

location :
sirocco brothel ; zenith port
outfit :
mentions :
none for now

interactions :
none for now
Enamored
;; rosaline
Trigger Warning: Sexual assault (not described) & aftermath. Reader discretion is advised.​

Sometimes, in the rare moments when she was alone, Rosaline remembered her last day as Noelle. The apparition of it would creep up on her like a dream, filling the dark space of her chamber and nearly crushing her with how big it was. She had no choice but to watch it play out, her limbs going numb out of horror? fear? dismay? Maybe it was a combination of all three. Noelle had been buried long enough, but the ghost of her insisted on making her relive it, perhaps so she would never forget how she had gotten here. As if that was possible.

A single ray of sunlight filtered in through the smudged window, dimly lighting the kitchen as she stared blankly at a stain on the table. She could feel the eyes of the other girls, their concern making her head pound. Everything was fine, she told herself, he was gone now and she was fine. It was fine it was fine it was fi—

“Here, dearie.” A bowl of water was set in front of her, along with a folded cloth. “Best clean yourself up.”

Noelle blinked at it before blinking up at the madame, the closest person to a mother she had. With a wry twist of her mouth, the bawd took the cloth and dipped it into the water, handing it to her. “It’s for your bits, girl.”

Ah. That explained it. Noelle’s gaze shifted downwards to the wrinkled skirt of her dress. It still hurt a bit, but the pain was nothing compared to the realization of it. Her other hand was still desperately clutching onto the coin she’d been handed for services rendered. She hadn’t even done anything but lay there, and she’d been paid. Was this what it meant to be a whore?

The other girls instructed her how to use the water and the cloth, their words and touches much gentler and kinder than the client. Noelle could not recall any tears falling, but her face was red and salty, and one of the girls who was only a few years older than her brushed her hair. It was the calm before the storm, for she knew she would have to do this again. That was the way of a brothel, of survival in this world where your body was simultaneously worthless and priceless.

Once she was cleaned, the madame tilted her chin up and gave her the tight smile she donned whenever a client was particularly rude. “I have an idea. Take on a new name befitting of your new life. Then perhaps you won’t hurt so much.”

Noelle was no more, she decided. From now on, she would be Rosaline. A beautiful rose to be desired, but not to be taken lightly. Yes, it would have to do. And she would never forget why she chose the name. Ever.

In some way, she was betraying Noelle tonight. But it had to be done. The moment she had caught wind of her beloved boarding the Leviathan, a ship to leave Zenith, she had to act. Though she enjoyed her position in this lavish Sirocco Sands brothel, for once in her life, she had a priority that was not solely focused on her. (Though such a thought, in truth, made her shudder a little bit. What was happening to her?)

She’d saved enough coin for a carriage ride to Zenith, though parting with such wealth was almost painful. It was all for her beloved, of course, and that was what was most important to her right now. The journey itself was uneventful, even with all the sultry winks she shot at the various innkeepers whose establishments she stopped at for lodging. Her bed remained empty, at least relatively speaking, considering she was sleeping in it, but that had never counted as occupation for her. Rosaline had long ago stopped considering herself when it came to numbers.

Hm. Perhaps that spoke to a larger problem on her part.

In any case, she made it to Zenith. Rosaline did not need an entire day to figure out who she had to seduce. Child’s play, really, finding the guard in a tavern, approaching him with that slow walk of hers. Laying a hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. Feigning disbelief at the size of his biceps. A matter of hours reduced to mere seconds by her reckoning—she always lost her sense of time when it came to clients, or, in this case, “targets.” She whispered compliments as she undressed him, making him promise to let her onto the ship, no questions asked. No one would notice a harlot boarding, she assured him. She was nobody. She meant nothing. He lapped it up like a dog from Antares drinking from puddles.

For such a prideful man, he was easy to please. He fell asleep soon after the deed was done, leaving Rosaline sitting on the edge of the bed, watching. Much like the early days, she reached out, lightly brushing her fingers along his neck. Windpipes were so easily crushed, and wouldn’t it be so easy? Her index finger found the pulse, letting it thump, thump, thump, before she took it away. He wasn’t worth it. They never were.

One strap, two straps on her shoulder. One stocking, two stockings. Slip her gown over her head. Step into her shoes. Leave with only a slight click of the door. It was done. She was going to be boarding the Leviathan in the morning. It was almost like a dream.

Rosaline Touchard didn’t dream.

The morning of departure, she wore an offwhite gown, almost as if it teased the purity she was supposed to have and definitely didn’t possess. She kept her fan alight in front of her face as she made her way through the crowds of Zenith, ignoring all and yet capturing the attention of everyone she passed. Surely they knew, from one glance at her, what she was? But their murmurs seemed to be full of awe, as if she was a lady of higher status deigning to visit them. What a charming fantasy that was, that Rosaline could be anything other than she was.

Reaching the dock, a breeze lifted the hem of her skirt and blew it around her feet. She breathed in the salty air, reminiscent of her childhood in Antares. The pirates who frequented there had often smelled of this salt. It was familiar, almost like home, though she’d never given such a description to any place she had lived. And now she was going to be living on this large and impressive ship.

All for her beloved. Yes. The tightness in her chest told her she was doing the right thing. She had to protect the only person who made the emptiness inside her feel less imposing. Though she couldn’t fight or physically look out for her beloved, she could be there, watching over them as the other whores in Antares once had. Even a thorned rose could be kind every once in a while.
coded by reveriee.
 
Last edited:
mood :
Exhausted, Focused

location :
Zenith Marketplace to the Docks
outfit :
mentions :
No one

interactions :
No one
THE DESCENDANT
;; Dahlia


After her!

Mum had a client in the room tonight. Amelia would wait outside the brothel until she was done with him. It was also to not disturb the other girls, and tonight she behaved nice enough for the Madame to not lecture her again. Her brown eyes looked down at the hard, half molded bread in her hand. Wondering what fresh bread would taste like. Was it soft and fluffy like a cloud? Did it have a sweet or salty taste? But she shouldn’t think of such things. It was at least food. She was grateful to have it. Across the way was the tavern, which was bright and lively tonight.

Pirates and locals were loud and rambunctious, drunk off their ass and retellings of their trips from overseas. The little girl would watch them interested in their stories. What if she became a pirate? Mum said she wasn’t pretty enough to be a whore, so would she be better off to be like them? To bring Mum enough coins to be happy? She shouldn’t think of such things. Taking a bite of the bread she looked up at the ebony sky adorned with stars. The soft light of the moon kissed her rosy cheeks. Closing her eyes she whispered under her breath.

“Please, oh please…I wish to escape this place forever with mummy.”

Grab her!

It was hot and muggy on this day. Amelia had gone to the tavern to get a bottle and was able to barter for another if she did a few chores. They were disgusting and trifle, but it made the owner happy and willing to give her that second bottle. Her lips became wide with content, showing her missing tooth to anyone in her path. She practically ran back excited to show her mother the initiative she’d shown.

Feet pattering against the wood and when the door swung open, her smile faltered seeing a large man towering over her mother. The life in the woman’s eyes was dull and empty. Tears stained her cheeks, but the woman showed no sound to her cries. In her sight was a large brown bag in her mothers hand, the brim of it practically dripping with coins. The large man before her looked at the young child somberly. Before Amelia could take any action, he grabbed her by the arm and picked up the girl throwing her over his shoulder. The bottles of wine crashed to the floor with glass and liquid painting the wood.

“No! Let me go, you pig! Mum! Mum!” she wailed.

One hand reached out for the woman, while the other clammed into a fist and punched the man’s back. Her right foot then swung to kick his stomach and her left knee struck him in the chest. The thing was her mother didn’t do the same. The woman didn’t reach out for her child. Couldn’t even look her in the eye. No matter how much she struggled in his grasp, he overpowered with ease. The faces of others they passed looked at Amelia with pity. Why didn’t anyone help her? What did she do wrong? Wasn’t she a good daughter?

Stop Her!

She was no more than sixteen, and on her birthday it was just like any other day. The world was spinning and dancing all around her. The moment she caught her balance again, she could feel the ghost of a knuckle still lingering on the tip of her nose. The girl breathed through her mouth with the taste of iron remaining. Her eyes filled with fire and ice towards the large man towering her. Her hands rose back up with her fists tight and nostrils flaring. A grim laughter came from the reaper himself.

“Sloppy, sloppy, but not bad. Amelia.”

The sound of that name made her stomach churn and the bile travel to the back of her throat. The little girl who wore that name hid behind the chains and locks of the Baron. She was no more than a memory. Memories preserve lessons, shape, and purpose. The worst thing about memories is that they remind you of the bad ones.

It reminded her of becoming property. An object or possession that belongs to a person.

“Dahlia.”

That is what Amelia Porter became.

“What?”

Property.

“My name. It’s Dahlia.”

CATCH THAT THIEF!

Heavy footsteps of metal clunking, scraping against the cobblestone followed the woman in black. Traversing near the marketplace, Dahlia Blackwater started her run from the local guard after things went south from a job not going as planned. She hoped the overcrowded area would help her blend in, but apparently the Crowns men were more attentive and determined to capture this mouse. She would trample and zigzag her way through the crowds interrupting the atmosphere between locals and tourists. Her eyes scanned the area and found the sight of the docks, turning towards the narrow passageways and almost tripping from cobblestone paths to wooden ones.

Dahlia hovered over her knees in a nearby alleyway, coughing and trying to find some way to breathe. Her breaths took sound as her chest rose heavily trying to take in the oxygen her body refused to breathe in. Her lungs now filled to the point where it felt like there were open slits, and exhaustion following the lack of proper rest was slowing her down. The salty taste of the ocean practically gave her whiplash from the grimey back alley’s she was used to. Her head was already spinning trying to find some means of escape.

Looking back she scanned throughout the docking area and upon her gaze was a large ship. It was just across the way, a straight line, and if she could just walk over now then she could hide behind the crates to the ship. Poking her head out from the alley she saw some of the guards sniffing at the ships that were close by. Taking in a deep breath, she began making her way over walking in a fast paced fashion. Her peripheral vision is clear with the sight of the guards and in sight of the large ship. Dahlia pushed her way through the crowds and somehow boarded the vessel, acting as if she belonged there. When she finally made it on board her ears perked up listening to someone speak the name of it. ‘The Leviathan’, a peculiar name for a vessel.

coded by reveriee.
 


mood
yappin
outfit
unimportant
location
also unimportant
tags
morcetyx morcetyx



“You must know, you are very different than I thought you’d be.”

In front of her sat the young oracle. For when the current seers were dead and gone, he would take their place. For a long time, she had been jealous of him. His destiny seemed far greater than hers would ever be.

“For starters, you look much different up close than far away.”

On a pedestal, far from the masses, she could put any face on him. Now that he was up close, he could only look like himself.

“Your face is quite underwhelming. It’s fleshier than I’d imagined.”

Flesh, the thing of mortals. The oracles had always seemed other worldly.

“Less ethereal than I’d hoped for.”

It seemed the seers too must walk on earth.

“And you’re always sitting with your head down, writing in your pocketbook.”

Writing, she could only hope, the words of above. For if he wasn’t, that would be quite boring.

“I expected more prophecies.”

Perhaps, she had hoped the stars would have much more to say, more guidance for her on this path.

“Your hair is quite nice though. And you do very much remind me of my brother, as annoying as he can be.”

Another mortal thing about him. The same odd fascinations she would roll her eyes about at home, but now her ears were burning to hear more, hoping for the wisdom his words could provide.

“I do quite enjoy conversing with you. There are not many people who enjoy speaking as much as I.”

While he did little to proceed the conversation, he let her keep going, which was more than most.

“I will admit, there are many who find me intolerable for my opinions and the amount I speak.”

But he was different, he just kept on writing. Perhaps, he was not mortal after all.

“I would say the same about others for their opinions as well.”

Leaving her communication pool quite small in comparison to the most respected minds. Such is life.

“It seems we share like minds at least. Though, I could not get tired of your presence on this trip even if I tried.”

For he was a higher power, her loyalty and respect to him already formed.

“I do wish you had more to tell me.”

Not knowing everything made her mind wild with thought.

“And that you were not asking me to keep many things secret. I am poor at biting my tongue.

Words seemed to come out of her mouth before they ever formed in her mind.

“I do not mean to give you reason to distrust me. I simply think the situation is rather peculiar.”

Leaving the Cascades was quite uncommon, especially leaving with the intent to return. To her knowledge, the current oracles had never stepped foot outside the land of night.

“I shall enjoy your presence thoroughly. I do hope you have faith in me to ensure a safe journey for you.”

She would always be within arms reach. His personal attendant for the weeks to come.

“My personal concerns are no matter to you of course.”

After all, he had a higher purpose.

“Let us talk of more mundane things then. Tell me, how do you feel finally seeing the light of day? Isn’t it extraordinary?”

In this moment, Elera cared not for the sun, but only the prophetic in front of her, Vasariah.
The Crusader
© reveriee
 


mood
impulsive
outfit
-
location
-
tags
-



Day 1

Everyone is nervous on their wedding day. This is shared as fact, passed down from mother to daughter in preparation for the day she finally creates her own family. But is it normal to sweat this much? Is it normal to feel this absolute terror?

Mother, you tell me my life will be all the better for it, but I am dreading the rest of my life from this day on. All I have wanted for my whole life is true love and you have forsaken me to a careless marriage.

I do not know this man, I do not know his heart nor his soul. You have sold me as though I am a commodity, an accessory for this man to put on.

Oh mother I am afraid. I do not wish for a life like yours. I wish for my husband to enjoy my presence and that of our children. I do not want to see him only in passing, left with no passions of my own as I am left to rot.

Walking down the aisle, I cannot help but look away from my groom. I can only look to my companion, the only person who has ever truly known me. I am beneath her and yet she has seen me as nothing but an equal of status and mind. It is in her I find my strength. If she can look at me with a smile and hope in her eyes, I can make it through even the worst of trials.

When I kiss him, I feel nothing. I was always told that the kiss on your wedding day was supposed to be magical, but once again, it feels nothing like the fairytales say. When I return to my chambers, I dread the knock that will come. There is a pit in my stomach and I feel as though I will carry it with me for as long as I shall live.

Day 2

It is midnight when the knock at my door sends my heart racing, but it is not excitement that fuels me. Even when I know it is not him, tears prick my eyes. I believe it is in relief, but I am still afraid of what might happen if he catches us.

Still, one cannot say no to the princess. So I let her drag me to the garden, in nothing but our nightgowns, and her cloak that she shares with me. We run shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand lest a guard spots us. In the maze of topiaries and flowers, I feel more at ease. With my best friend by my side, I can relax and voice that of which troubles my mind.

This is the only moment that I can entertain the thought that my reality is not as unkind as I make it out to be. For I am married to her cousin, meaning I can see her whenever she likes. While I cannot bear the thought of being with him, being with her makes all the world’s problems seem small.

She is the air I breathe, the scripture I live by. Her body is the alter, and I am kneeling by it in prayer.

I am not caught off guard when she kisses me, for there have been many moments where I have begged for our lips to touch. Long nights where her image plagues my mind. Momentary glances that bring the world to a stop and make me forget my every thought.

I have loved her from the moment I first saw her, this I now realize. Every moment of my life since I have lived for her.

It is nothing like all the kisses I have felt before, those that feel like a chore. It is easy. She breathes a new life into me with her lips, and I cannot bear to end it.

Only when someone calls her name do we part, panic in both our hearts. I do not wish to admit what I did next.

I ran. I was a coward and I ran. If I were to go back, I know not what I would do, but I would not run. I would stay with her no matter how cruel the world might be. I would have stayed.

Day 3

I never thought crime to come so easily to me, but I felt nothing in the action of stealing my father’s things in the dead of night. He will not miss the money, and he can buy another gun. He would never understand my motives, how could he?

I must protect myself no matter what happens.

I have checked into an inn on the outskirts of Zenith. I only need a few days to collect myself. Perhaps when I show up again, they will not have noticed I was gone. Regardless, I will need to prepare my story, for any questions someone might ask.

Day 4

The king has sent out guards for me. They believe me to be kidnapped. An act of irony as if he knew the truth he would have me banished to Umbra in a heartbeat.

I must be careful, I do not wish to return to my miserable life quite yet.

Day 5

The longer I am gone, the more I dread my return. The whole world is at my feet and yet I desire to return to a life where I am wed?

I must question my priorities. What serves me isn’t always what I am meant to do.

Day 6

I wish I could take it all back, return to the womb and start over. Oh, the king will have my head now. I do not know what level of importance this man had, so I cannot know my consequence, but I fear it may be the gallows.

He is, no, was a writer. This I know for certain. I can write, as I am doing now on the page. Perhaps, me and him, we can become one.

The sea fare he possessed is bloody, but perhaps they will only think me ill. The ship does belong to the king, but I am willing to take that risk. For what other choice might I have?

I will throw these pages in the ocean, so no one will ever find proof of my misdeeds. Tomorrow, I will no longer exist. I must become someone entirely new.
The Scribe
© reveriee
 
MOOD: Calm, confident and feeling sassy. Short sassy child vibes.

OUTFIT: Black shirt and pants, with leather boots and corset with secret blade compartments. Minus the sword.

LOCATION: Cascades (Then) > Zenith, Kingsmen Station + Docks (Now)
basics
MENTIONS: Yuudai. And ‘He’ is open to interpretation; you’ll never know. 🫵

INT: None yet.
tags
TL'DR: Past: Dolores’ trial and branding.
Present: Getting her orders a few weeks before boarding.
tl;dr
The Scourge
DOLORES THORNE
T.W: Slight mention of blood and topics of castration.

The Cascading Fate.

Is Fate a little too cynical, or what? He must have thought of this moment when he whispered to her father that he should name her after the Latin translation of pain and sorrow.

Under the crowd's scrutinising gaze, a woman became the topic of the violent whispers that echoed throughout the opaline architecture. The woman’s bloodied knees stained the pearl-white marbled floor under her. The cold of the floor seeped through her shins as she kneeled with her head lowered, wearing nothing but a silky white nightgown smeared in crimson and dirt. The chains around her wrist felt heavy and annoyingly tight. A few steps before her is a man who will soon decide her fate.

With knees grazed and knuckles bruised, these were the signature indicators of her struggle as they tried to drag her body for litigation. One lift of her chin silenced the buzzing crowd, and the woman’s eyes glided smoothly over the people who presented themselves. While others averted her gaze, others met hers with disdain, disgust, and fear (mainly from the men present). After all, it isn’t every day the people of the Cascades get to witness their oh-so-beloved executioner, Dolores Thorne, get executed. Right before the King of Solas, nonetheless.

Memories of crying mothers pleading for mercy and proper justice reverberated in her mind, a harmonious symphony of chaos and anguish played as she carried the punishment they deemed necessary.

So when it was her turn, the silence from the crowd impaled her heart like an invisible barbed arrow. No one protested for her freedom and justice, a living proof that the weary maiden was truly alone. The silence was soon shattered as an unwanted voice rang from the rest. For her ears, his voice was like a fork carving the alphabet on an unfortunate plate.

His voice carried so much fire it could light the whole Cascades into an eternal day as he pleaded for the most torturous execution to be done to the perpetrator. Along with his passionate argument, the crows sang their lullaby of death and misfortune. It is the perfect picture of an ongoing trial currently tipping to the side it always favours, the rich and influential. A familiar scene the maiden knows all too well, except she would never imagine she'd be in the receiving end.

Despite the grim fate that awaits her, unyielding justice filled her veins as she knelt before a man whose crown gleamed with absolute sovereignty. The edges of her lips tipped upwards as her eyes landed on a man with a silk skirt whose legs shook like a newborn colt, freshly gelded. The newly neutered judge of the Cascades, Quinlan Wright, caught her smile, stoking a new set of cinders filled with fury and hatred.

“That woman must be hanged, Your Majesty! No, decapitation would be more fitting.” Spoken like a corrupted judge, the thought consumed him like a madman. It's as if he still has the final judgment over the crown. “Yes… Yes! It is the perfect verdict! Let me do the honour of swinging the axe, Sir.” He breathed his wish with a lowered head, symbolising his absolute obedience. But Dolores knew his monstrous side more than anyone, and she knew the thought of her demise alone pleased him more than their unwanted nights together.

A laugh slowly crept through her chest and bubbled to the surface. She vibrated with a sickeningly sweet humour she only found for herself.

“You didn’t have the balls back then to carry the axe yourself. What makes you think you can suddenly grow them now?” Her voice dripped with fake innocence and genuine inquiry. Dolores’ doe eyes innocently shone at the realisation of something, and she raised her bound hands at her mouth, chains rattled as she pathetically covered the feigned shock she portrayed. “Oh… Wait.”

Within a matter of seconds, the air immediately filled with malice. Even at the prospect of her dying, there was nothing that could stop the feeling of satisfaction and delight that flowed deep into her veins.

Before a step or breath can be taken, a hand is lifted, and time holds its breath. There was a sudden change in the air. The sarcasm she summoned from Quinlan’s presence now dissipated, and solemnity took its place. “You have defended your piece, Judge Quinlan. Compose yourself.” Embarrassment flowed through Quinlan’s face. “It is the perpetrator’s turn now. Dolores Thorne, step forward.” His commanding voice urged the sinner up to her feet.

“I stand before you, Your Majesty.” With reluctant eyes, her gaze softly met the man whose crown sat perfectly upon his head.

“Today, we address the matter of Dolores Thorne, accused of the grievous act of castrating Judge Quinlan Wright. What do you have to say in your defence?” His voice commanded power and order.

Breathing through her nose, she steeled her nerves. “Your Majesty, Quinlan Wright, a man of law and virtue, is an arrogant man who climbed on my bed completely uninvited. I only delivered the proper verdict as I see fit as Cascades’ executioner… and as a woman.” She uttered her last words softly.

Silence enveloped its cold fingertips with every living soul’s breath. Then, a voice spoke with a measured tone. “The law must be upheld. However, showing mercy when justice demands it is also within my power. The punishment for your crime is death.” Dolores released a breath she didn’t know she was holding and felt her eyes stinging with tears. “But I believe your skills and spirit can serve a greater purpose.”

“Purpose? I don’t understand.” She quietly murmured silently, gathering her composure.

“I offer you a choice, Dolores Thorne. Serve as a Kingsman under a binding contract, aiding my kingdom as I see fit. You will be branded as a criminal, a mark reminding you and others of your past actions. In return, your life will be spared, and you will have a chance at redemption.” The king uttered, each word reverberated throughout the tall ceilings and her psyche.

Contemplation clouded her mind. “And if I refuse?”

“Then your life will be forfeit.” King Rowan uttered with piercing efficiency. If demons and devils could grin, it manifested on Quinlan Wright’s crinkled face. She will give no satisfaction to that monster, so if her beating heart and exhaling breaths will forever haunt and taunt him, then so be it. And with that, it only took the woman a second to find her resolve.

Dolores lowered her head and spoke, “I accept your offer, Your Majesty. I will serve as a Kingsman and bear the brand.” The shackles around her wrist felt heavier and colder than usual.

“Very well.” With a nod, his gaze finally met her umber orbs. “Dolores Thorne, from this day forward, you are a Kingsman, bound by contract and marked by your past. Serve me well, and perhaps you will find the redemption you seek.”

Redemption… Right.

“Thank you…” She lowered her head once more, flawlessly feigning her gratitude. “Your Majesty.”

“Let it be known that justice and mercy have been served this day. Court is adjourned.” When he stood, all stomped to rise and regarded the man with a bow or curtsy. The crowned man nodded to the man holding her chains and said, “Prepare her for the branding.”

With those final words, he stepped aside and disappeared behind a tall column; his flowing velvet cloak was the last piece of the almighty King of Solas Dolores ever saw.

She was released with a tug of her chain and a familiar click of detachment. However, the relief of her freedom subsided when her eyes rested on a bright yellow rod. Before she could even take the moment in, the man beside her kicked her stomach so violently that black dotted her vision. She fell on her knees, and the man roughly stretched her arm steadily. Prickling heat stung her wrist as the piping hot metal hovered above her wrist. Each second that ticked, flew by like a lifetime.

Until the metal bitterly kissed her skin.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

The Present Zen.

A leather band wrapped around her wrist softly grazed the healed scar that permanently lingers on her skin. After two years of healing, its crude texture settled in the shape of a crown—a remnant of her past offence and a current symbol of her servitude to the sovereign.

Despite the promise of purpose, she has never felt more useless and weary than she does right now. Her recent orders were nothing but unsatisfactory and incredibly dull. From the beginning of her servitude, she has been loyal to the crown. Urging involuntary truths from traitors and criminals has brought her a small fragment of purpose, and yet she couldn’t help but feel… lost. Being a pawn in a much bigger game has become all too familiar to her. Dolores didn’t mind as long as no lusty fingertips ever grazed her bronze skin.

Before inertia could wrap its apathetic fingers around her spine, she truly wished her next orders could rouse her out of the pits of dormancy.

Lost in her thoughts, Dolores’ feet found themselves planted within the floorboards of the Kingsmen’s headquarters. There, she stood in front of a wooden desk, patiently waiting for the man who was supposed to reveal her next orders. After a certain royal advisor and she had an embarrassing misunderstanding, the branded maiden avoided him like an unwanted scurvy. Relief flooded her the moment she realised he shared the same sentiment.

A man emerged from a door and spotted her. Both curiosity and confusion bubbled in his eyes. “I was told to present myself here for my next orders,” Dolores replied quickly, wanting to get it over and done with.

“Ah! Yes… You’re Dolores Thorne?” Disappointment coils around his tone. He raised an unamused brow as he investigated her figure from head to toe. Dolores’ fingers curled into a fist as his eyes lingered longer on her chest.

“Yes?” She raised an annoyed brow.

After a shrug, he reached for something behind the desk and said, “Thought you’d be taller.” His gruff voice delivered a humourless reply as he lifted his hands to pass her a parchment-wrapped package.

“Thought pirates have the most foul breaths, yet here you are,” Dolores uttered while rolling her eyes. She drank the disbelief and reflection in his eyes before taking the package herself. Uttering a short and insincere ‘thank you’ before sauntering away. Her comment was a lie, but her temper overpowered her tongue as the need to strike verbally gripped her by the throat, steering her impulsive senses.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

In a silent and less busy part of the Zenith port, Dolores found a lone, unoccupied dock suited for fishermen and their small boats. With the parchment close to her side, she settled on its edge and placed the item on her lap. She neatly unfolded the package and uncovered two components; one was an envelope, and the other was a folder accounting for a large ship’s inventory. Her hands fished for a dagger hidden deep in her corset, and she cut the envelope open to reveal a letter.

Fawn eyes swallowed each word and order, capturing it permanently in her mind. And soon, she found her lips slowly curling into a smile. Leviathan’s boatswain doesn’t sound too awful, she thought as she retreated the letter into its cover.

Twilight claimed the sky with its picturesque colours as rolling clouds slowly crept away from the approaching purple night. Zen-like calm coursed through her as she watched the sunset in its beautiful purple, pink and orange hues. Dolores found herself fiddling with the edges of the parchment. Leather boots brush the gentle waves beneath. The tranquillity that embraces her now is almost comparable to the finest jewels and the purest gold wealth can buy.

Her mind aggressively shoved an infamous sailor, saying as the last remaining sun rays sweetly caressed her face. For now, she will enjoy the calm before the storm.

She breathed in the sea breeze, and a sincere smile landed on her lips. “He would’ve loved this,” she whispered gently. It was as if the breeze sealed her sentiment in a bottle, only then to be tossed and lost at sea.
code by valen t.
 
Last edited:
font callfont callfont call
IN-CHARACTER

BOARDING NIGHT

ROGUE WAVES
ONBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.
CHAPTER ONE.
The hollow shell of the Leviathan, once dark and frosted in freshly lacquered silence, now teems with a vibrant core like a kernel of sunlight. Burdened with the gravity of hubris and value not so casually seen or indulged by most, being free to sip at rivers of fermented grapes and piles of silver platters is a gesture of the vessel’s goodwill.
A mess hall now dissuaded of cold and shadow, it blossoms with throngs of guests and crew members that dance to live music, exchange names and stories and splay hands of cards across tables. Peals of laughter hammer the inside teeth of the ship, and its breath stews warm and fragranced with spiced meats. In the light do new connections bloom, does forgiveness flower, does food and drink run ample.
The gentle disquiet rolls beneath their feet, rigid hull to thawing waves, an ocean tide that moves to lap at the lethargic vessel; call it vigilance, call it ire, the elusive Captain has ordained the ship take anchor for the rest of the night, save poppy-high or wine-drunk aristocrats tilt, are in disfavour with gravity, and find themselves taking a plunge overboard to the ocean below.
Liquor heats blood to leave most impervious to the nightly chill above deck, yet in the underbelly, colder still. Overlooked are the Leviathan’s passages, sprawled in layers of wool and bundles of teeth where threats reel up from roiling graves of which many would hope them to remain hidden. Histories and mistakes now made tangible, acidic to the velvet of the tongue, no longer a faraway risk tucked away from the mind’s eye. Warnings and blackmail are spoken in the dark throats of the ship, a converging meet where burnt bridges must be acknowledged.
With a gesture must be its reaction, as what follows the crew is promised to be a watery retribution. But for tonight or how many this boat can spare before it upends and the veil of false security slips away, unworried are most patrons.
Reunited but perhaps not reconciled, with the clash of old friends, family, lovers and enemies, boarding night is promised to be a nucleus of tension.
{IN-CHARACTER}
night owl
 


DEVANA ACINDIUS ─ THE SHACKLED
tags: n/a ; location: the leviathan
interactions: npcs;
clothing: x x x (with regular chainmail type metal rather than pearls)


There was something exhilarating about being away from home. Spacial awareness had been instilled into since she was a mere child, left to fend for herself in the biting cold and against ravenous beasts. She was hyper aware of what was going on around her, even more so than usual. Surely there was a world to describe how she felt. It sat on the tip of her tongue even. Maybe dogged what she was feeling? Or was pertinacious a better word?

The king had sought to separate Devana from her family. Sending her own such a voyage was a clever idea, she had to admit. Should she lose her life, it would be regarded as a tragic but not unsurprising loss. After all, the sea was a dangerous place and had claimed many ships. The leviathan would not be the first royal vessel to tread troubled waters and sink. While she was not opposed to her remains forever haunting the ship, she was sure that her time for eternal rest was not in the near future.

From behind a gleaming bone, obsidian eyes roamed over the crown of folk. Her towering stature allowed her to gaze over many heads, but she had yet to see her target. Yes…she had plans for the king’s toy soldier. Devana felt like a feral dog, salivating over the prospect of a fresh kill. She licked her lips then, the wild look into her eyes illuminated by the lights from the lamps aboard. It had taken a small but a small sacrifice to coax the whispers into guiding her, into showing her the way to reaching her goals. That night the fire had shifted into a shape, the face one that she would never forget as long as she lived and even after.

Her heart thumped with the beat of the music. It felt like a call to motion. While it did not compare to the beating of drums and the sound of changing, she felt compelled to join in nevertheless. Devana knew she was a sight. Some had called her and her kin nightmares when they believed that they were out of hearing range. Folks eyed her warily as she stalked past, making her way towards the dancing crowd with an almost frenzied intensity. For those who refused to move? Well they were bumped out of the way when they met the solid oak that was her body.

Her attention was drawn to a woman of wild hair and golden bangles. For a moment the imposing woman only stared, their eyes met and Devana merely tilted her head. A coy smirk was all it took for her to join her new companion in dance. The two of them fell into rhythm, dancing a game of chase. The wild-haired woman was a natural, dancing around Devana as she acted as the “aggressor”. The heir chuckled darkly as her partner ran from only to be curled into her embrace with a rough hand at the back of her neck. Devana let herself be pushed away, enjoying their game.



coded by archangel_
 





THE LAZARUS.















scroll

RAT



THE

LAZARUS




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




MAKING FRIENDS











OUTFIT




FLUTTERS BY











LOCATION




MESS HALL












MENTIONS




HELLO ILYA (THREAT)










INTERACTS




qunqun qunqun


















MERCY DOWN — S. JAMES.
































































scroll






YOUR JOURNEY IS




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






























CHAPTER ONE.

Beyond opal walls splays the stygian oblivion, mangled and mauled by the fervidity of nature’s whim. Maybe a once livened expanse, now birthed and held by the aching black that ensnares all of the Cascades. It works itself over pale pathways, ragged minerals of gemstone and hostile canopy till there is a clearing wet with moonlight, and at its shoreline, a rodent’s recluse embraced by forked flora.

A knock against its heavy door punctuates pause in movement, but the botanist is just as quick to ignore it. Remains at the kitchen table with a sooty rodent as his valued audience, willingly ignorant with pruning shears in hand and a cup of sugar tea coiling steam nearby.

A second knock as he proceeds to snip away the withering branches of a young hydrangea. It could be friend or foe— not that there were many of the former —healer or disruption, liar or ally or nomad or politician; not a lack of trust he has for whoever loiters at his door, but a formidable lack of interest.

Despite the hermit of his home he justifies there is no harm in ignoring them. They will find help elsewhere.

Another stem is severed, another knock sounds, another slash at his halcyon. He takes a sip of tea that scalds against the tongue. The howling wind meets an overhanging branch meets the green of his door, it must be.

Silence is a luxury lost in an instant. Another knock, louder, his jaw gives a twitch like a pulse, eases with a shuddering exhale that tastes like fire. A very wistful fool, surely, and if he remains in catacomb silence, they will find better victims to haunt.

Another knock.

“Fine!” It strikes like a bark, impatience brimming that he can no longer tolerate the intrusive call of his attention. A bluster of clattering shears and movement that echoes across the space, his tall frame nearly fills the doorway as he pulls it open with enough force to dredge it from a deep sea.

Hostile eyes drop from face to Thing held against the visitor's chest, and Landon’s first thought, or perhaps a survival instinct, is to slam the door shut.

“Ow–” It is not enough to stop his unwelcome visitor, and a cunning shoe has wedged itself into the closing gap, taking the opportunity to leak through the fissure like winter’s spidering ice. A younger sibling would need something much stronger and bigger to stop their entry, and Landon can only recoil back into his home with common hiss and vitriol.

“It is well-deserved for shoving your feet in my doorway.”

“You did not even let me say anything.” White hood eases away to uncover the head of blonde, and it is habitual that Landon relents to see Oskar. There is something both comforting and infuriating to see his brother here, standing pale as arctic, reminded by familiar attire that he does not venture into Cascade walls and society nearly enough. He would fault every traitorous bone of his being that spending time with his sibling is something he still selfishly wants— fears he may always want.

“I’m here to ask a favor.” The sincerity of their voice draws attention, and mulish arguing is quick to bloom at their request.

“No.” Landon answers bluntly, can see it maligned and vivid in their mind before the proposition has even left their mouth. There is not a clip of anger in his voice, but a simple vow. “I am not housing it here. Reason, rationality, consciences, cats do not possess these.” The flat-faced cloud held hostage in Oskar’s arms growls as if to argue. “You see? Ugly beast.”

“Do not call him ugly.”

“It is ugly.” It, always careful not to familiarise. Landon turns away with petty conviction, reaches a hand to take the pet rodent from the table to stow away in the safety of his pocket.

“His name is Grog.”

“No.”

“And he would like to live here.”

“No.”

“And look, aw. He is exploring your kitchen.”

“No?” The pre-programmed reply has barely sunk in before eyes are widening, head turning like a blur to find the beast stepping its arrogant way across the kitchen counter. “No!” He intends to chase the cat into the darkness outside, but a mere step has it hissing with ears pressed flat and spine shocked into an arch.

Nasty fucking thing.

Landon is not afraid of cats, but he is not stupid enough to approach an animal that wants him dead. It spits bitter warnings like an extension of hate, and the botanist regards Oskar from the edge of his vision with an annoyed stare at the stalemate.

“They will not let me keep him.” They. Landon is silent on the topic, but it wrests what little air inhabits his lungs with a forgotten ache. "There is nowhere else." He can see the youth in Oskar, all that hope and dreaming and faith infused with his bones like cosmos marrow, he’d be jealous if harbouring those virtues would not lead to his own ruin.

“That is not my concern.” Allows the bite to be carried off and be consumed by the shadows outside, for he has returned— if not bitterly —to his pruning, curves the shears to a sepia stem and snips away the rotten weakness. It is not unlike the Covenant, he habitually thinks, severing away something all in the excuse of survival, all for some justified resolve; it cannot be undone.

“It could be, if you tried.” And it is not unlike Oskar to always reach for him with such knowing stares and attempt to entice him from his solitarian habits. He could be if he tried, what a haunting idea to have to try for anything. An older sibling so prone to the shift, stepping from glade across the stretch of ice that divides Landon and Rat and brings the haunting dissonance like a fickle shadow. Fondness is a maggot of rot that twists itself to the surface, pulling threads of truth and lie and building a new body as an inhospitable deterrent.

“Takes ol’ Greggers and go.” Vocalisation now hones itself ragged against nasal cliff-face, and a disregard easy in shoving away interest encompasses him like scarves salted with blood and pressed into open wounds.

“Grog.” Oskar tries again. Rat can feel that sympathetic hand attempting to reach and pull him from crypt.

“Graggurt.” Stubborn, when the botanist feels separation like boiled meat sloughing from bone and echoing a loss, he claws warm gravedirt back over his corpse like a blanket and recoils deeper until the crushing weight of soil promises to leave him calcified in the core of the earth.

“You know he is Grog.” If there is a sibling bond there, it is where Hestia values nurture and Demeter prefers the isolating silence of harvest.

“Nay, Ratsie knows not of that name.” And Ratsie may not know many things, civility and manners and what merits can be reaped from allowing himself to be truly known, but Landon begrudgingly knows he cannot leave the wretched animal to be eaten away in the quiet of his home with looming plans to depart for Zenith.

Once upon a time in the walls of the Cascades, a whey shade of a sickly boy forced a portion of his life into a bag with ambition to disappear and dissolve into nothing. The last night at his hideaway home seemed no different, taking tool and seed and journal and wrangling the spitting cloud of fur into a sack to take onboard the ship like a burlap of writhing serpents.

And a burlap of serpents is also not unlike the mess hall that teems with liars. It’s a mythic grandeur to most, the calibre of good food and entertainment, but the botanist has a sneaking suspicion if anyone were to scratch and scrub away everything sugar-spun and amiable on the surface, there may be suppuration beneath radiant skin. Left without cauterization, it will weep.

Glowing lamps sprawl the busy hall in saffron warmth, and beneath the same beamed ceiling and rustic ambience merges eclectic guests and the loitering vermin. Liquid plague does he watch the ebb and flow, a seething malicious thing with carrion eyes and pale pelt that festers from forgotten cavities; there is order to his chaos, has lack of infinitum as his motivation.

But to malign rodents is to overlook their virtue, how they fester everywhere despite being welcomed nowhere, risk guillotine traps and tampered food and can upheave both women and men onto chairs and tables by glimpse or hearsay of its presence alone.

The botanist does not view himself much differently.

In his eyes are sea light shoals, scraping over the eddying movement like a witness at the stand. Without intent and ever so languorous, he’d found the glum man like a coppery shadow, like rust left desiccated in open air. Ill-mannered mutts tend to beg for scraps, and Rat’s flippancy is nothing but an ill-mannered imploration for attention.

“Yoohoooo!” Calls for their attention with an obnoxious wave and sequence of snapping spindly fingers in their face, he often picks the latter when deciding between ignoring or entertaining unrest. “Wakey wakey, ya.”

Ilya has fallen within the rodent’s orbit. Run.

“Ah!” Perked as if just located a dream trinket, claw hand latches itself over the rim of the Physician’s cup in a sharp, raptorial gesture. “Needs 'ta borrows this, yes we do.”

Unrepentant he takes from the homeowner, soundless in the motion of a steep tip and swill to drain its contents. The botanist rights the curve of his spine, swishing a mouthful between walls of teeth with thoughtful features.

Then spits it back into the cup as a chalky foam.

5 stars on Yelp.

“Heres was poorest Rat, imagines the absolute horror, lost! Nowheres to hoick! Then oh!” He laments with a theatrical cry of horror. “Sweet charitable one brings us a bucketsies of bilge-water, yes they do.” A single pat on the shoulder as he presses the frothy cup back into Ilya’s hand with a shark-teeth smile. “Lucky wee thing I am.”

“Reckons an introduction, ya. I, the wee lucky one,” a theatrical hand curls itself upwards, and flourishes downward into a steep bow, “am dearest Rat!”

And beneath the assault of eccentrics there is a method in the madness. Rat is not heartless enough to hurl Grog the cat overboard— the vile thing is a pet of his brother, after all, —so Rat must peruse the hordes to find a suitable caretaker that will remember to feed it sometimes.

No better way to test this than spitting in their drinks, pry along their porcelain exterior for search of an easy fracture. Ilya looks like a smallest slice would spill a ravine of sand or dust straight from the vein, and perhaps someone that exhausted could do with a comforting cloud to bite and attack them and make their life worse. Or be too tired to do nothing but tolerate the viciousness.

Although one may argue it would be far more efficient in directly asking who would like the responsibility of a cat, another may argue, tawny haired and elongated, that there is no fun in that.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 






The Physician.















scroll

Ilya



Jovanovic




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




... Okay!











OUTFIT




Party woo












LOCATION




Mess Hall












MENTIONS




Rat, Devana










INTERACTS




Gao Gao



















Cigar — Tamino.



























































scroll






Humanist's Folly.




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






























Chapter One.

The lingering presence, the smell of death seemed to never quite escape him these days. Well, nobody complained around him, so he could only figure it was a psychosomatic symptom of not getting enough sleep at nights. A man too deeply in his own head, self-admittedly not enough time spent with the effortless living and too much spent with the fighting to live, stepping onto creaky boards to a future of greener pastures lined with green faced nausea.

The necessity of socialization spurning the doctor after carefully putting sharp implements into drawers where they are to hurt no one to sit in the mess hall. Jaunty music playing, a sweet luxury of the rich. It was a more fulfilling thing to work for the poor, but the comforts of gold took an edge off the vacuous emptiness. In any case, a nice drink, amber poison in a tin chalice with how rare such a minor splendor was for him, held by the rim by steady hands slowly moving the liquid inside in a clockwise motion.

Faces blurred in memory, filtered through despite the joviality surrounding him. The party a long distance from the mind as his patients came into sharp focus, silent worry filling him at uncertain future-

And that's when a rat went YOOOHOOO, the little rat paw clawing his drink out of his hand. Ilya gave a blink of surprise as he ceded the drink without question and-

Spit.

Okay.

Well.

That happened.

Unused to editorializing, emotion drained the doctor possibly more than the death that surrounded him, so much that the best response he could muster up was a paltry, silent, and stifled

Damn.

Attention sliding off as yapping began. Somewhere behind the spitter, a woman was dancing, though perhaps thrashing would be a better descriptor, to the classical music. She seemed familiar, perhaps that was someone to examine later.

Blank dark brown eyes slowly turned back to the pasty thin man before him. More or less watching the gums flap and the gesticulating occur than actually listening. A seed still stuck between ivory incisors. Was that green always his skin’s hue? The darkened circles under bright eyes (feverishly so almost) and reddish tint to the lips one shade too sanguine and internal to be intentional. A sickly creature, that was to be certain. Something chronic, something deadly. Was it a miracle in itself that he was still alive? To still be drawing the breath to still be talking-

He was still talking.

“-the wee lucky one.”

Lucky that he was still alive, indeed. Lucky that his victim was someone whose movements felt vaguely like his limbs were moving through a thick molasses when he wasn't attending to a crisis.

“Lucky.” Came the affirmation and nod instead, a man of few words despite how busy his head always seemed, even if it felt stuffed with cotton. Though he could figure that they were talking about very different types of luck.

“Dearest Rat.” The echo of someone desperately trying to understand what was going on, flummoxed and stilled for the time being as the rat bowed, just as confused if the creature itself had bowed to see this… lovely human doing so. Yet strangely, unquestioning to the name. Acceptance that this was what he was, a stranger that spit into people’s drinks and called themselves Dearest Rat, instead of any type of pushback against it.

“Doctor Ilya Jovanović.” He said lamely as he reached out to shake one of his hands rum-stealing paws. As strange to grasp for normalcy when struck with oddity, perhaps, as the eccentricity before him. “... It’s a pleasure. Just to clarify, is your first name Dearest and your family name Rat or is your first name Rat and you just are the dearest.”

A slow and tender smile of a stranger’s introduction. Warm, but poised and careful. Strangely unflappable to the eccentricity before him. Meeting the outlandishness with steady sight. A joke offered instead of rebuke.

Gentle, soft, kind. Do no harm.

“Don't mind me asking this if it oversteps my bounds, but are you feeling alright?”

Perfectly worried sounding with care interlaced to the tone. A slight crease on the brow. Concern, even.

“Sorry, you just look a little… it's a doctor thing, seeing illness sometimes when there isn't any. My apologies.” He wasn't wrong, he was certain, but it was wrong to speak of this when they'd just met and there were potential prying ears and eyes surrounding them. “How are you finding the voyage so far?”






























♡coded by uxie♡
 













  • XI.
    the soothsayer





    armağan "kader" kaplan.
    mood
    observant

    location
    The Leviathan

    interactions
    open

    tags
    N/A





designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ
 








  • click here



    "I've wrestled with the truth for quite some time, and I've been drowning in this restless mind,"



    "I'm sick of being so unsatisfied tell me that the answers right, God are you awake at night?"


























    aawake at night


    half alive









    "the drowned"




♡design by miyabi, coded by uxie♡
 
mood :
Calm

location :
The Leviathan; The bow
outfit :
mentions :
No one

interactions :
Open for interactions!
THE DESCENDANT
;; Dahlia


Against the black canvas above were celestial bodies that danced around the moon, adoring her light that gazed down upon ‘The Leviathan’. The ship itself was well alive with music caressing the winds and ear drums of those partaking the celebratory night. They filled their gluttonous bellies and drowned themselves with all sorts of pleasures the lady of the night gave them. Their celebration echoes all over the ship. However, near the bow of the ship the music wasn’t as loud nor was there any sign of life there. Only Dahlia.

She had a napkin filled with bread, cheese, some fruit, and someone’s flask. Whatever strong, liquid courage was in it had a kick and it warmed her nicely against the cold. For her there was no need to socialize, to celebrate with those of the crew, or get herself caught when she wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. Thankfully it didn’t seem like anyone was planning to make their way over. Taking off her black leather jacket and folding it into a pillow, she laid back against the deck gazing at the ebony sky. Dark brown eyes created pictures with astral figures that were accompanied by an overlay of blues and purples muted from the dark clouds.

Her right hand laid against her chest, while the other slid under her ‘pillow’ with her right knee raised to a more comfortable position. It was actually the most comfortable she had been in a while.

Despite the sound of music floating near, it still felt nice and serene where she was. It was peaceful. Nights like these were hard to come by. To have this luxury feels almost wrong to have. For now she’ll enjoy this peace. Her hand on her chest patted against the music and the woman hummed to the beat.

Her thoughts coursed over the past few days. Or the past few years. Right now it feels like everything is still. Nothing has really changed. She wanted change, craved for it. However, change didn’t seem to come for her. The hand on her chest raised to the sky, her fingers dancing along with the stars to the music that bellowed. Only to stop and think, what it would be like to be up there to look down from above.

coded by reveriee.
 
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