Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

BEHAVING

OUTFIT

NOT SUSPICIOUS

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN HALLWAY

MENTIONS

HELLO VAS

INTERACTS

morcetyx

BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.

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HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER ONE.

It’s his nature to withdraw from crowded rooms and find respite away from the churning tumult. Developed from youth when the only problem traits inherited were restless bones and hungry eyes, the same boy has grown to disfavour being nudged around like malleable driftwood.

It swims across skin and consumes the tepid current in his body; not all rivers are made to be safely crossed, and this one can feel his mood curdle sour at the fourth, fifth, sixth disturbance; can feel his joints instinctively pull away from the seventh, eighth, ninth brush of shoulders.

It is not their fault, some rational part knows this, but the anger still settles baited and unsated, settles on all fours and is bleeding a waspish static that seeks to throttle bacon fat necks by tight frilly collars. Even someone like Ren must stop to contemplate if bloodying his fists on drunks is worth the retaliation that was sure to ensue, and even someone warm and conversational must slip away from his love of company to find solace in colder, quieter places. Knows the weighted risk of lingering and chooses to step outside of the mess hall for this very reason. Doesn't trust those aboard this ship to temper his hate of crowds with alcohol so soon; doesn’t trust his own temper to stay tethered and well-mannered and keep him out of trouble.

A warm bread roll taken with the residue practice of a criminal was just the comfort Ren had been looking for, as it was easy to forget that he, at face-value, was allowed to linger and soak in the splendour of the boarding night celebrations. This fact does not purge how he still careens the borders of affability and corruption, crests naturally with his conversational nature, crooks naturally with his dishonesty and arrogance.

He was here for the King, he was not lying, but failed to specify he was not here by being personally appointed through a nicely wax-stamped letter, but by the drive of his own sour motive. For the King in the way of gladiatorial pollice verso where the thumb turns to signal their fate, For the King in the way an axe cleaves clean through an exposed nape and wets the sand in red.

He is a well-travelled man that comes from a respected family, he was not lying, yet failed to specify it was he and he alone who respected his mother and father. Respected in the way a boy hates to upset his mother, respected in the way a boy wants to make his father proud.

He’d spent time at sea with a crew that still wanted him back, he was not lying, yet failed to specify the stint of piracy with the carmine corsairs and how their wanting was less of admiration, more of a looming death-threat. Want him in the way a cruel-beaked eagle perches outside a gash in the soil where a meadow mouse cowers, want him in the way vultures pull till vinegary meat snaps away from sun-baked carrion.

It is the only failure he will actively engage to have, always dishonestly honest. Glass half full or glass half empty, one only thinks the latter if they are not aware there was once more in the cup. If they take the glass as a whole fruit, the core and pit and skin and fail to notice it has been hollowed and weighed with sawdust, they expect nothing else in their short-lasting beliefs.

Risky, maybe; though what there was of flintlock decisions and running on instinct in his life, it is all he has ever truly had.

If only it had not been, If only he had not been at all. Who knows exactly whether this veneer was marrow-made in womb or learned as a necessary tactic in Zenith alleys.

Who knows if he is much different, for when young the only frame of perspective is close to the ground, and keeping wary vigilance would require a line of sight above juvenile height. Fickle things such as stature or status does not stop a thieving child from tearing across bridging piers till he collides his mother’s leg. A hand latches the back of his shirt before he has the haste to scurry and escape— the plan is foiled! —and the child is lifted just enough to scrabble along by his tiptoes as she marches him right back to apologise for the stolen bread held in his mouth.

He tries to imagine what he’d tell his mother if he ran into her here. Reasoning would be only half formed, weak with connective tissue needed to communicate much sense. Uncertain how to articulate being on a royal vessel with not-so-royal intent, he is not sure how his mother would feel about what he expects to be his final misguided decision.

Part of him hopes she will just think he settled somewhere nice.

Here on the Leviathan at the peak of both height and freedom, his mother cannot hold him like a handbag. Embraced by an illusion that consequences or attachment cannot rise to meet him like a rocky shore is a temporary comfort, his temporary sawdust fruit. It is an illusionary faith that if he does not acknowledge what mistakes have him casting looks over shoulder with the frequency of a criminal, then he can spend his time onboard the ship as a pious man. Somebody new, somebody free of mistakes and unaware of the familiar faces he is yet to recognize.

As he leans on the wall of the hallway and turns the butterscotch metal over in his hand in calculation of how much this weight would be worth, the hairpin is to prove a reminder that it is difficult to unbind the past from the present, unbind care and motive. Risk having it marionette bone and tendon through thieving motions with atavistic reflex, risk having the same past turn the corner and stand within his estimation.

Two truths and a lie:

He planned to give the ornate hairpin to his mom when he next saw her.

He legally obtained this hairpin from a Zenith market stall.

The owner of the hairpin was scorching him with an accusatory stare.

Hang on.

That's unfair.

Before he has the mind to hide it, what looks to be horror and insult inches up and steals away to his face. An unspoken, Why you?!— He recognises the blonde no doubt, for even with the yolky alloy and ruby gem in his hand, they rival like a golden constellation, hair wreathing curls like wildflowers and features carved like marble blades fresh from whetstone.

The past is a revenant haunt, and it has been only hours since Ren boarded the ship with an oath to be good only to have that aspiration crumble like rotten foundations at the sight of his latest victim; now a threat to his longevity on this vessel. The saying that someone can never escape their past resonates like a painful echo.

Artless as only a movement crafted out of guilt could be, Ren sheepishly pinches the rim of his hat to pull it lower, and turns his head to rub the same hand against his temple in an inconspicuous attempt to shy his face from view.

If he does not look at them, they are not real.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Mypilot]

Interact: Evelynne


It had gone like this.

Shipment is the same no matter where you go; crates go into carts, carts get hauled by men onto ships, and those ships will bring the cargo to their destination. Bec knows he is not cargo because people cannot be shipped like that, but that doesn't stop him from thinking he can hide away in the crates regardless.

Zenith is far more particular than Kestyr ever was, here he has to be careful not to be caught. Bec isn't sure what the punishment for crime would be in a city with such glittering guards, and in truth he isn't keen to find out. Coming all this way only to get caught on the first day would be disappointing. He cannot let it happen.

The guards watching the ship are attentive, if lenient. The overall air of the docks is festive, people are excited to see the mighty vessel launch, and it has become a celebration of sorts. The guards must ensure everything goes as planned, but they spend time to smile pleasantly at locals and pretty faces, to chat amicably at those passing by.

The cargo has almost entirely been loaded at this point, and Bec only slips in with the luggage of the crew, the guests, the kingsmen. Suitcases and crates of fresh food for the underbelly of the ship, wine and spirits for the first night of celebration. He walks closely behind a trio boarding the ship, workers of some degree, as if he is with them, and then slips quickly away to join the working men bringing those crates below decks.

He is weak looking, he knows, but he has a wiry strength earned from years of grueling outdoor labor, and he utilizes this to pick up a crate and carry it onto the ship. No one questions him, and a harried looking steward simply ushers him to the storage area for new food and snaps their fingers to encourage a faster pace.

Bec scrambles to work hard, and when the work changes into preparing the ship for departure, for tidying up rooms and the kitchen and the mess hall, Bec ensures he is there too.



The ship departs, and with it goes any chance of changing his mind. Bec, of course, had no intention of doing so. It isn't in him to ignore the call of a whisper, and the intrigue that comes with The Leviathan is impossible to ignore. There is a story in this ship, a promise of adventure and disaster. Bec has lived a simple life thus far, or at least he thinks so, and now he intends to see how things will truly play out.

The party is in full swing, the ship rocking in the gentle waves and the wine-drunk passengers rocking with it. Bec does not drink, and indeed as he pretends to be but a simple crewman, he is sure it would be impolite to do so anyway. The paying patrons of the ship, however, do not so gently hold back.

Bec slips among them, a fresh uniform over his frail frame, and happily cleans up spills and gathers dirty dishes. He will need to find a better "disguise" come the following night, for he cannot (will not?) clean up messes for the entire voyage. Being cramped up in this mess hall, even one so large as this, was enough to set his teeth on edge. Too many keen eyes, even if most of the rich folk didn't look twice at him.

Finally, Bec manages to slip away, to shod his uniform and wander the deck in the grim silence of the night. Here, the stars were a smear across the sky, clouds wisping across them like a lover’s trailing touch. It was strange to see the sky so vast and beautiful; in Kestyr, the horizon was always hidden by the litany of trees and foliage that covered every surface.

Taking a moment to study its beauty, Bec tilted his head back to admire the view. His hair briefly fell out of his face, and the chilly night air brushed against his skin. His eyes roamed over, catching sight of the ropes that trailed about like spiderwebs. He wondered what it would be like to climb them, and then it occurred to him that he could simply find out.

A quick glance to ensure solitude, and then his hands were gripping the rough material of the rope. It dug harshly into his skin, but Bec found he didn't mind. How much different could this be, really, from climbing trees, vines, pipes? If anything, it was made easier but the uniformity of the rigging, by the rough grip the rope provided. Bec was lost in the euphoria of being able to climb, of disappearing high above the ship, and did not hear the approach of the girl until it was too late.

the urchin

bec.

• aaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaa

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AnimeGenork]

• Rosaline
• Parrat

• 
  
  mood :

  a bit put out but flirty as hell
  
  

  location :

  the deck

  outfit :

  mentions :

  the captain (insert heart-eyes here)
  
  

  interactions :

  pending junshi morcetyx

  Enamored

  ;; rosaline

  Rosaline Touchard considered the layout of her life to be a series of revelations, none of which was the all-too-obvious notion that her beloved was simply never going to look her way. She was deep in denial, an emotion a harlot like her was not privy to feeling at any time. And yet, she was wading through the thick of it, determined to stay by her beloved’s side despite the fact that he had never looked her way. Although she was quite confident about her beauty and the power of her particular occupation and the skills it had imbued her with, she was not at all confident that she ever would feel his gaze upon her, as affectionate as she wished she could be with him.
  
  There were certain cons, as there always were, to being in love with a ship captain.
  
  Thanks to her efforts, there had been no trouble at all boarding the Leviathan. The guard stiffened as she passed, the embarrassment of being so easily used finally catching up with him, but he kept up his end of the bargain anyway. She could not help the smug smile that lifted her painted lips, but her fan hid it easily. Considering she had been allowed onto the ship by such a careless guard, Rosaline had expected more challenges to her presence. It appeared as if her attire had successfully tricked her audience into thinking she was a lady of wealth, rather than a lady of harlotry. Really, her moving to Sirocco Sands had truly been in her favor.
  
  She had set about to find the captain, not to talk, but to reassure herself that he was in fact here, and that she was not about to set sail on a possibly perilous journey for no reason. After hours of searching, she had come up short, and the departure festivities had begun. No matter. Rosaline figured she would try again tomorrow, pending that she did not give herself a hangover from all the alcohol she was currently consuming.
  
  And who could blame her, really? She had debased herself to get on this vessel, and the recipient of her affections wasn’t even visible. So, yes, she downed a glass of whatever alcohol was available in one gulp. And yes, she may have unsteadily made her way out of the mess hall and onto the deck for some fresh air. Thankfully, that had sobered her up just enough to achieve her next task: finding someone’s bed to haunt.
  
  As if that was hard for someone like her. All she needed to do was subtly lean against the railing, fanning herself gently, and right on cue, a drunkard appeared. Not her intended target, but at least good for a good laugh before she considered throwing him overboard. She hid half of her face behind her fan, not wanting to give him any particular, expressive reason to make a mistake. Of course, that still, apparently, gave him license to lean in close enough to expose her poor nose to the scent of the meal he’d had minutes before. “And what’s a pretty thing like you doing out here alone?” he slurred, clearly eyeing her bodice.
  
  Really. That’s your opening line? Ah, well. Not like she had other prospects at the moment. “I have my reasons, of course.” She angled herself to give him a better view and to get her arm as far away from his roaming hand as possible. “It was far too… crowded in there.”
  
  “I’ll say.” The drunk man burped, and Rosaline wrinkled her nose as the stench wafted her way. Ugh. He better have decent coin. “Fancy yourself needing some privacy?”
  
  “Indeed I do, sir. Are you offering something more secluded than where we are now?” Rosaline hinted, knowing very well that she was going to either break some fingers or, for the thousandth time in her life, debase herself for money.
  
  Theoretically, either situation was a victory. So let the game commence.
  

  coded by reveriee.
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  The Cat

  (Affectionately named "Parrat.")​

  
  The kitten could not recall how long his ears had been pinned to his head. Loud. It was all very loud. Not to mention the smell. Alcohol was pungent against his scent glands, and so he had refrained from opening his mouth. His nose burned with the acidity of it, and so the kitten sought refuge in the gathering place where the humans on this strange wooden creature ate. Sniffing along edges of the room, he managed to find scraps to consume. He went largely ignored by the occupants of the room, and that was just how he preferred it.
  
  Having found enough food to fill his belly, the kitten maneuvered out of the room, only narrowly avoiding the puddles of alcohol. He relied on mainly his hind legs to navigate such turbulent circumstances, a method he had painstakingly learned after the amputation of his left front leg. Once out of the room, the kitten shook himself, fluffing out his coat before washing his ears.
  
  Now, the kitten craved the fresh air of the sea, and so he made his way to the open space where the humans often congregated and spent their time leaving or boarding the strange vessel. Glancing around, the kitten noticed a figure to his left, waving a wing-like object in front of her face. The kitten tilted his head, considering approaching the human for ear scratches.
  
  Instead, he curled up by the door leading belowdecks and buried his nose in his tail. The breeze coming off the water lulled him into a light nap.
  
  

  Dedicated to you all.​

  
  

  Coding by AnimeGenork ​

 

[Nifty]

MOOD: Curious and yet dutiful.

OUTFIT: All black clothing. With a silver necklace.

LOCATION: Leviathan, Dining Hall.

basics

MENTIONS: Genevieve, Tarin, Parrat

INT: sunshineysoul

tags

TL'DR: Found a stowaway. Might snitch to Tarin later after she’s done questioning the pretty lady. With a hint of the red string of fate theory.

tl;dr

The Scourge

DOLORES THORNE

While the afternoon sun rose, casting its golden glow across the rolling waves and illuminating the vast expanse of ocean before her, the newly christened ship Leviathan sliced through the calm waters with an elegance that belied its size, its sails freely billowing in the swift breeze.

The purposeful, well-practised steps of busy feet moved efficiently on Leviathan’s newly polished deck. The melody of seafaring life was created by the creaking of ropes, the flap of sails, and the sporadic shout. With the deck alive with activity and guests, Dolores Thorne asserted herself with a few duties before the evening celebration could begin. Only the satisfaction of having a safe and productive voyage can ease the branded woman’s mind with a passive purpose.

Her steps led her to her first task: ensuring the ship’s inventory was safe and secure. The leather clicks of her ebony boots echoed through the empty hallway where she made a turn, leading her down a flight of stairs, the ship’s lowest storage space.

Calloused fingers grip the list as her gaze analyses the items safely tucked in the cargo. Gunpowder, freshly polished canons, scrubbing equipment and an enormous supply of wax for deck maintenance. Her eyes focused on the list and the items she was assigned to manage. From the satisfying row of checks, everything is in order.

Retreating footsteps echoed throughout the room. With only a few more steps, she could’ve easily gone on with her next task, but an invisible tug halted her pace to a stop. She surveyed the room one more time, and she saw something from the slightly hidden crevices. Dolores barked a loud ‘hey’ towards the frozen lady.

Her steps were nearing her figure. And finally, to a complete stop.

The curly-haired maiden’s brow twitched in reflex as her umber eyes gazed at the lady with the breathtaking golden eyes. Something about those eyes jolted a faded memory she failed to recollect, and she rarely forgets anything. The longer she stares at her, something annoying and mysterious crawled deep in her chest. It was as if the ribs that caged her heart continued to poke and fiddle with its invisible strings—puppeteering her heart as it pleases. Whatever it was, she forcefully shoved it away into the depths of her mind.

Being lost in her mind, Dolores pulled herself out once the golden-eyed maiden parted her lips, and a gentle yet fidgety voice rang out. She assessed the delivery of her speech and remained quiet for a moment before politely presenting her with her name. After all, she would only do this for the sake of civility.

Ah, of course.

Sweet civility.

While the footsteps of guests continued to echo above, the branded kingsman couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at this ‘acquainting’ Genevieve was making with… the lowest section of the ship. Guests would typically stay in the comforts of their rooms or even explore above the deck, enjoying the peaceful cruise Leviathan currently offers. If it weren’t for the noticeable dampness of her hair or the tangy scent of the sea lingering on her clothes, Dolores would’ve assisted her gently above the surface, just like any compassionate kingsman would. But Dolores is neither a ‘true’ kingsman nor a compassionate one, not to a stranger at least.

To confirm her intuition, Dolores said, “May I see your papers?”

From a fraction of a second, the branded maiden saw the confirmation she needed. Her heels swiftly turned, prepared to tell the captain as per protocol. “The captain or his first mate will deal with stowaways.” Her voice was icy and unfeeling.

Hands reached out to her own, and she froze. Dolores’ fist tightened at the physical touch, and the urge to pull away strongly enticed her; if it weren’t for the voice telling her to listen and the thin barrier her sleeves provided, she would’ve done it with ease. Leather boots remained reluctantly planted. The branded maiden’s face slightly crinkled with evident dissatisfaction at the stranger’s hold on her clothed arm. However, it gradually dropped the more she absorbed the frantic disposition she was given.

When Genevieve finished with a ragged breath, all Dolores could do was stare quietly as conflict slowly brewed in her mind like a silent storm. With one empty look, she shrugged her touch away and turned her back.

Metal cogs mechanically ticked as her mind pondered the new information she was given. The woman’s delivery provided her with enough insight to be aware of the truth of her story. Despite her fractured memory, the woman still managed to pick her most recent events in place and provide a hesitant yet honest response. A part of her felt a slight hint of sympathy: If the world weren’t such a cruel and unsafe place, scenarios such as these would cease to exist. Someone out there must be weeping at the memory-fragmented maiden’s disappearance.

Her thinking soon shifted towards her mysterious white-cloaked hunters. A stowaway with a mysterious history with peculiar individuals is like inviting trouble and chaos onboard the ship.

The kindest kingsman would’ve assured her that she was in safe hands, but she was neither of those things. She knew what the stakes would be if she disobeyed, and an unwanted memory drifted past her mind, a cruel reminder of the first time she disobeyed orders. She found her fist tightened in that moment, and her once nonchalant expression now creased with a frown. Her nerves and compromise steeled at that moment.

Dolores will notify the captain and his mates, therefore leaving the lost woman’s fate in their hands. After all, it is within the executioner’s nature to only carry the verdict, not proclaim it.

Until then, she must gather enough information to present and leave the judgement of fate to them.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Flickering lamps illuminated the hall with its warm light. Under its gleam, melodious music flowed perfectly, and dancing feet tapped the floor with enthusiasm and rhythm. Amid the crowd, there is a young woman carefully maneuvering through the bodies she desperately tries to avoid and touch. With eyes searching for a specific kingsman, she darted around her surroundings, analysing each face her eyes briefly gazed upon. While Thorne isn’t fond of celebrating, she was obliged to come due to the news she promised to bring. She hoped the captain and his mates would join the festivities, but her search proved uneventful.

With a complete lack of self-awareness, Dolores didn’t bother to dress for the celebration and maintained her earlier clothes. Except her unruly hair is now tamed with a bun with ebony curls cascading over her forehead, framing her delicate face.

“Achoo!” She sneezed loudly and was reciprocated with a few stares and raised eyebrows. The urge to pull a finger on them becomes overwhelmingly strong, but she behaves herself before doing something irrational. It reeks of fur in here. Fuck this. She thought to herself. No doubt, an adventurous and perhaps dubious furry creature just passed by her feet.

As her heels turned to leave, away from the source of her bane, a familiar tug left her to pause and turn. There, a surprising sight met her gaze. In the farthest and once again slightly hidden part of the room, she was met by the stowaway she had seen earlier.

Her leather boots began moving before she knew it. First, her heart began to be puppeteered, and now her feet? The sea breeze and the new environment must be messing with her senses.

The bronze woman greeted her with a nod before she found herself standing next to Genevieve with her arms crossed and her icy facade littered with not a single emotion. The woman next to her broke the floating silence, and Dolores followed it up with a quick reply.

“Captain and the first mate are busy.” She breathed her lie. Whether or not they were, a curious and totally harmless part of Dolores wanted to keep her a little longer despite her better judgment. “Third mate might be free later on. I’ll inquire him when he’s free. Until then, I’d advise you to stay out of trouble.”

The branded woman let an awkward air pass by before speaking again.

“I must ask, what are your plans for recovering your memory?” After a heartbeat, she continued, “The faster you recover them, the easier it will be for you to plan your next action.” While her words carry the tiniest semblance of tenderness, her monotone delivery says otherwise. The rough translation of her words is as follows: The faster you retrieve your memories, the easier it will be for you to craft a proper defence if you were summoned for a trial.

Perhaps this is her own unique way to help, or perhaps she can see the use Genevieve could bring. Either way, one thing is for sure: the strings of her heart are puppeteering her to stall.

code by valen t.

 

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

HATE YOU HATE YUO HATE YOU HATE Y

OUTFIT

FLUTTERS BY

LOCATION

MESS HALL

MENTIONS

DEVANA HIII

INTERACTS

ILYA qunqun

MERCY DOWN — S. JAMES.

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YOUR JOURNEY IS

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

CHAPTER ONE.

All things considered, the botanist must give the stranger his dues. One for not reacting with a fist to the jaw, two for not disengaging and walking away. Anchored like iron and ever willing, tolerating, to weather the storm; Rat thinks he could make a game out of this, prying for displays of animosity from those that stow emotion in the warchest of their skeletal cage.

Dearest Rat, they echo.

“Ya, ya. We is the one and only.” Impatience caters to the easily reactive, but it’s not uncharacteristic to shy from the gray of the proasic either. Unthwarted by how steady they are, lack of riposte from Ilya has raised both stakes and purpose. “Don’t goes two-timing with another.”

Despite a womb-made hatred towards having to wait for anything, Rat knows patience can be a virtue. Reap the best rewards from what does not offer itself so freely, delay harvest till the crop is ripe and bask in the amusement of inciting the anger of a man whose composure seems fool-proof (but if Rat is lucky, not pest-proof).

Doctor Ilya Jovanović.

Rat no longer enjoys this game.

Rat actually never liked him.

Fuck this guy.

Amiability disperses and leaves annoyance to pool the lacuna, a feeling now fated to associate with this man. Meeting suppurating sour, Rat’s jaw sets and he tries to ease its salted hinge to return into the comfort of a practised mask. Shake it off like water, like sleets of ice.

Handshake extended, attention snags enough to counter it with a casual high-five. No need for hellos, no need for formalities, no need to fraternise with these types. A Doctor is impressive in their own right, but Rat would rather eat broccoli than let them know that.

There is a smile from Ilya, how fucking dare he. It is not mocking, but it is something Rat doesn’t quite recognise. No charity, but for Rat it is akin to the throw of a gauntlet between them. No kindness here. No extensions of patience permitted, not when it has been rendered obsolete in his severance from the Cascade walls.

Oddity is overlooked for the specifics of his name. Ah, Rat decides, Ilya is officially the worst person on this ship.

“Nay, ditzy muttonhead.” A bite is flush at the teeth. Mean, heinous, cruel. Do the most harm. He tries to gather momentum for something quick but must opt for what arrives faster. “Marmalades the family name. Ratthew Marmalade.”

Yeah. Not his best work. But he has been sent a degree off-axis, pulled into a game that Ilya never agreed to play.

“Don't mind me asking this—” the botanist always hates the sound of that. It is always overstepping, always minded, mind your fucking business “—but are you feeling alright?”

Bite him. Something rabid urges. Bite him now. And Rat would have been wiser to satisfy that impulse than be within their assessment. Brows are crimped and Ilya is troubled, and for a moment Rat feels the air is dead and stagnant. Like salt dissolving the inner walls of his trachea and lungs and sloughing him away till there is nothing but seafoam.

He is no stranger to guesses on his character (not at all kind, not at all accurate) and would like to believe it is a question geared towards his mental state, but given their occupation, has no trust in that faith.

“Am not okay,” he sighs. “Stucks here natterin’ with a ginge.” His voice verges on emotional word-pour as he dabs away a single, invisible tear. Always levity, never admitting the particular weakness as if that is relinquishing a win.

They share space like the entry to a catacomb, stood in the median unable to pick a side, and a cruel part of Rat wishes to efface the hope and care within Ilya so that when the world inevitability pivots to rip it from bone, the blow is gentler. Care is lost on Rat, will be lost on many when the mirth of the ship dies and is replaced with the godforsaken desert of grief and seawater.

Tools and gentle stares will only fix so much.

But maybe there is something quieter, nestled away beneath sheaves of vapid skin and brittle bones that would like to steal that figment of hope and keep it for himself; if I cannot have it, nobody can.

“If the doc spills falsehoods, may haves to warn your patients. Lying to them would be cruel, Rat bethinks.” There is danger there, the smallest of accusations, but a man named rodent who spits in people’s cups is the last person to have the mental capacity of flaunting passive-aggressive cynicism towards the occupation.

He is just a little guy, after all.

The return to small-talk is welcomed by Rat, yet he gives no inclination that ease has sandpapered rough mood into smooth marble.

“‘Fraids a bit glum! Not even a measly fight or fire, ay ay, boring this is.” He swivels on heel to stand shoulder to shoulder beside Ilya, watching the milling people. While the Doctor had been speaking to him, there was something outside of both of them that caught attention, a tall dancer that rendered civility obsolete.

He’d complained there was no fight, but based on the feral style, he supposes that this is not so different. Rat observes in a silence that feels awfully judgemental for a man of his nature. One part confused, another part impressed that he is not the weirdest one afoot.

“Ay.” He drags attention away only briefly to continue his original objective. “... Hows Ilma feel about cats?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

XVII

the

star

"the heart"

mood

DONT EVEN BREATHE AT ME RN.

location

Party. Hallway. Yay.

mentions

Elera. Ren.

interactions

Elera Harrowhark
Ren Gao

XVI

the

tower

vasariah "nightingale"

Laughter and chatter, a cacophony of voices mingling with the clinking of glasses and the distant strains of music. Nerves burn under pale skin, dancing about with each spike and dip in the music. A heartbeat that settles just underneath his ribcage. A sickening pulse that only grows faster the more attention he pays to it. Golden curls cascade down shoulders, following the loss of the pin dear to him. The centerpiece.

Stolen. Calm. Thief.

You have been more social than usual.

Silence.

It would appear not anymore. Skittish.

“Are such parties truly necessary?” A whispered tone, blunt. Rhetorical. No answer provided would convince him such an event was anything other than…foolish, brainless, the list goes on. They would be forced into close quarters for much longer than he would like. What was the point in forcing the strangled formation of connections through the guise of a party?

Vasariah stood in a corner, his back against the wall. Arms crossed, head tilted towards the ground ever so slightly as he looked up with jade eyes, scanning the room. Much too many drunkards. Much too many anyone.

Beside him, the blind follower, engaged in their newfound pastime of people-watching. Despite their many differences, he admittedly had to admire her insistent need to comment on other people’s lives, behaviors, and appearances. It made for a great study. Conversation he would have written within his journal, if he had not foolishly left it lying on a crate in the follower’s room.

She has offered her room to you. Be grateful and use her name. You would be with the rats if it were not for her faith.

Elera was proving to be a…surprisingly bearable companion. She talked enough for him as well, though he was sure to find it getting on his nerves in the wrong environment. An environment like this gathering, for example.

Vasariah watched as the drunk workers began spilling their drinks as they turned to ogle at woman. “Such a horrid display. To be so distracted by a bystander you allow your drink to soil your clothes.” Another tripping over his feet to harass a woman. “Is there a male version of harlot…? No…I suppose that would just be pervert. It seems common here.”

He turns his head to glance at Elera, briefly studying her sharp features before the sound of a glass falling to the ground pierces his ears. He jumps, eyes honing on the genius who dropped his glass as his hands fly to cover his ears. “Stars…”

Not here. Not here. Not here. Leave. Not here.

Vasariah winces, hearing the loud disjointed melody from the star mixing with the noise of the party. Wretched experience. Not the star, but everything else screaming into his ears. He feels his blood boiling, heat rising within him to a much too uncomfortable temperature. With no breeze to cool him. Trapped in a room with sweaty bodies pushing against the other. The wood of the wall behind him starts feeling like sandpaper on his back, and the swaying of the boat begins making his stomach turn.

If he does not leave, he will make an unwise decision and scream loud enough to burst an eardrum. Hopefully his own.

“Air,” is the only thing he can gag past his throat towards Elera before he hurries out of the room. No regard for where he was going except out.

As Vasariah turned the corner, his breath caught in his throat. Muscles stiffening under pale skin. Eyes switching between the thief and his pin.

Here. Here. Here.

There he stood, tall and thin, his silhouette sharp and angular in the dimly lit hallway. He wore a baggy black outfit that seemed to swallow his lanky frame, yet complimented him the same. The seams were well constructed, though he could see the fraying at the ends. The fabric was horrid. The large buttons on the shoulder only made it feel ridiculous. A neat, lace fastening would have complimented the outfit better. The wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow that shrouded the figure’s face. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t see how…questionable…his outfit was.

Vasariah’s eyes narrowed as he watched his tan, slender fingers deftly twirling an ornate golden pin. Vasariah’s hairpin, the one he had stolen. The intricate engravings and ruby gemstones caught the light with every movement, a stark contrast to the man’s ragged attire. An wave of anger and determination surged through Vasariah as he watched him, his treasured possession in the hands of a thief.

Oh, this was unexpected.

A run in with the very person he swore he would sink his teeth into if he were to ever meet them again. He didn’t feel like tasting blood tonight. He wondered if he even had the energy to open his mouth. Lithe figure standing in the hallway, curls cascading over stiff shoulders. Frozen. Glaring. No time to waste with something as trivial as blinking. What to say…

Hands off.

No. Weak. No one is taking their hands off.

I believe you have something of mine.

Overdone, cheesy. He had read that line countless times.

Did your mother never teach you to keep your dirty paws off what doesn’t belong to you?

Yes, that was a good one. If delivered in the right tone, it would paint him as competent with the longer phrasing, yet with a bark to him. It would be perfect to…to do what exactly? Thieves hold no remorse, and have surely learned the difference between bark and bite.

The figure stood pulling hat, turning away from him. It put his pin out of view. Rude. Idiotic.

Is that what you want?

What?

Is that what you want? Is that what you want? Is that what you want?

Insistent chanting. Small, thin hands reaching to gently press against his brow bone. He pretends it eases the pressure.

Is that what I want…?

Before he can let his mind forward, he forces his legs to move. One step at a time. Apparently, we feel that confrontation is the most direct path today.

Vasariah does not need to dip nor bend in the knees to find himself a moonlit view of obsidian eyes, volcanic glass brighter than he had ever seen the night sky. He does not believe those who claim to find the smallest details within secrets hidden beneath irises. When he gazes into pools of ink, he feels nothing but a soul. No tells, no gives, no guesses. A soul familiar.

A soul that stole his hairpin.

Why…?

He manages to untie the string keeping his eyes locked on the thief’s. His leer traced from the dark red tint settling under his eyes down to the bronze skin of his nose. It is in his nature to study the way it concaves neatly at the bridge of his nose, only to have a slight bump a third of the way down from his eyebrow that curves beautifully to the tip of his nose.Not sharp, nor flat, simply an alluring roundness. Vasariah had drawn this nose before. He would know, it was his favourite to draw. A feature that would compliment any face, yet it had found a seemingly perfect home on the face before him.

Unfair, life was, to create such a being that could rival the alluring sight of the stars resting in the sky only to give him such…bad habits.

Jade eyes following the curve of his nose down to his lips. Darker than the skin around them, with a tint of crimson to them. No color could have complimented his skin better. Vasariah is not one for smiles, yet he finds himself wishing to see how the thief’s lips curl to reveal teeth. He oddly remembers the way lines form. He wonders if they are as soft as they look.

Unnecessary thoughts.

His eyes quickly glance down to his hand, where gold rests in slender hands.

Oh…

Without a word, Vasariah reaches for his ornate pin.

II

the

high priestess

"the seer"

card

eight of swords

This Post's Tarot Card​

In the context of this post, mentally stuck and overwhelmed. It’s a need to shut down mentally. In the imagery, both persons are blindfolded – a sign of tuning out and turning inward. A more general reading and understanding below:

"A card of entrapment. The mental constraints we find ourselves in, often created by our own hand. You may be over-thinking things, creating negative patterns or limiting yourself by only considering the worst-case scenario. The more you think about the situation, the more you feel stuck and without any options. You surrendered your power to an external entity, allowing yourself to become trapped and limited in some way. You may feel that it isn’t your fault – you have been placed here against your will. You may feel like the victim, waiting to be rescued, but is this energy serving you?

The Eight of Swords reversed suggests that limiting self-beliefs plague you, preventing you from moving forward. You may tell yourself that you do not deserve to be wealthy, preventing yourself from receiving financial abundance even if it’s offered to you. Or you might conclude you are too old to lose weight, leaving you unhappy with your body and your health. You are more prone to negative self-talk and suffering at the hands of your inner critic. You feel trapped because every time you try to do something, your inner critic tells you why it’s wrong or not good enough – so you give up trying altogether. The beliefs you hold about yourself are preventing you from achieving your personal goals."

 

[q r o w]

mood

"Visibly in distress"
Annoyed

location

The Leviathan

outfit

Light green dress

tags

Wyll floral

Harmony

Perhaps a dance is in order?

Tldr; Harmony, rather 'Countess', has officially boarded along side a friend; Evelynne Lovett. Former, Lovett rather. The two have have discussed much news between the two and now the Countess has excused herself to handle other conversations. Finding herself caught with nobles asking for her hand in a dance, she is attempting to guilt someone with her expression into saving her from the touchy hands of some noble man.
[Interacted w/ Evelynne, Mentioned: Evelynne and Gallin/Luc]


[That Morning]
The morning of boarding had been uneventful. Boring, even. There had hardly been any errands to run. No task to keep Harmony's mind busy. Time was almost excruciatingly still. It gnawed at her patience. Truly, her own fault for having ensured everything had been well prepared in advanced. Even having stayed up late into the night ensuring for the twenty-third time that everything was in place. Luggage packed and separated accordingly. Instructions to the young 'spider' that would be her body double. The girl was to board as 'Rose' and then slip away unseen before the ship took off.

'Spider.' A general term Harmony's mentor had used to refer to those skilled in espionage. A term Harmony now used to describe a certain group working under her. The young girl wasn't the only one. There were a few planted among the staff. A fail safe, should something go wrong. A network to rely on and to aid her in work. To listen to the ships quietest whispers in her place, should she be preoccupied. A web carefully woven. There were few in comparison to the total number of ship staff. However, there was so many she could slip in without making them seem suspicious. The less someone attempts a background check, the better. A brief test of skills had been enough for them.

As the time finally came to board, Harmony found herself quite surprised at the sight of a familiar face. Evelynne Lovett. Former Lovett. She knew the rumors well. The poor girl. After the last they spoke, Evelynne had seemingly disappeared. Not even a letter response to the letters she sent signed 'Countess'. The Evelynne before her looked downtrodden, but more noticeably scared. It didn't take a genius to see why. A few paces back was the world most inefficient spy. For one, his pace was to uneven. Likely drunk on the job. For two, he followed too closely. Anyone could see he was clearly following after young Evelynne. Yet everyone seemed far to focused in their own bubble to shoo the man off.

"Lady Evelynne. Pleasure seeing someone familiar. That ticket, for the Leviathan, yes? Mind walking with me?" Her voice sickeningly sweet. It was second nature to her. That shift of tone. The softening of expression. All too convincing to all those who crossed her path. It seemed to ease Evelynne, as she did accept her offer. The two ended up boarding together. Evelynne had insisted on catching up and Countess saw no need to refuse.

[Present]
The two departed from their talks as the day shifted into night. Harmony having found Eve's company enjoyable, even if she didn't particularly care for the shifts of topics that Eve presented. The talk about the recent activity of the Lovett's was beneficial. Even if Eve had left out many pieces. Harmony was no fool, she could tell the girl was hiding something from her. She would just have to wait and try pressing Eve later, it was obvious she wouldn't get anywhere today. The talk about ships and other nautical related things however, bored her. Countess had been to kind to let it show of course. If anything she let Eve ramble as she surveyed who else was aboard the ship.

Upon excusing herself from Eve's company, she found herself quickly swarmed. As if they had all been waiting for the Countess to be alone. Moths to a flame. Greetings were exchanged. Vague promises to talk 'later'. When that later would come, who knows. Their fault for using vague wording.

It was one noble man in particular that had Harmony annoyed. Obviously he was quite intoxicated. No matter how she tried to politely excuse herself, he refused to leave her side. A subtle shift in her jaw as she ground her teeth together, despite the kind smile on her face. He and his little followers seemed not to care they were being quite rude and even more so, obnoxious.

"Countess, you love dancing don't you? Care to dance with me?" Harmony had to still herself from frowning in disgust. Yes, she loved dancing. But with a man notorious for not keeping his hands in a proper place? Not so much. Even still the countess gave a small smile to the young man.

"My apologies. I have prior arrangements to attend. Perhaps later?" The noble man didn't like that answer. She could tell by the way his face shriveled up. Her eyes quickly scanned the room looking for Eve or someone she knew would help her out of the situation. Instead, she spotted a familiar face. Gallin. Harmony knew of her little fan. She knew that at the very least he could provide a little help. So, she began her little damsel act. Her smile turned uneasy. Her eyes kept glancing to him and back to the noble man she was 'cornered' by. A shift in her feet that indicated she wanted to leave this conversation. Countess was too polite to leave the man without an excuse. Harmony played the part of an anxious damsel almost too well. She could only hope he would be the type to 'rescue her' from the situation.

nine lives

 

[Wyll]

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

The Gemini

Luc Cardin
Gallin Forestson

The night was busy and noisy yet it carried a certain manner of peace with it. Peace in knowing that they could all foget about their worries for one night; peace of leaving whatever life they previously led behind; peace that was not available to the man currently masking himself as Gallin Forestson.
No this man was swarmed with fans of his writings asking him for autographs and his "creative process". When he had first started the columns, he had considered staying annoynous but had figured that, by putting Gallin's name on it, he was - in some twisted way - keeping Gallin alive. That decision had come back to bite him in the back so many times and there was no running away from it.
However, in this very moment, he had caught a break. There were no fans around him, there were no nobles trying to curry favor with him, for a moment, he was invisible. And he had decided to stretch this moment out as long as he could. He peeled himself from his seat and floated through the crowd, passing behind people and sliding himself between the windows in the crowd - most people not even noticing that he had passed by them despite his sizeable frame.
Beyond the crowd, he made it outside and on to the deck, where he promptly leaned himself against the side of the ship. He took in a long, deep, full breath of air. The crispness and saltiness of the air tickled his nose and sent a rejuvenating chill down his spine. A smile flowly found its way to his face as he looked up, letting mahogany eyes behold eternity. The stars shone brilliantly today, as they always did; their celestial dance capturing his attention. This was peace.
In this one moment, it was him and the heavens; nothing else mattered. Not Luc Cardin; not Gallin Forestson; not the lady lying down across the deck from him; nothing.
Wait...girl lying down across the deck?
With his head still tilted towards the heavens, his gaze slowly shifted her way, considering her with a side glance. All of a sudden, this moment no longer felt as private as it once did. Time spent staring at the stars was meant to be his time to get away from people. It is rather difficult to do that with someone else right there. Conscious of the fact that he had been staring and hoping the dark of night made it so that she didn't notice his gaze, he sighed and brought himself back to earth, looking around the deck.
Only then did he notice Lady Touchard doing what she does best and attempting to liberate coin from a drunken fool. It was at this point that he realised the deck had become too crowded to enjoy. Figuring there was nothing more he could do, he gave a frustrated roll of his eyes and decided to head back in, figuring that all the madness in there was better than tolerating sharing the same air as Lady Touch-hard for even another moment.
He made his way back into the mess hall, sticking himself in a corner where he exchanged kind smiles and polite waves, playing the role of the chatty socialite. It was at that moment that a pop of green caught his attention. His eyes were drawn to the countess, noticing her before she noticed him. When they made eye contact, he gave a polite nod of his head, however, something about her expression concerned him. With narrowed eyes and a raised brow, he oberved the interaction between the Countess and Lord Umber. The more he watched, the clearer it became that the Countess was uncomfortable and looking to him to intervene.
This was the problem with being a noble; you had to be polite. He had no such chains binding him. Understanding the situation, he walked over, grabbing a drink from a passing tray. "Lord Umber." When he spoke, he didn't shout or raise his voice. In fact, his tone was soft and honeyed. The intoxicated lad turned, addressing Luc with an annoyed expression. "Oh, don't be that way, Lord Umber, I don't mean to interrupt anything. Lady Umber just sent me to fetch you and I figured you'd want to be the one to tell her you already promised more than just a dance tonight to some Madame Rochelle."
Lord Umber took a couple steps back, his face betraying his shock at Luc's words. Luc flashed the kindest smile he had and stepped between the Countess and Lord Umber. With his height and a little puffing of his chest, the Countess completely disappeared behind him as he addressed Lord Umber.
"Now now, don't be so surprised, my good man. Knowing is my job. However, you're too intoxicated to win a fight of wit and too small to win a fight of strength, so I can only hope you know that this is when you go bother someone else." Luc took a polite sip of his drink, "I guess I did mean to interrupt after all."
Lord Umber fumbled for words and it was unclear whether the reddening of his face was from embarrassment or from anger. Either way, Luc gave a tender smile and shooed him off with a wave. Lord Umber stomped away and Luc rolled his eyes, turning to face the Countess. "Milady," he said with a curt bow. "A shame that you had to encounter that sourness. I wonder if you'd honor me with the chance to make it if only a hair sweeter?" He stretched out his hand, offering a dance.

Mentions: q r o w

 

[Mypilot]

Mention: Magnus Pepsionne

Gods, how time had passed. Half of Antarin thought this moment would never arrive, that he would wait with anxious anticipation for boarding day forever, and the other half dreaded this day. The daunting task granted to him by the king looming over his head like a sword hanging by a wire. It wasn’t enough to take pleasure in the trust that was shown to him by the crown, granted a level of responsibility over something so important and valuable. Instead, failure was a noose around his throat, and any wrong step would send him plummeting into a freefall, rope cinching tight around flesh. This ship’s purpose was greatness, and Antarin could not let his folly get in the way of it.

Despite his imminent worries, it was a day of celebration—or so the nobility claimed, and certainly they behaved as such. One would think gold was raining from the heavens for all the merriment Antarin passed on his ride to the docks, but he supposed Zenith’s residents would take any opportunity for revelry and drinking. Liquor poured more freely than coin these last few days, and Antarin wondered where all the saving for this day had come from.

Sliding off his horse, Antarin admired the ship as it towered before him, spinning with life. It was a strange thing to see it as such, when he had spent so much time wandering the docks to come see The Leviathan be born when it was still stripped bare in the first flush of life. At the start, merely slabs of wood in a pile, then the careful curve of its construction taking the shape of an impressive vessel hewn from wealth and governance. Now here it was rocking gently before him, far more impressive than any standing building in Zenith, and the talk of every citizen for days.

With all of the commotion, boarding was a painful process even for one with passage granted by the king. It was made more daunting if only because there was a certain apprehension in watching all the unfamiliar faces find their way onto the ship. Antarin was anxious to get away from the city, to explore the world a little more than he already had, but doing so on a ship such as this came with certain danger. Danger that was his responsibility to ward against going forward.

The festivities could be heard everywhere, from the non-passengers on land celebrating the grand maiden voyage, and from those boarding the ship finding company with wine and drink, food and card games. This first night would be one of entertainment, of triumph. It would be a grand welcome aboard The Leviathan that the passengers could carry with them in their fond memories for the duration of the voyage. It did not take long for most passengers to be deep in their cups, drunken revelry abound on every deck.

Antarin was not immune to the pleasant atmosphere of the ship, of people finding quick companionship in card games and chatter. He wished to join them in such easy introductions, but his sharp eyes were catching on every face as he took to roaming the mess hall. Some Antarin recognized, those he knew in advance would be boarding the ship with cause from the king same as he, and some he was seeing for the first time only. A few looked quite capable of combat, and Antarin itched to find out for himself. It had been some time since he had been able to spend time with people of strength and tenacity, to practice swordplay rather than diplomacy.

But no, business first. Drifting around the hall, eyeing each little group of conversation, Antarin swiped up a glass of some bronze liquid in a shimmering crystal glass and continued about the room at a casual pace. It was no easy feat sidestepping dancing, tipsy passengers, and barking laughs blaring into his ear, but really how different was it from avoiding a sword or a punch in a fight? Lean left here, duck a little there. A strange dance simply to navigate the room.

And finally, there: someone not already in conversation, with a face Antarin distantly recognized. Some forgotten member of the guard he had met once? No, not that. The memory clicked into place as Antarin approached, of picking up a prison-bound man bound in cuffs, of watching gold pass from hand to hand. A bounty complete, and payment met. And here was that hunter, stiff-backed and eerily watchful.

"Good evening,"

Antarin greeted, approaching the gentleman, eyeing his brown hair of gentle curls and fine dress.

"I am sure you don't remember me, for we never actually spoke. My name is Antarin Estor, and I believe I came to collect the product of your work one day. Bloodied fellow, wanted for some type of grand theft I believe it was. A pleasure to put him behind bars, thanks to you."

Antarin stood a polite few feet from the other man, pausing to sip his drink and allow the gentleman time to respond. He kept his eyes focused on the man’s, although he was curious over the hunter's apparel. He did not recall this sort of style when he'd seen the other the first time, all soft ruffles and pristine velvet edges. Really, the attire was rather impressive, but it contrasted with the glimpse of…budding anticipation that had been on the hunter’s face when Antarin had first caught sight of him. The predator’s smile. Perhaps that little glimpse is what truly brought Antarin to his side, skin tingling like static with the promise of danger.

There was a sort of weariness that came with this—this duplicity in every interaction that did not sit right with Antarin. It would have been enjoyable to simply speak with the man because he admired his work, the professionalism that came with the craft. Instead, Antarin was scoping out any hazards, forced to sniff out trouble and hope there was none.

the ambassador

ANTARIN.

• aaaaaaaaa
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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
observant, guarded

LOCATION:
The Leviathan: Event Hall

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

Gao : Ren

the huntsman

magnus

Interactions: Mypilot , Antarin

The rich extravagance that nestled within such wealthy types of gatherings always seemed to evoke a sour nausea within Magnus. Reminiscent of Celine’s opulent parties, images were dragged forth from some locked and dark place of nights spent sitting at her feet, tail tucked cowardly between his legs if he had one.

Even the echo of clinking glasses and tumbling notes of laughter was enough to send him into a cold sweat. He choked down a thin swallow of his drink, a bitter liquid, willing with all his might to be free of the oozing wounds Celine’s claws had left. It seemed as if no amount of time could heal them. Magnus wondered if they ever would.

A boarding night party. The bounty hunter scoffed to himself as his gaze swung in a fluid arc around the room. He couldn’t have imagined a better way to survey the passengers at large. Who was dancing? Who was glued to the wall timidly? Better yet--who wasn’t here? Lurking in the shadows to avoid detection like a sickly parasite nestled in the healthy flesh of something larger. He would root them out--surely. But tonight he would only observe. Placid and calm, the yellow eyes of a tiger swimming among the thick foliage of the jungle.

Pale fingers rocked his glass forwards and back. The ice within made a high octave clink each time it rocked into the barrier of its container. Back and forth, back and forth, a methodic melody keeping in time with the movement of his eyes as he tracked faces.

For the most part, the passengers bumbling around the hall were of no consequence to him. Rich aristocrats eager to brag of their voyage on the mighty Leviathan’s first sail, the vessel’s decks christened by their very presence. Pale Adam's apple bobbing from another swallow of his drink, Magnus’ lip began to curl in annoyance. How unlucky it would be indeed, if none aboard proved fruitful for the gold traded to allow access aboard the ship.

The rocking of his glass stopped abruptly. Even the ambient chattering of noble bragging quieted when met with the razor edge of his focus. A silk curtain of dark hair, the bright glint of mischief in sharpened eyes. Funai Ren. He’d recognize those features anywhere. A hefty bounty stemming from Antares, one with enough meat to warrant Magnus storing it top of mind. He smirked, bone white of his canine gleaming in all its sharpness. What an unexpected surprise after all.

He had heard quite the chatter among taverns and brothels in Antares of the man who had managed to gauge the Baron’s eye. Enough of a scent for his fangs to itch upon catching it. Magnus’ fingers twitched with the instinct to abandon his post and follow the man as he slipped from the room, but he leashed the desire within him. Not yet. Not now. He needed more time to survey the ship and its passengers before he risked something like that. Rumored to be a slippery man, Magnus wanted no risk of escape.

Before the knives lining his person could begin to sting a cold gleam of anticipation as they lay against his skin, his grey eyes snapped to a figure now shuffling through the crowd towards him directly.

A tall man, with enough muscle hidden beneath his dress to hint at a familiarity to combat. Shit. The stench of duty clung to him like a second skin, tight and frozen into an irremovable set of armor. His features were not unfamiliar to Magnus, some kind of guard perhaps? One of the King’s men? He was sure he hadn’t been spotted bribing his way aboard yet--

The bounty hunter’s grip whitened around the clear glass in his hand. His smile was tight, teeth almost bared in warning when the man finally approached.

"Good evening," The stranger began, "I am sure you don't remember me, for we never actually spoke. My name is Antarin Estor, and I believe I came to collect the product of your work one day. Bloodied fellow, wanted for some type of grand theft I believe it was. A pleasure to put him behind bars, thanks to you."

Magnus was silent for several beats, the music thick but the silence between them thicker. He adjusted his features into a softer mask than the previous carve of defensiveness, eyes glassy in the lights of the hall as he searched Antarin’s expression. Dark eyes not unlike his own, a heavy brow veiled with duty and curls--neatly styled to ensure the pristine image of the crown’s sophistication.

“Not the first thief I’ve stopped, but certainly the first I’ve received a thank you for,” Magnus raised his drink in a salute to Antarin. “Magnus, pleased to meet you Sir Estor.”

He took a sip of his drink, studious eyes glued to Antarin’s as the liquid disappeared down his pale throat. “Are you enjoying the festivities?” He asked, throwing on a polite smile.

Magnus resumed the rocking of his glass while he studied the man before him. It was unlikely he suffered an attempt at navigating the milling crowd merely to thank Magnus for a bounty collected years ago. If the stiffness of his responsibility was anything to go off of, Magnus was certain there was some type of test underway. The Leviathan was the brainchild of the crown, after all. The last thing they needed on its premier journey was spilled blood. And Magnus wasn’t known for his penchant for collecting the living.

“I’m quite pleased with the extravagance his majesty has afforded for such a vessel. I’m sure it’s to be a fine journey.”

coded by reveriee.

 

[qunqun]

The Physician.

scroll

Ilya

Jovanovic

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

... Okay!

OUTFIT

Party woo

LOCATION

Mess Hall

MENTIONS

Rat, Devana

INTERACTS

Gao

Cigar — Tamino.

scroll

Humanist's Folly.

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

Chapter One.

If one was to ask for the ego of Ilya, shockingly you would find that his stability was centered around his role as a caregiver rather than for any higher purposes. For this reason alone, he had immediately understood one simple fact about Rat:

He was essentially a walking talking corpse to be cast out at sea.

Therefore, though perhaps not with the soft hand when talking to a child, some eccentricities were to be at play when dealing with someone who probably knew he wasn't long for this world. Such things were to be treated with gentle loving care.

So with declarations of Marmalade! and the little petty digs, they sloughed off his shoulders with any weight flicked aside with a shrug.

“Stucks here natterin’ with a ginge.”

“Stuck here natterin’ to a blond” Ilya responded with a light smile. As if this was all just fun banter, not with Rat’s theatricality, a more dried out groundedness to his flavor of humor verging on the sarcastic and sardonic. Not without kindness and clear mirth, but still perhaps a slightly more playful edge to the doctor.

The little barb stuck out, pinpricks of blood welling up to the accusation. Nothing worth asking about, but quiet understanding of why. It seemed it was apology accepted, though, from the eccentric marmalade, ruffled feathers easily smoothed down. At least, that’s what he could possibly assume by

“Not even a measly fight or fire, ay ay, boring this is”

I could punch you if you wanted to start a-.

What a dastardly mean thought to have, not one of a doctor surely to pick a fight. No, it was cruel to think such rude thoughts.

Strangely, this somehow endeared Ilya’s mind towards Rat more. A general feeling of shame and guilt towards thinking something slightly indicative of the potential interpretation violence towards him, deciding to be more understanding. Poor Rat, suffering such abuse from his hands.

He nodded with slight understanding, not quite saying anything but following Rat’s sightline to Devana

“How’s Ilma feel about cats?”

A scant blink of confusion, a process of thinking, of weighing the words carefully in his head, a thoughtful disposition. First to conjure in the mind a cat, a soft creature, mischievous and attention hungry. Acrobatically clumsy and while not without its charms, probably either too suited or unsuited for the life that he lived. He would not own one, but he couldn’t think of anything too particularly wrong with felinity.

“Ilma doesn’t mind them. Unallergic. Fine creatures.” Another soft smile. The awful look of hope that they were connecting somehow. “Does Rat Marmalade care for them?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

NOT BEHAVING

OUTFIT

NOT SUSPICIOUS

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN HALLWAY

MENTIONS

HELLO VAS

INTERACTS

morcetyx

BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.

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HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER ONE.

He plays avoidance in earnest, for this one has an appetite for staring.

Listens to their steps in hopes they target the nearest corner instead, mistake him for another nobody on this ship and drift past like an incandescent lantern hovering eastward. Watches footwear in his periphery beneath coal-black halo, wallows ignorantly in how the brim of his hat casts the comfort of a manoeuvrable shadow.

A childish ploy made so quickly redundant, the blonde’s subpar height nullifies the headwear’s anonymity. They easily step within line of sight to demand cognizance with a glare.

Wreathed white like gauze, still fresh and unbloodied and dovelike as all devout things should be. The spider-thread softness of an eyelash but the stare of a flailing mace; so many pleasant faces the blonde could wear, milk and honey or aloe and jade yet opts for a venomous warscape saturated with accusation.

Two opposing figures on a purgatory of mahogany now collide. Snow meeting shade, the torrid of their arctic stare clashes with the passive dark of Ren’s own. It is clear the blonde is unhappy, it is clear the brunette is not concerned in remedying why. Meets their surgical stare with a searching one of his own.

The fuck you looking at.

Wiser to keep the bite sheathed is what rationale advises him. Not because he’s a man who often heeds it, but because it’d be poor luck to make trouble on a vessel with nowhere to run. That fear has cowed him from fighting his way through anything, blunted into peaceful prey-animal before the leonine aggressor.

Frigid build yet their glare is a red heat, no rose petal but emerald thorns to bruise unrest into tension-soaked epidermis. A glutton proper that gorges itself for whatever reason, observatory silence sears Ren’s nerves like a hot iron. Snobbish scrutiny, there can be no other reason to map him with the intensity of a magnifying glass.

Unapologetic dissection, arrogant. The rich often are. Their careless approach is a dismissal of what danger Ren would like to believe he silently paraded. Their audacity— Ren thinks it to be a pompous nature inside all aristocrats —reaches and rearranges him in a tangle of ire. The reminder that he is not impervious aboard this ship is an unwelcome one, so too is the lack of caution Vasariah shows towards him.

It is not borne of trust, there is none for the likes of knife-wielding thieves. There should be a word for it, those he cannot consider stranger nor acquaintance. Someone who exists in the partition of almost-unknown, almost-enemy, someone who needs to learn how to keep their eyes to themselves.

Impetuous, instinctive impulse. His gaze flickers to the helm of their attention, and reacts by holding the hairpin further away. An unspoken, not yours. Innate possession now blooms and his grip tightens around the metal in unwillingness to yield.

“Hey!“ He has finally found their stare too imposing on his new beloved shiny. Territorial. The other hand latches over Vasariah’s face, barring vision and any chance of a civil discussion to push them away a step. “Back up, blondie!”

Recoiling hand with the echo of warm skin against the palm, he makes a petty display of wiping it across the fabric of his chest. “I’m no cheap he-whore, I expect dinner before I let anyone cop a feel.”

One could expect his fingers to come away gilt in flaking gold after grazing divinity. But no matter their supposed sanctity, such things need to be negotiated. One should not go up to a stranger and frisk them like some criminal (even if truthfully applicable) (even if he’d let them), no more should they grab at things that are no longer theirs.

Ren should know what to expect; a snob dressed like an ostentatious napkin is a double threat bound to do both.

A tempest huff from nostrils, there’d be plumes of smoke in a climate like Sirocco. Warning delivered, he has done more to others for lesser offences than trying to take what he considers his. The known fact Ren possesses a knife did not stop the blonde’s brazen approach, he doubts an awkward (and exasperated) “quit ogling” would have had a different effect. Being ignored would not bode well for his pride, and therefore must reclaim valued space through physicality.

“I could have been compromised by your brutish ways...” As if naught but a chaste maiden who hadn’t mugged them at knifepoint, shoved their face away then accused them of getting frisky, his freehand toys absentmindedly with a strand of hair. “I’ll forgive you, I am very kind like that.”

Once a cautious flightless thing, Ren always tended to get more daring by the second, and tempering the blonde is no different. He has spent a lifetime in places he shouldn’t be, stepping through minefields of conversations and swiping hands through steel maws, that the menace of a small blonde man should be an easy endeavour. Brushes their callous atmosphere aside as if little more than dust, little more than the passing blur of a bad mood.

The black fox and the white fae, some delicate art or signature waltz of tumult, Ren believes he can stir clemency from the blonde through a hybrid of charm and stupidity. A well-intentioned play of cards meant to pet away their hostile exterior like a nasty stray to pampered companion.

“Hey.”

Dissonance from the aforementioned warning, it is a red flag between teeth, the purr of distant thunder or a ruby flare across charcoal wastes. He is leaned against the wall with languor, and to interlopers, easily mistaken for two individuals sharing a private moment.

He supposes it is not so different, this is certainly a moment. And one should know what the likes of Ren is about to do— what Ren is always about to do.

Distract.

“You single?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Mypilot]

Interaction: Magnus Pepsionne

A form of geniality fell upon the bounty hunter like a fresh snow, icy features melting into a semblance of softness. It did wonders for his approachability, but Antarin was rather more intrigued by what had come before. Regardless, he returned the lengthy silence with a smile flavoured by curiosity: a flash of teeth, a crinkle of the eyes, genuine interest pooling between the features.

Antarin tipped his glass just so in response to Magnus' cheers. Magnus. Not a name he was familiar with, but he supposed it would have been unlikely for him to have heard it before. That first “meeting” had been nothing more than the passing of two faces, working on individual jobs. Perhaps back then he had learned the name, perhaps he had forgotten it. Good with faces though Antarin was, that fleeting moment had been quite some time ago and was blurred by forgetfulness.

“A pleasure,”

Antarin supplied back in a polite murmur, quiet enough not to interrupt Magnus' continued speech. The other continued after a pause: “Are you enjoying the festivities?” The question was enough to amuse Antarin, although he knew it was silly to find it funny. It wouldn't quite be honest of him to say 'yes' to that, because did a lion enjoy jumping through the hoop even to generous applause? But Antarin supposed he did take some pleasure in this; tonight he was seeing the fruits of so much time and effort be enjoyed by many. The final chapter of any project was cause for celebration, even if it was only the first chapter of Antarin's true assignment.

“I’m quite pleased with the extravagance his majesty has afforded for such a vessel. I’m sure it’s to be a fine journey.”

Antarin flicked his gaze back to Magnus', brows raising a hair in interest.

“Yes,”

he replied, tilting his head a notch,

“so far things seem to be going quite well.”

He gestured to the going-ons around them, over consumption, heavy drinking, games paired with laughing outbursts and raised voices, and continued,

“I'm afraid I haven't partaken in any of the...revelry myself, but I suppose that's simply the way of things.”

There was a divide between someone of Antarin's station and those enjoying themselves around him, and it was a divide Antarin often enforced himself. He rather enjoyed talking and meeting new people, with present company being included despite the threading in of his job turning even this small interaction into a task. He supposed at least with Magnus, that wariness might be equal—he imagined no bounty hunter was absolutely thrilled to speak with a member of the guard, even if that career had ended.

This train of thought brought him once more to the purpose of the one before him. Sure, it was not entirely unlikely that a bounty hunter was simply taking time to enjoy the ship, but Antarin could not help but view it as an ill omen, a circling of carrion birds overhead to dawn on the dead thing below. And if this was indeed the case, then which of these people around them was worth the hunt? Of all the smiling, bright faces, who was a criminal worthy of a catch? Were lies and rot seeping into the boards of this ship even tonight, the start of its voyage?

Wanting more knowledge about the man before him, Antarin sipped his drink to give himself a moment to think. He knew he was prying, in a way, but Antarin could also fool himself into believing that this was nothing more than a casual conversation between two patrons of the ship.

“Are you familiar with naval travel?”

he asked.

“I'm curious how others will fare on this journey—so many are new to the sea or have never left Zenith.”

Magnus, Antarin mused, could very well be one of those people, although he imagined that if anyone was going to be worldly experienced, it would be someone of Magnus’ profession. Genuine interest coloured this line of conversation, because so many in the guard had not traveled—they had no need to, when they simply kept watch over the streets of Zenith. It would be a pleasure to meet someone with a viewpoint from the other nations of the world, as Antarin had seen it. Intelligent conversation about the state of it all was something Antarin was keen to return to like a gull to the sea.

the ambassador

ANTARIN.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

the warden.

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Junshi

军石

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Fumbling!!

OUTFIT

skrunkly

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Devana, Rosaline

INTERACTS

Rosaline
AnimeGenork

not a lot, just forever — adrianne lenker

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i could be a good mother

and I want to be your wife

CHAPTER ONE.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. Unscrew. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. Tighten. Unscrew. Tighten.

Hands idly fiddling with cold metal screws that hold his wooden bones together. Today, its function was leaning on purely cosmetics. The metal hinge of the elbow had begun creaking and stiffening under the humid air of the sea, a sound that now accompanied his every movement. He wouldn’t be surprised if it began to rust soon, a slow decay that seemed inevitable. A flaw in his design, he realized, one he hadn’t accounted for. The relentless humidity and the salt of the sea were merciless, corroding the intricate mechanisms that kept him functional. Each turn of the screw helped his brain remain calm and focused as he scanned the crowded deck.

Blue shirt, black collar. Unscrew. Red shirt, fluffy cardigan. Tighten. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Junshi weaved through the throng of dancers and drunks, his eyes darting sporadically around the room. Too many people moving about in such a crowded space. Too many faces to memorize, possible threats to assess. Unscrew. Tighten.

Black outfit, creepy mask—Sweet Mary Jesus God The Lord and The Holy Ghost! Junshi jumped sideways, his pulse quickening. His breath caught in his throat as the masked figure twirled about with another, their movements growing more aggressive with each beat of the music.

Oh dear Talia, why were masks allowed on this boat? Liangji wondered, his discomfort mounting. He couldn't shake the feeling that the masked dancer was watching him, tracking his every move through the eye holes of that horrific disguise. The dance, so sharp and erratic…he could have sworn he felt the leather fastening his arm to his shoulder trying to unbuckle itself to make a quick escape. He would cry if it left without him. Junshi quickened his pace, eager to escape the chilling presence as he turned on his heel.

Another direction then!

His feet carry him to the railing, where his hand instinctively grips the weathered wood as he gazes out over the vast, endless ocean. The salty air is calming, a gentle balm for his restless soul. It reminds him of Talia. Talia… Her name echoes in his mind, a bittersweet melody. There wasn’t a day that went by without her telling him all she knew about the sea and the creatures circling below. He swiftly turns away from the soothing expanse of water and refocuses on the crowd before him. The faces blend together. No good.

He shifts his gaze down the railing, his eyes catching sight of a drunkard stumbling toward an admittedly beautiful woman. He watches absently for a moment, his mind a whirl of too many thoughts and yet none at all. It doesn’t take long for the familiar signs to appear—the slurred speech, the unsteady gestures, the woman's growing discomfort. Here, amidst the drunken revelry of the crew, this was the only act of potential danger.

He knows these men and their unsavory habits all too well. Befriending a bear would be safer than trusting most of them. His grip on the railing tightens, the wood creaking under the pressure of his fingers. He considers his options, weighing the potential outcomes of intervening. The raucous laughter and boisterous chatter of the crew fill the air, unhelpful in allowing his thoughts to focus.

Tighten the screws more.

Junshi begins to walk along the rail towards the pair, his movements deliberate yet cautious. He isn't entirely sure if the drunkard's intentions are as malevolent as they seem, but it is always better to err on the side of caution. If they run, then their intentions are rarely pure.

A few feet behind the pair, he calls out, not wanting to alarm the woman by suddenly appearing behind her, "Ah, sorry, coming up behind you, miss. Don’t mean to spook you." His voice is calm and reassuring, a deliberate effort to ease the tension in the air. As he walks up beside her, his hand grazes the hilt of his sword, a subtle reminder of his readiness to intervene if necessary.

His eyes settle on the drunkard, who is in the midst of burping up the remnants of his last meal, the alcohol clearly taking its toll. Junshi's expression shifts into a mix of confusion and disgust as he stares at the man, unable to fathom the depths of his boorish behavior. I was never raised by anyone, yet I have better manners…

Junshi steps closer, his gaze unwavering as he addresses the drunkard, positioning himself in front of the lovely miss in case anything were to happen. He scans the face some more, a name appearing in his mind. This one..was trouble. "Are we having fun tonight, Damien," he questions, his tone firm yet kind. "Maybe we should get some water in you, make sure that liver doesn’t give out on us now."

The drunkard squints at Junshi, trying to process the intrusion into his inebriated world. Junshi's stance is steady, his grip on his sword hilt a silent warning. Damien sways slightly, his expression vacillating between confusion and defiance, struggling to comprehend the situation. After a stumble forward, Junshi steadies the man and spins him in the opposite direction. “Ah, looks like it might be time for you to go lay down! Let’s hit the hay shall we?” Junshi encourages, smiling brightly as he walks the drunkard a few feet before being waved off by the disgruntled man.

Junshi let out a sigh and placed his hand on his hap, shaking his head as he turned around. “So sorry about him, miss. I wish I could blame it on them not having a mother to raise them right, but I think that’s just how they are.” He offers a shy shrug of his shoulders. “I’m sorry to ask, but…did he lay his hands on you? I can go throw him overboard! I'm sure the King won’t mind a few missing men at the end of this?”

He pauses, a momentary face of confusion crossing his face as he glances down at the floorboards. “Or should I be offering to throw him overboard anyway…? Uh..well, uhm okay so if he bothered you I can figure out some sort of punishment. Or you can figure out a punishment! Wait, that's a better idea, I don’t know why I’m trying to speak for you, I’m sorry.” His deep cinnamon eyes glance at the lady, looking a bit like a kicked puppy as he fights through his own confusion and navigates the situation.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[escapist]

• Chapter 0
• Chapter 1

• 
  
  
  MOOD:
  Annoyed, curious, sort-of-happy
  
  

  LOCATION:
  The port of Zenith and the Leviathan

  OUTFIT:

  MENTIONS:
  
  

  Junshi

  The old-timer

  Maltke

  Interactions: none
  
  A last glance to the dirty and now-empty room that had been his home for years until he came across with the Leviathan yesterday, and Maltke Cycek slammed the wooden door behind himself. His grip tightened around the simple bag which contained Maltke's every belonging, was swinging behind his back as he started walking towards the port. His steps against the cobblestone were knocking in a joyful rythm; being in big contrast with the bitter grimace on his face. He hated change.
  
  However adventure sometimes won a battle against the demotivation...well, two times in his life: firstly when he had escaped from home to become a pirate and secondly yesterday when he had decided to escape from his life again. As usual, he had been lurking around the ships at anchor, inhaling the cold, salty air of the night when he had noticed the mightiest ship he had seen in a while, the Leviathan. "Great name, strong structure, good quality..." As his practiced eyes had analyzed the ship. He had caught himself leaning against a wall, letting his thoughts and dreams escaping from the hugging tendrils of his cigarette and mingling with the labyrinth of the Leviathan's webs. Then he appeared.
  
  "What was his name again? Junshi?" Maltke muttered as he reached the port's area and tried to get through the wandering crowd, his big, hunched frame eventually bumped into others but he didn't bother with noticing it. "That guy looked worse than me...who would have thought that he had already gotten on the ship with a shady trick." An expression, similar to a smile appeared on the old man's face. "Lucky me, he bought my story way too quickly...crybaby..." The amusing couldn't continue because a passer bumped in Maltke as they walked past him. "Oh, damn you and your family, curse you..." His lips were moving silently as he kept penetrating through the crowd which was thicker around the Leviathan.
  
  The ship which would deliver to him to his next adventure towered Maltke, casting a shadow over him in the sunlight. He nodded to himself, pulled out a cigarette and lighted it with a match. He sighed as the bitter smoke filled his lungs, now accompanied by the salty air. He nodded again - only he could know what he foumd agreable - then turned around, his lone eye took in the sight of the crowd around the ship. Amongst the onlookers sailors, fishermen - the usual folk of ports - Maltke's eye found a few face that somehow didn't fit in: angular faces, exuding nobility and wealth, faces strict with secrets, faces with eyes of a person who killed enough to get used to it. "Fellow passengers? What a mess I am in..." He muttered annoyedly before he turned around and without wasting any time with waiting for a ladder to be lowered from the deck, Maltke grabbed a dirm looking rope, hanging down from above.
  
  His muscles were struggling with pulling upwards his heavy body on the rope, his old bones were screaming in pain as the old man was climbing up on the deck of the Leviathan, with the still burning cigarette between his lips. Finally, his feet met with the wooden floor of the deck, his chest moved up and down, trying to get enough air. The sailors on the ship looked a curiously at the old man who appeared in front of them, looking dirtier than a passenger, more dangerous than a sailor and older than an adventure seeker - despite that stupid, wide grin that ruled his expression for a few second. Being on a ship which would head to nowhere with a ticket in his pockets, without nobody recognizing him... "Such a damn nice day for a pirate, that is!"
  
  
  

  coded by reveriee.
  
  
  
• 
  Will try to urge my lazy ass to write this as fast as I can...!
  

 

[minajesty]

sir judas of zenith.

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  clad in a black, leather medieval fashion with a sword at the hip.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  m. dolores (briefly) & devana. erzulie
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

cascades of lighting rich in saffron warmth was a stark contrast against macabre scars and undead skin—sir judas hastings stuck out like the sore thumb he was, rigid responsibility in the midst of a celebratory night. easy to miss yet existent nonetheless, traces of poisonous melancholy resided in the dark pools of his tired eyes.

this journey would be torturous, he thought while an audible huff escaped his whiskey-coated lips.

the kingsman looked down at his narrowly empty glass when the thought crossed his mind. thank the heavens for this "medicinal" whiskey for drowning his sorrows with a flourish. judas knew that his acceptance aboard the leviathan was an all work and no play kind of deal—an order from the crown, in fact—but the man underneath the armor prison was feeling more human than ever tonight. he hated this feeling.

judas turned his back from the deep sea and allowed his gaze to finally memorize the grand sight of the busy mess hall, its evergrowing occupants indulging in luxuries like never before. the reverberation of the beat of the music pounded consistently on his eardrums, burrowing unwelcomingly against his skull. this was not the anchoring he wanted.

(his age was showing more than ever.)

but as if on queue to put him out of his misery, his attention caught sight of a familiar out of the corner of his eye. in fact, to refer to dolores thorne as just a familiar was gravely understated. zenith inhabitants by chance yet a daughter by choice, judas would never demote her so.

finally, his heartbeat slowed and so did the grief that threatened to plague his mind all over again. she couldn't possibly know just how much her presence calmed him, even in only knowing that he shared the same vessel with her. it was just what he needed though, unlike the empty cup that still occupied his hands.

"you were no help,"

he mumbled dryly to no one in particular, detaching his feet from his position in a dark corner to leave for a staff member that nearly passed him by. abandoning the glass on his tray with a nod in thanks, judas made out to return toward the ocean view before a glimpse of bone and shadow crossed his sight.

what was that?

following the erratic display of a dance—slow like predator zoning in on prey—the kingsman's unsettled demeanor only grew more unyielding at the sight of death and their ceremonial-like movements as they fell in sync with the unsuspecting passenger. the hair on his body stood tall underneath his clothes, similar to a defensive feline against possible danger.

this was no ordinary act of entertainment. no, this was far more. what others may have saw as drunken statures, judas saw as a warning from the shadows that something sinister lurked on the leviathan with them all. easily missed, but not by judas, he was watching a dance with a devil. and to make things worse, familiarity that he couldn't pinpoint washed over him the longer he watched.

no song linked

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

XVII

the

star

"the heart"

mood

Being so civil right now.

location

Hallway. Boo.

outfit

Napkin, necklace.

mentions

Ren.

interactions

Ren Gao

XVI

the

tower

vasariah "nightingale"

Delicate fingers graze his beloved possession before it is swiftly replaced with the dense air of rickety wood resting on water. Humid. Unpleasant. Unsafe, despite the calming notion of waves lapping against the hull. Nephrite gaze following the golden sheen of what is his, reaching once more.

Soft, unsoiled skin meets slimy, filth-ridden hands. Vasariah’s limbs stiffen to the point of locking. Sullied by hands tarnished with the grime of countless misdeeds. Hands that have furtively slipped into innumerable pockets, seeking what was not theirs. Hands that have grasped metals laden with unseen contagions, bearing the potential of disease. Hands that may not have known the cleansing touch of water for years. These hands, tainted and impure, reached out and defiled his once pristine visage, marring the purity of his clean face with their sordid touch.

Eyes narrow on the offender pretending to cleanse his hands of him. Him, the divine heir. The Star’s chosen. He was no longer just a thief. He had earned himself a title beyond such petty matters. A scoundrel. A bottom-dwelling creep. He should have known someone who allowed themselves outside wearing such a travesty would go around tainting pure skin.

Overpriced he-whore then.

Vasariah's upper lip curled in a brief snarl of disgust as his eyes completed a full, unambiguous eye roll. Watching the other attempt to slither his way into anything other than returning what has never belonged to him. Slimy words a see-through veil for poor intentions. He twirled his hair with an affected innocence, like a delicate maiden propositioned by a gallant knight—a charade as hollow and improbable as the fanciful tales Vasariah entertained to pass the time. His actions were a farce, a poor mimicry of sincerity that failed to mask the underlying deceit.

Is there any point in responding to someone as unworthy as this?

Then, came the hollow words of forgiveness. They echoed through the air, empty and insincere. Vasariah stirred, a visceral reaction brewing within him. He could feel his blood begin to boil beneath the thin layer of his epidermis, the heat rising in waves that threatened to overwhelm his composure.

Calm. Calm. Calm.

Fine. No matter. If pettiness is the game we are playing…

Mirroring the other's attitude, he enacted a theatrical performance for the 'not cheap' he-whore. His jade gaze locked onto the obsidian eyes once more, their intensity meeting through the delicate fringe of his long, golden lashes. Without breaking his focus, he reached beneath the collar of his capette, unfastening the clasp with deliberate precision. The garment slipped off his shoulders and cascaded gracefully into his hand.

Your words are so…Ugh. So…fake. No. Better. Your words. Let’s pretend. Stabbing…..stabbing another in plain sight then pretending…..stabbing another while they watch you sink the knife into them while pretending a stranger had done it to them.

Maintaining unwavering eye contact, he brought the cloth to his face. With pointed yet gentle movements, he meticulously wiped the area where the other's hand had dared to linger, as if cleansing his very soul of the unwelcome touch. Each motion was a calculated act of disdain, a silent declaration of his contempt.

Your attempts….at appeasing me are usel—no, futile.

His thoughts and motions came to an abrupt halt as the other attempted to coax a meek demeanor from him through the most unexpected means—flirting. Asking if he was single, the inquiry dripped with a feigned sweetness that made Vasariah's blood run cold.

Inwardly, he felt the unsettling flutter of butterflies in his stomach, a visceral reaction he quickly suppressed. Pulling his gaze away from the other's silky, ink-black hair and the light that shone so beautifully in his eyes, he steadied himself. He refused to be swayed by such transparent manipulation. His heart might be foolish enough to be momentarily flattered, but his mind was resolute. Vasariah's resolve hardened as he focused on the reality of the situation, recognizing the shallow charm for what it truly was—a calculated attempt to weaken his defenses.

Vasariah clenched his jaw, his gaze hardening as he felt something nauseating growing in him. Feigning attraction for the purpose of manipulating. Sick. Cruel. Vile thief. He would not blame his heart for its inability to see through the charade of romance. The other had no true intentions beyond his own self-serving desires. Vasariah would not fall for such a petty plea.

With a steeled demeanor, he gazed back into the scoundrel’s eyes. He leans forward as the other leans against a scrappy wood wall, standing within a foot of him. An honor such a wretched thing does not deserve. He tilts his head up just enough to still shadow jade through blonde eyelashes as he intrudes on the brunette’s space, reaching just under the brim of the hat.

A glimpse of a smile growing on his face, a light glimmering in his pupils. Vasariah let the capette dangle from his fingertips, as if it was the dirtiest thing he had ever touched. The fabric swayed in the air before he released it. The garment fluttered downward, landing with a soft thud atop of the thief's feet.

“Cute.” He begins, a deep melodic timbre in contrast to the blonde’s delicate appearance. A pause, his gaze falling to the other’s hand, still clutching desperately to gold. “A shame…” He trails off, briefly glancing back into a sea of stars. If you were a whore you would have made more than…whatever it is you’re doing now.

Calm. Mean. Cruel. Calm.

Fine.

Vasariah leaned back slightly, a single curl falling in front of his eye. With a measured grace, his hand reached up to find the stray lock, gently moving it aside so he could see clearly. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. He returned to his close stance, pools of emerald leaning forward once more, dangerously near to the piercing depths of onyx. A price he was willing to pay.

Pale hands stiffly reached for the pin once more, yet his hand paused just before touching it, palm upturned in a gesture of tentative goodwill. His gaze fixed pointedly on the thief, the action akin to extending an olive branch in the tense standoff. A silent threat in his gaze was unmistakable. He was not above resorting to less diplomatic means to reclaim his cherished possession if necessary, and the thief would do well to heed this final offer of peaceful resolution less he wished to leave with teeth marks branded upon perfectly bronze skin.

II

the

high priestess

"the seer"

card

Two of Swords

This Post's Tarot Card​

The Two of Swords is symbolic of passive-aggressive types of conflict. The type where you say nothing, but you become a stick in the mud or you become extra difficult when others want to move forward. This card also indicates a stalemate – a point at which you cannot move forward because you fundamentally disagree. It is an argument between people who are being rigid and unyielding. Both sides are locked into the battle. There is little room for forgiveness and no sign of a thaw. This argument could go on for years and taint generations to come unless someone is brave enough to sort it out.

 

[erzulie]

DEVANA ACINDIUS ─ THE SHACKLED
tags: minajesty ; location: the mess hall
interactions: judas hastings
clothing: x x x (with regular chainmail type metal rather than pearls)

Like all things, it was time for their dance to come to an end. She could see the red hue that had taken over her partner’s tanned skin and the sweat that dripped from her. Devana could hardly fault her, there were few who could keep up with her family’s style of dancing and even fewer who would be able to carry on until morning. Her hunger for merriment had been settled for the time being and now she grew serious. After all, she had not forgotten her mission. Dark eyes had taken in their surroundings while those who watched believed her to be far to take with her partner to see anything else.

Their eyes met when Devana maneuvered her partner into a deep dip, testing the flexibility of her spine. Her gaze never wavered even as she set the woman straight. She saw fire before her now and she felt her feet carry her, her hands twitching with the effort to not reach out and grab. Devana did not blink, cutting through the crowd like a sword through flesh. The heir did not stop until she was upon her target, her frame tall and casting a shadow as it blocked out some light.

For a time she merely stood there, her eyes roving over the features of Ser Judas Hastings. Beneath the sharp fangs of her mask, her lips pulled back into a wide grin that could be seen between the gaps of bone. Devana's eyes sparkled, narrowed in a way that suggested that she was pleased. “Ser Hastings…I am Devana of House Acindius. It has been many years since we’ve last seen each other. Have the years been kind to you ser? Are you traveling for pleasure…or perhaps you are not exempt from the whims of a king…as I saw all those years ago.” She tilted her head slightly then, dark eyes staring at him intensely.

coded by archangel_

 

[Harrowhark]

mood

Panic? Just a little

outfit

link

location

Bow of the ship

tags

Vas morcetyx
Ari qunqun

What better to bring people together than a party? And what is a party without a couple wallflowers? Though, could one be truly a wallflower if they are not all alone? If it were not for the company, Elera would much rather have retired to her chambers than stay out here. Even so, the loudness of it all was far more off putting than most events she had ever been to.

If Elera was going to be exposed to such shenanigans, she was not doing so sober. Even poor quality wine was enough for her to tolerate it. It seemed Vasariah was the same, looking down upon those who were behaving so foolishly. Perhaps, this evening could even be fun by his side.

“You must admit, it is rather amusing to watch. When others cannot act in a form of decorum, it can be hard to look away. Like a circus, but only based completely in reality.” This could very well be how every day could look from now on, but that was a terrifying thought. One that should easily be drowned by another goblet of wine.

It did appear that perhaps this ship was filled with a population of which Elera would have significant difficulty dealing with: immoral men. While Vasariah was a man of virtue, chosen by the stars themselves, most men around the world paled in comparison.

“One must not expect too much from seafarers. Dreadful people.” While Elera did thoroughly enjoy the female figure as well, it never made her sloppy. A brief glance was enough. Lingering gazes on anyone and everyone were impolite at the least. “To make such a mess does not leave the proper impression on even the easiest woman to woo.”

It seemed their judgment could not last all night. A shame really, for what else was there to do?

“High Starlight, are you alright?” Elera doubted he heard her with his ears covered like that. What a shame, to turn the night sour like this. The least she could do was block a drunken sailor from bumping into him while he was in this state. “Pardon me! So rude!”

“Your Cosmic Brilliance, how might I support you?” It was no use, for Vas could not, or perhaps would not, hear her pleas. Instead, he took off.

Elera tried her hardest to push through the crowd, but while the wine increased her tolerance of people, it had not increased her body’s sense of urgency. “Excuse me… Let me through please… Out of the way…” It was all no use. She had lost him. While within a finite space, Elera sensed the Stars would not forgive her if he were to fall overboard.

“Stardust.” Looking around, the deck was far too crowded to spot a lock of curly blond hair amongst the chaos. As she caught her breath, Elera realized she was now utterly alone. Perhaps this would be the time to head back to her chambers. Though, that would mean going back the way she came. With sailors closing in all around her, the best way to go was outward.

Towards the front end of the ship, Elera finally popped out of the crowd, now only a few loners or those having private conversations remained. Amongst them, a presence rather peculiar. Perhaps it would be best for her to keep to herself, it was impossible to know how an outsider could perceive her. But doing what one should is not always what the Stars require.

“Your aura, it’s very dim. And dark.” Nothing says party like unwelcome comments about one’s appearance! “What troubles you?” Because every brooding man loves starting a conversation with someone who just said his vibes are off!

The Crusader

© reveriee

 

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

...

OUTFIT

FLUTTERS BY

LOCATION

MESS HALL

MENTIONS

ILYA & GROG

INTERACTS

ILYA qunqun

MERCY DOWN — S. JAMES.

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YOUR JOURNEY IS

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

CHAPTER ONE.

“Stuck here natterin’ to a blond.”

It is rather unusual how a pleasant conversation could easily fall into place, if he let it be.

“The blond did not ask.”

Alas Rat is not pleasant and he never lets anything be.

Taking the jabs as if they are nothing more than tender bon mots of familiarity, he is irritated by Ilya’s perseverance to surmount each attack with the echo of a smile. Waxy but warm, and Rat prefers anything but warm.

If he were to voice every idle thought that constructs the foundations of opinion, the first would be that Ilya is a mild-mannered moron.

Replies filled with such lightness like dissolving raindrops, a drench of moonlight mist; Rat cannot help but assume they are partially disconnected from reality— there can be no other reason to be so tolerant. If gravity was to slip away he’s sure Ilya would make no attempt to hold onto anything. Accept it with the simplicity of another vague smile and bob along the ceiling like a helium balloon.

Takes the name Ilma like oil above water. No argument or questioning. A wisp-like man. Ditzy is correct, the doctor is like a dandelion.

Not something that soaks and refracts shards of sunlight through butter yellow petals— Ilya is defined only by amber and ivory and cold dawn that sweeps under eyes —but a tenacious weed. Coexists in unwelcome atmospheres. Pliable stem to bend instead of fracture under pressure for some sake of survival. No planet keeps them in orbit but the regolith of soil dished over their radicles.

Ilya had already proven their patience to be an unfathomable ravine, but there was a weight left to alleviate. Does Rat care for cats? A claw wedged into a wound, a fleeting side eye to Ilya in his periphery is steeled in wariness. Unquestioningly conversational despite the circumstance, he is never fond of those that pry— no matter how harmless it may be.

“Too many bonesies for wee Rat. Get stucks in me oh-so dainty teeth.”

But see, Rat has inherited a duty for Grog because Oskar expects him to. He could have ditched the cat overboard at the closest opportunity, let it be fish-bait and erase that responsibility from his mind’s eye, but that cruel spontaneity would mean Oskar’s wistful trust being curdled and their already strained connection souring.

“Gots a cat. Not mine.” Ilya does not openly mind being insulted, same as Ilya does not mind felines, same as Ilya seems incapable of owning a spine in that cage of thin skin and brittle bone. Marmalade may have found a place for Grog with kind Dandelion, but not without casting light on the lingering shadow of debt to the doctor.

“And Ratholomew be so troubled by it, Illiana, yes he do.” Fish-hook, crochet hook, he tries to snag the man into this exchange. “Nasty thing bitesies and clawsies, torments my sweetie little rodents.” It is not sensible, nothing with Rat ever is, but he hopes coddling to this man’s fetish for helping will sweeten the deal. “Will Ilma feeds it, keeps it alive?”

“In return," an exchange is two sides, he cannot bear to exist knowing he owes something to someone else, let alone a doctor. "Name a plant and dearest Rat will grows it, ya ya. Can be all yours, greedy grub.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

NEVER BEHAVING AGAIN

OUTFIT

NOT SUSPICIOUS

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN HALLWAY

MENTIONS

HELLO VAS

INTERACTS

morcetyx

BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.

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HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER ONE.

One cynical eye roll is what he gets in return, selfish in how they continue to wallow in scowl and venom like a well-fitting coat. Unmoved by saccharine sweetness, but the brunette is far from exhausting the blonde’s patience. Undeterred by chilly gaze, the plucky man is determined to wrestle goodwill from the prickly counterpart through his charming tactics.

Enwreathe them like an ocean of sugar to an islet of lemon, and perhaps they will absentmindedly assimilate.

Jade iris vying to meet ink, for the swell of several moments the thief is unsure what emotion stirs serpentine from pools of peridot. Still unyielding, still unkind, still impossible to paint the scripture of their thoughts with nothing so easily offered.

If you forgo speaking to hide away in the socially incompetent recesses of your mind, one cannot be upset at assumptions on your actions.

Such as beginning to remove clothing after a self-proclaimed he-whore warns he is not a cheap piece.

Is that acquiescence? A willing purchase? Or is that a silent declaration he is not even worth the negotiation of coin? That is the problem with these rich folk, you see, always demanding and never grateful for what they are offered. Blondes especially are notorious for this.

“H-here?” He is not entirely opposed to it, but this line of work also wasn’t his natural territory. “Like– now?! I–” Eaved with a nervous timbre to have gotten this far with only shallow remarks, it can mean only one thing. Ren is too suave. But all according to plan, of course. Never mind languor has temporarily unspooled like a loose ribbon and he is left to gather his surprise with the sense of a panicked animal. Just because the paper tiger tries to cosy up to the nearest flame, there’s no promise to be overlooked by their conflagration.

He knows he should not be bearing his neck for stupid things like this, should not be nearing the fire in danger of bronzing the edges of his character. If he keeps this up, there will likely come a time his nape is to lay severed clean on a guillotine block for putting hands on who could be an uppity hotshot noble with enough influence to get him lynched. But he does not outright decline— no matter if the blonde is mean, they are pretty, and Ren is quite simple when it comes to bedsheet propaganda.

Unrest is next to stir from cavities of a chest, what if this snob intends to have both Ren and the hairpin and leave him with no compensation for his generous time? If some cheap intimacy in a hallway is what affords to keep the hairpin in peace, he is not going to argue, but he may make a fuss if there is no benefit to be found—

They drag the ivory fabric against the swell of a high cheekbone to clean away the echo of his hand.

Oh.

Ren blinks.

Having deeply mistaken their spiteful reaction for perverted intent, he feels even more awkward when he realises it is an insult and not an invitation. Casualties have been minimised, he could have said something worse, but that is not to say Ren has gone unscathed.

Something aggressive on the tongue he doesn’t want to translate towards their snide display of cleaning away his touch, as if his sheer existence is something filthy and offensive. Tired of familiar circumstance, there is a sapped twitch at the lip, veering precariously the rocky conflict of smile or sneer. Again must reconsider his place on this boat, or more accurately, lack thereof if he decides to punch the blonde. The hairpin feels weighted by several increments, an animosity that he caters like a household pet.

They could give their silent quips and glares, and Ren could counter like all civil people do with a disorienting fist to the face. He does not. His pride is tender and distending with boysenberry bruises all the same, and he can feel river stone teeth grinding a fine dust with hopes it will coat his mouth in something lethargic to hibernate gunpowder impulse. The longing of his objective is stronger than his passing fancy to attack. All he asks is that the future proves passivity worthwhile.

The blade of their eyes angle away at the flirt, a physical stutter earned yet not relished as much as Ren would usually like. The chip in his shoulder is still fresh and aches with ire that he cannot fully enjoy this small victory. When the blonde gathers what he assumes is composure, they affix the same harrowing stare. Homed like a missile, the repeating prelude.

They lean in boldly, nails pinched to the capette like snowy roadkill. Locked in the approach of another now blurs the distinguishing frontiers of where holiness ends and violence begins, of who is man and who is angel, where provocation is a sport and they reenact these petty grievances to the audience of each other. Feels the wood at his shoulder blades, how fitting that coffins are built of the same medium when he feels just as trapped.

At this distance with the hypnotic roll of ocean beneath their shoes, Ren is sure he could count every fleck of colour that skewers their irises like chemical impurities, assign their origin to beryllium or chromium or lithium.

At this same distance, Ren is sure he could headbutt them hard enough to inflict a concussion. Take both the hairpin and necklace while he is at it. Maybe give their body a kick as he steps over.

Tempting when the fabric nests a heap on his shoes, when their lips have taken the most imperceptible curves that only someone in this close proximity could take note of. Versed enough in the warning signs of this stormy individual that nothing they do has good intention, if its source was not borne from being snide he may have wanted to map and immortalise the shape for its sheer scarcity.

The nearing temperature of their body is not what jars the thief, but the arrival of their voice. A deep resonance anointed in honey, it mars against the soft-edged visage they retain, but honey won’t assuage the hidden bite.

“Yes.” Ren would preen, smitten with the small victory of earning endearment. “I often am.” He is always fond of the ease, when he does not have to put in effort to get what he wants.

Ren was winning.

Winning and suave and acclaimed cute.

A suspicious beat of silence after their next remark, a shame. What did that fucking mean. The mirth tamps, his eyes narrow, and he follows their attention back to the hairpin. Had they not learned? It no longer belonged to them.

Maybe they sensed he was ready to issue another shove, a warning no longer, or maybe they realised he is not the flavor of man who is going to relent and allow possessions be snatched. Their hand falters from the grab, pockets that foreseen demand and instead turns to reveal the soft of their palm. A request.

How reasonable.

How arrogant.

As if he is stupid enough to surrender an item such as this just because they revealed the underbelly of their hand. Material items have a value based on what others assign, while Ren’s pride is an incalculable cost to all but himself. He will never cede without resistance, those are lessons practised to rend or remake a person, and the pendulum of not knowing what it will be is something he finds impossible to ever consider as an option ever again.

But it stays him, just slightly. Confuses him, more so. Why, his mouth does not quite know how to form the word without an accusation. There is disquiet, dark frost plumes in uncertain eyes and he is aware, to an eerie extent, of the stare that holds him with a decisive reticence.

“You know,” he begins casually, “this is the issue with you blondes. Always expecting things just because you want them.” For a moment it looks as if he is about to relinquish the stolen metal, maybe fish his pockets to offer pay for it, but instead he places something round and soft into their extended hand.

The bread roll. Once stowed in his pocket for later consumption, now cut loose as a casualty of war. Pretty people love bread. Ren mourns it temporarily before recalling there is an entire hold filled with caskets and crates of supplies just awaiting his hungry (yet thorough) inspection.

“Now go on, scram.” He waves Vas from his sight like a truant stray. “You’ve had plenty and I'm sick of your freaky ogling eyes.”

He means it more than just bread, means plenty as a strike at their entire livelihood. Crisp white clothing and capettes that serve no purpose outside of pretentious cosmetics, Ren documents them with the title of nothing more but another Snob.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

THE BUTCHER.

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Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FINE.

OUTFIT

BUT A BLACK SHIRT

LOCATION

Docks

MENTIONS

Elera

INTERACTS

Harrowhark

... 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

Chapter One.

Night was a point of dread and of comfort.

Aurelian particularly preferred the nights where nothing happened and he could bask in the dark silence alone, mind emptied of every thought and stare at the starry sky, believe that he was the only person in existence where his whims were the only which mattered.

Piercing through his illusion of solitude was boisterous laughter. Parties necessitated food. He was the ship’s chef. He was busy that night. Too busy for his particular tastes.

Calming down, staring at where the waves met the sky, a part of his shoulders relaxed. Wine and debauchery were never his strong suits, so he was instead trying to have some peace and quiet, undisturbed at the far end of the ship.

The presence shadowed across his periphery. It would’ve been something extraneous to look towards her. He knew she was there, and for fuck’s sake she definitely knew he was there.

“Your aura”

“I have a feeling you’re about to say something that’s going to piss me off.” The rattling of a snake’s tail at the approach of a sparrow.

“It’s very dim. And dark.” Strike one.

“Yep.”

Don’t punch someone on your first day, don’t punch someone on your first day, don’t punch someone-

“What troubles you?”

Biting back the immediate response of a snarled you. The barbed tongue rests for a second from prepared launch as he counted to five.

“Busy night. Felt like fresh air and being alone.” Go away.

Curmudgeonly attitude could only really hold the prying eyes of curiosity for so long as he resigned himself to yes this was happening and yes he did have to socialize and be a normal person. With great effort, he turned towards the crusader.

“Aurelian. I’m the chef on board.” Pinched smile of a shark trying its best to seem unthreatening and failing utterly, too many teeth for it to be genuine. Really, borderline a threat of great violence.

“Who are you.” Flat. A smidgen too aggressive to take in as anything other than the massive bramble of a person who definitely did not want to be bothered and was being intruded upon. Very much going through the routine of small talk with great difficulty as amber eyes attempted to laser a hole into light blue ones in the intensity of his stare.

She was not incorrect with the chef having a stormy and dark atmosphere to him, the type to line his eyes subtly with kohl just to have the yellow gaze terrify more.

“...”

He seemed to find something in her appearance.

“Oh fuck you’re one of those star fanatics aren’t you.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Physician.

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Ilya

Jovanovic

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

... Okay!

OUTFIT

Party woo

LOCATION

Mess Hall

MENTIONS

Rat, Devana

INTERACTS

Gao

Cigar — Tamino.

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Humanist's Folly.

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

Chapter One.

Ilya took in the vitriolic response (had he said something wrong?). Whatever, it was best to stay quiet for now. Boat was small and it would've been bad to create an enemy literally the first night.

The smile of a service worker being confronted with an angry customer, serene and calm. Infuriatingly so. He was on the tundra with Nikolai overlooking fields of grass, teaching him which plants helped with fever, which had a lot of iron. He was helping braid Anastasia’s hair in her room as she stabbed a finger into a book about fishing and taught him how to catch different fish.

Eating cats was, similarly, not something which surprised Ilya. There were winters of starving, and winters of plenty alike. And the desperate consume all that they are able.

A nod. Caring. A shame.

A couple bits of information floated in front of him as he half paid attention to Rat’s slightly insulting rambles, half continued to watch the people milling about and being merry.

Rat had a cat.

Rat needed the cat pawned off to someone else.

Rat was asking Ilya.

Damn that death date must be really fucking close then huh?

Tired dark eyes softened around the corners. His mind raced to justify and complete the stranger’s thought process: a fake name on a boat that they were going to be voyaging together, a sickly countenance, an obviously fake reason for pawning off this cat. Rat did not have someone to give his pet when he passed, and was testing him to see if his dearest companion, perhaps his only companion to him.

Two conclusions were drawn from the information Ilya was ultimately given:

Rat lived a very sad short life of solitude with only this cat as a companion.

Rat was expecting to die on this voyage.

In the winter of this… strange, strange man’s life, was it not a kindness to promise a release of few worries?

He nodded, in almost perfect assurance that Rat’s attempt to pay him back was just to save face. This all a smokescreen of desperation, time to untether Rat’s stress to safely guide him to the afterlife.

“Y’know… I can't really think about any plants I want right now…” He paused. Thought about it really hard. Surely someone as clearly prideful as the lazarus wouldn't take the no for an answer, and it wasn't like this ship was bound for any big surgeries compared to his normal fare… ehhhh, fuck it.

“Hey, actually, I used to smoke marijuana to sleep at night. Maybe some weed might be nice.”

At least, someone might get a kick out of it even if he didn't use. It might take the edge off Rat’s… everything.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

XVII

the

star

"the heart"

mood

NO LONGER CIVIL.

location

Hallway. Boo.

outfit

Napkin, necklace.

mentions

Ren.

interactions

Ren Gao

XVI

the

tower

vasariah "nightingale"

“I often am.”

Gross.

Shallow words that serve no purpose other than to stroke one’s own ego. Vasariah’s eyes involuntarily roll back as he lets out a scoff. Pretty inkwell eyes with naught an intelligent thought behind them. Unsure if the thief was unaware of the condescension laced in what he was taking as praise, or if he was aware and molded it into a compliment in his head regardless. Unsure of which outcome was more insufferable.

Venom dripping from sangria stained lips speaking weak lines of defense. In the dim, flickering light of the creaky hall, for a fleeting moment, Vasariah allowed himself to entertain the hope that perhaps the egoist had found a shred of humility. He had anticipated a swift exchange of gold, the rightful return of his stolen possession. Yet, as he peered closer, the grip was too broad, too encompassing to be holding the source of their heated dispute.

Instead of a precious artifact, what rested in his hand was a cold roll of dough, its once-warm interior now cooled, egg and yeast mingled into wheat, forming a simple and common food item. The surface was marred by black lint scattered across its brown, crested top, a crude insult compared to what he had expected. Beyond insulting, it was a mockery—a slap in the face disguised as a humble offering. His head twitched slightly to the left as he glared down at the roll, a mix of frustration and disbelief clouding his features.

With a huff, he licked his teeth in frustration, the taste of stale dough mingling with his growing anger. This was not just a theft; it was a deliberate affront, an affront he now held in his hand like a bitter reminder of his misplaced trust, however little trust that was. An olive branch that had been taken and ripped off its leaves before being snapped crudely in half. To disrespect him in such a way, then to wave him off with an insult to his appearance.

This was warfare, and he would not be satisfied until he had stripped the man of whatever arrogance was keeping his ego afloat.

Calm. Calm. Calm.

I’m tired of being calm.

Calm. Calm. Now. Calm.

He stares down at the roll, contemplating the dirty tactic employed against him. A tactic that, in his mind, should be met with an equally low response. Vasariah knows better than to fight fire with fire, yet the thief had wormed his way into such a narrow hall filled with impatience and anger. That mouth had done too much talking, too much deflecting. The frustration churned within him, threatening to boil over. His fingers twitched with the urge to silence the thief’s incessant chatter, to make him understand the gravity of his transgressions. He should give him something to chew on, something to occupy that deceitful mouth while he retrieves what is rightfully his.

“I am growing tired of you.”

His hand darts out with sudden precision, fingers curling around the thief's jaw in a grip that initially displays a startling, momentary strength. This strength, however, soon fades as a sharp, familiar pain shoots through his joints. His fingers, once firm, now unwillingly ease into a more tender, almost hesitant embrace, compelled by the ache spreading through his knuckles. They wilt at fragile joints, trembling against the thief's silken skin.

The pointed length of his nails scrapes lightly along the perfect golden flesh, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Each movement sends a dull ache through his fingers, yet he savors the unexpected softness beneath his touch, feeling the warmth and texture of the thief's skin imprinting itself into his memory. He knows he shouldn’t.

“You know,” a mirror conversation, “this is the issue with you brunettes. Always pretending like your actions have no consequences, because pretending absolves you of any sin.” Sarcasm of the highest degree, fake pleasantry infecting his voice as a sickeningly sweet smile spreads across his face. Dropped, immediately after.

It is a sensation both alien and intimate. He has never held a face before, never been given the opportunity. Never been in the presence of another, never been in a situation that would warrant such an act. There is an involuntary shudder of disgust at the realization that this man, this brash and arrogant thief, has bullied his way into such an honor. It grates against his principles, the sanctity of a first breached by a mere rogue. Yet, as his fingers trace the contours of Ren's jaw, he cannot deny the aesthetic appeal. The thief, for all his faults, possesses a handsome visage that stirs something within Vasariah—reluctantly.

The proximity is intoxicating, a heady mix of anger and something unspoken. He leans in closer, bringing the thief’s face down to his. Fingers attempting to grip perfectly chiseled jaw firmer as he locks their eyes in place. If he hated his ‘freaky ogling eyes so much’ he should have a closer look at them. He would do best to leave here with jade engraved in every corner of his mind.

Nails digging into supple flesh, both a message and a purpose—a threat. Behave. I am not afraid to break sunkissed skin to see what color you bleed. The air between them laid thick with a tension he would rather do without. "Open," a honey filled whisper laced with sharp thorns to hook into selective ears.

Vasariah is not sure whether it is an act of shock, obedience, or to open his mouth in defiance, but it does not matter. Wine tinted lips part to reveal a velvet cavern protected by ivory pearls. Briefly, the gesture is reminiscent of the novels that filled pages upon pages in his mind on wishes of romance. Illusions of perfect first kisses with handsome strangers. A fantasy in which their lives are miraculously fixed by something as simple as lips touching. A savior finding their calling in an open mouth, and their heaven in finally feeling their beloved’s lips move against theirs.

Here. Here. Here.

A fantasy that has plagued his heart for many years. A reality that does not exist. There is no savior that could fix you, not even yourself.

Why not? Here. Why not?

What was originally thoughts of inconveniencing the other enough to grab his pin now turned to thoughts of stuffing what was distracting himself. Thumb hooking under teeth to gently pry jaw further apart, to coax open the space between lips. Saliva pressing against his thumb sending a shiver of disgust down his spine. The bread roll that was so rudely placed in his hand now being placed under teeth and over tongue.

What had initially been a fleeting consideration of inconveniencing the other just enough to snatch his pin had now evolved into something far more elaborate. Filled with a need to hide the very thing distracting himself. The mere thought of thin merlot temptation should not be this venomous.

His thumb, with a delicate but deliberate motion, hooked under the thief's teeth, gently prying the jaw further apart, coaxing open the reluctant space between those satin lips. The sensation of saliva pressing against his thumb sent an involuntary shiver of disgust down his spine, a visceral reaction to the moist warmth that contrasted sharply with his intent. He was not here to indulge the thief, nor explore another’s mouth.

With a calculated precision, he took the bread roll, which had so rudely found its way into his hand, and maneuvered it towards the thief's mouth. He shoved it inside, sliding it under teeth and over his tongue. The soft, yielding texture of the bread met the resistant surface of teeth, and for a moment, the absurdity of the situation hung in the air. Was he truly going this far?

His hand fell away from the thief's supple skin and the subpar wheat roll, the moment punctuated by a pointed gesture of wiping the remnants of saliva on the thief's shirt. As he did so, he couldn't help but grimace inwardly, hoping fervently that somewhere on this boat, there was decent soap waiting for him to cleanse himself later. The thought of how many germs he might have carried in his mouth would send Vasariah into a spiral if he had nothing else to focus his mind on.

Luckily, there was a shiny metal suffocating in clenched fist that had his name engraved on it. Not literally, though it would be wise to do so after this ordeal.

Vasariah’s trembling fingers finally latch onto the ruby encrusted pin, yet the thief’s grip was stronger than his.

“Stop twisting reality to fit your imagination. It’s not yours.”

His other hand came to assist, trembling fingers joining to grip the thief's bony wrists with a firmness that belied his inner turmoil. He pretends not to notice the other’s heartbeat flowing through green-tinted veins. Nails lightly grazed the thief's flesh, a silent warning etched in the fleeting contact. His nephrite irises locked onto the thief's star-filled eyes once more.

“Let go.”

II

the

high priestess

"the seer"

card

King of Cups Reversed

This Post's Tarot Card​

When the reversed King of Cups appears in your spread, you may be more prone to emotional upset and drama. Others may trigger you or push your buttons HARD, even to where you worry you might lose it and throw an emotional tantrum. You may feel moody, depressed, anxious and unpredictable. Your feelings are bottling up inside you, and you are at risk of an emotional outburst if the pressure gets too much. Pay attention to your emotional balance and find your place of calm and compassion. Other people may trigger these emotional responses in you, but it’s up to you to stay in control!

 

[AnimeGenork]

• Rosaline
• Parrat

• 
  
  mood :

  Flirtier Than Hell
  
  

  location :

  The Deck

  outfit :

  mentions :

  None!
  
  

  interactions :

  Junshi morcetyx , Damien (RIP)

  Enamored

  ;; rosaline

  In all her years of exchanging her body for money, Rosaline had met plenty of unsavory clients. Her very first client, of course, had been one of them, and she had long ago blocked the memory of his face and touch. Many of the others she chose to forget had rotten dispositions, or they were simply ugly. Naturally, a good portion of this number included the men much older than her, who seemed to think youth meant satisfaction in bed, and unfortunately they were usually right. For themselves, at least. The point was, Rosaline was used to being unnerved or put off by her prospective clients. In fact, it was the norm.
  
  This man was no different. His breath was only part of the problem. The lack of personal space was off-putting as well, although being a harlot usually meant that personal space didn’t exist. She had mastered the art of pretending men weren’t often disgusting, though on a night like this, with her own drink still dancing in her veins, she was almost tempted to stomp on his foot or kick him in his most sensitive place. Unfortunately, she required a place to sleep, and secondly, she knew, most of the time, that acquiring such a thing meant sacrificing her body as she always did. What was the point of skin if it could not be sold for survival?
  
  The entry of another participant in the conversation did not necessarily alarm her, but her eyebrows did not get the message. They leaped up her forehead, and she strained to glance out of her periphery. For a moment, she saw nothing, and she almost feared that a ghost was somehow trying to come to her rescue. The ghost of her mother, perhaps? No, not with that voice.
  
  She watched, surprised, as another man appeared beside her, positioning himself in front of her and in between herself and the drunk man. Her raised eyebrows settled back down, though one quirked in slight humor at the name reveal. Damien? Well, not bad as far as names went, but it certainly did not fit a man such as this. Perhaps it was best that she knew now. She hated waking up and finding out that attractive names had been attached to less than attractive clients.
  
  Rosaline tried her best not to giggle, fluttering her fan a little faster to let out some of the pent-up energy the exchange was filling her with. Though she was thankful for an intrusion on her conversation, she did not want to completely burn the bridge, in case this Damien would come in handy later. Harlotry was a complicated dance, perhaps even more so than politics. Whores could not buy their way out of spats quite so easily as politicians.
  
  With the man somewhat unceremoniously escorted off the deck, Rosaline folded her fan and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her lips formed a grateful smile as she faced her rescuer, lowering into a curtsy. “He is not the first drunk I have conversed with, I assure you. There are those who turn immediately to violence when they drink, and thankfully he was not one of them.” She shook her head. “Don’t worry, he can remain on board. In fact, I was steeling myself for the moment when he touched me, though I’m rather relieved it never came to that.” Her eyes darted to the railing and the rolling waves below, imagining the all-too-tempting sight of a drunk man thrown overboard. Unfortunately, there were worse men who deserved such a fate, and Damien was not one of them.
  
  “I do appreciate it, really. I was in the market for some assistance, and it seems Damien, as you called him, was not the lucky fellow.” Here, she unfolded her fan again and hid the smirk climbing up her cheek. Her eyes took in the sight of the man and his—was that a prosthetic arm? How interesting. She hid her inspection well, pretending she was simply blinking slowly before meeting his eyes again.
  
  “However, perhaps you’ll do. By chance, do you need someone to warm your bed tonight, sir? It’s not much of a reward for your help, but it’s all I have to offer.” Knowing herself the way she did, though, she knew looks like hers were worth a tidy sum. Surely it was a fair trade?
  

  coded by reveriee.
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  The Cat

  (Affectionately named "Parrat.")​

  
  Sadly, the kitten could not sleep too well with all this noise on the deck. Lifting his head blearily, the feline yawned wide, showing off the mighty but ultimately small fangs within his mouth. He padded to the stairs leading to a higher level, hoping that altitude would add some silence to his all-too-noisy world.
  
  There was no one here, save for maybe a shadow or two, and the kitten was strong! He could face anything a blasted shadow would bring his way! Sniffing around, he recognized the scent of one of the shadows, whose smell was almost the same as the strange vessel in which he’d made his home.
  
  Tentatively, he stepped closer, gazing up at the tall human with wide eyes. “Mrow?” he ventured, rubbing his head lightly against the human’s leg. There was no response, but that meant there was no rejection, either. Waving his tail happily, Parrat settled down, tucking his front paw under his chest and tucking his back legs under his rear.
  
  Finally, some peace and quiet.
  
  

  Dedicated specifically to Gao, who loves Parrat so.​

  
  

  Coding by AnimeGenork ​