Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Aggro BUFF RAT

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.

“Awful beastie is named, yes it be,” a hitch, a pause to unpause.

“Grog.”

A quieter admission, never fond of names, quick to cleanse it from the palate with a setting jaw. Tempered only because he knows there’s a future where Oskar will be grateful that a gloomy doctor calls the cat by its correct name and not “Shithead” or “Ugly Bastard” or “Fuckwit”.

He makes a mental note to later throw the screaming burlap sack into Ilya’s sickbay and dust his hands of that unwanted responsibility.

But as a pure-born liar, Ratthew is well-versed in the act of levity. Wielding his smile and laughter in even the most dire of situations; there is no magic to it, only illusionary smoke on mirrors.

But even a mirror must warp and fracture under the pressure of someone so insufferable.

They eye from the periphery, taking in too much of Ilya’s unpleasant halcyon. They have accepted the cat. Too passive, too accepting, too quiet and eyes too heavy and all too much of everything that Rat loathes. It must be intentional, their power of not entertaining misfits, must be some kind of intelligent play— and yet.

“Y’know… I can't really think about any plants I want right now…”

Stupid cretin.

“Fat lots of good you be.” Strategic callousness, things can be both insolent and useful, if it is delivered properly. He rakes again for a reaction, for a frown or fracture of composure he can dig his fingers into and pare open like a stubborn rib. “Bets Ian can’t thinks of much with a brain o’ nothing.”

He harbors the energy of a heist, mired in a game where he devotes all his attention. That is the first lesson of dying; when the future no longer matters, the present means everything.

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

Plagued be the body and sharp be the mind, but it’s still a response that stuns Rat. Debates, for only a moment. Cannabis, greedy grub indeed. If Ilya intended to allocate it to patients for medicinal purposes Rat would have felt justified in demanding a different plant. He argues against the remnants of his morality that he is not interested in being involved in the process of helping others, but if Ilya wants it for personal use—

“Sleepsies often escapes Milky Ilky?” Some restlessness to seek the truth of their purpose. Cannabis wouldn’t be too hard for the botanist, and there is no dissuasion from the prospect of smell or finicky conditions on a ship. His mind stirs, dare he admit, feather-wisp interest to a challenge.

Stamps down the thought, reminds himself it is an exchange. Cat for weed, a reasonable trade.

“Ratsie helps, ya. Ratsie knows lots of remedy, ya he do.” He mirrors Ilya’s smile, without the soft beclouded edges. Wider, nefarious and sharp-edged as if whittled on cliff-faces.

The botanist flicks his wrist in hopes to ease some warmth through icy diluted veins, then smacks Ilya upside the back of the head with the quick impulse of a serpent strike.

“Ay, hollow! ‘Course it is.” This is Rat having to climb one rung higher after the other in search for a reaction. “Diagnosed a lost cause, ya. Not longs to live, Ramarcus fears.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
coy

LOCATION:
The Leviathan: Event Hall

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

the huntsman

magnus

Interactions: Mypilot , Antarin

Thinking it impolite to fiddle with his drink among company, Magnus replaced the methodical rocking of his glass with a more subtle twitching of his finger, neatly trimmed nail ringing against the surface in such a way that only he could perceive its rhythm. What a peculiar interaction for his first aboard the ship, was it not?

He had prepared himself for the typical preening banter among the nobles stuffed into the hall as they in turn, stuffed themselves. But some kind of royal guard, the glint of scrutiny refracting in those dark eyes as he took a sip of his drink, that was quite unexpected indeed. He could feel the challenge in Antarin’s body language and words. He was analyzing Magnus, just as the bounty hunter did so in return.

A shame, really, how similar their respective trades had forged their minds. Though any guard would deny it, Magnus had experienced his fair share of interactions among them. He was not unused to the crimson streak that bled through the porcelain mask often attached to the idea of anything royal. What sort of things had this man done in the name of his King? Would Magnus be viewed the same, had he committed his own sins in the name of someone other than Celine?

Magnus’ gaze turned sticky, following the trace of Antarin’s hand as he pulled the glass away from his lips. The dart of his pink tongue, peeking almost imperceptibly as Antarin readied himself to speak once more, didn't go unnoticed by Magnus. The bounty hunter cleared his throat, ripping his eyes away from the sight and the strange feeling it drew up within him.

“Are you familiar with naval travel?” Antarin asked. “I'm curious how others will fare on this journey—so many are new to the sea or have never left Zenith.”

Magnus smiled, the sharp point of his teeth glinting in the yellow lights that bathed the hall. He examined Antarin’s expression for several moments, letting his question hang dry in the air between them. He cleared his throat. “About as familiar as you can be without being a pirate I suppose,” Magnus sat back in his seat, gaze turning coy. The question weighing heavy on Antarin’s mind he could only assume was ‘what is your purpose here?’ And while tempted to respond ‘I am the reaper, come to collect,’ he instead added “I travel quite often for my trade. Antares, Sirocco Sands, The Canals, you name it. I’ve come to call quite a few places my home over the years.”

He raised one heavy brow in question. “And what of you? Eager to leave Zenith behind for something more open? Or, like other flightless birds, do choppy waves break such a sturdy resolve?” Magnus was playing with him now, daring the man in a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Here I am, stretched lazy and docile before you. Can you smell the blood on my fangs? Can you tell how they itch?

A royal guard or representative aboard would complicate things, that much was now fact. But defiance was an addictive drug, and Magnus now eager for a new taste.

coded by reveriee.

 

[qunqun]

The Physician.

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Ilya

Jovanovic

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

owie

OUTFIT

Party woo

LOCATION

Mess Hall

MENTIONS

Rat

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 really thought he was making progress. Slightly biting remarks aside (he was assuming now that this was how Rat showed affection), he seemed to have in some ways pleased him.

Grog. He liked the name Grog. If Rat was paying attention, Ilya’s smile inched a sliver towards the maniacal before settling back into warm vapidness.

Maybe the discomfort was thinking that he was a snitch? Ilya knew that his orderly behavior would give the impression, doctor and quiet and calm and nice, couldn't really blame that assumption.

Either way, he belatedly realized that it was three steps forward, four steps back with Rat.

The pale patient smacking his head released a melodic thunk from where the back of the skull was. The world spun a little and Ilya watched over his own shoulder as his body collapsed in its chair, head smacking against the table in the fall downwards.

Pitiable, sad, the smack wasn't even that hard.

His spirit slammed back into his body with a loud gasp and a sudden muscle tension and release. He blinked wordlessly as the world spun correctly back in place. Gripping the table to prop himself up and sit back in the chair.

He stared owlishly at Rat’s face as now spots were dancing in his eyes. .

“Sorry about that… haven't really been getting good sleep, no… thank you Mr Marmalade.”

His forehead was bright red from where it'd smacked into the table.

“... ow.” Horribly, he still didn't seem angry but just… maybe the barest hint of sad disappointment beneath waves of warm subdued kindness. If Rat was searching for any kind of aggression, the physician seemed vaguely incapable of such maneuvers, the stillness of a possum immediately just dropping to the ground dead.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[CrimsonInk]

mood :

Tipsy, tired, a little paranoid

location :

The deck of the Leviathan

outfit :

mentions :

N/A

interactions :

Open for interactions!

THE DESCENDANT

;; Dahlia

Chapter One

The sound of footsteps and idle chatter began to cloud the atmosphere around her. The solace she found was dissipating from people who tainted it with their loud, obnoxious chatter and vile presence. Using the muscles from her stomach to sit upright she turned her head, seeing figures of people scattered at different points on the bow. If there were this many people coming around she didn’t want to wait and be found out. Pretty sure they wouldn’t like to find a stowaway on this fine night.

The wood creaked under her hand from slowly standing up to her feet. The leather of her boot creasing and her palm sweating from clinging onto her jacket with thoughts looming over her. The dark whispers taunted her like a jester to his king. Despite the ship remaining still, she still felt herself being swayed left and right. For a moment she gripped the flask she stole, swishing the container and sighed.

“I really can’t be this buzzed already. I’m seriously lacking in tolerance…” she muttered under her breath. Or maybe I haven’t had actual rest since…

Licking her lips relishing the taste of the whiskey, she started forward with one foot after the other. Her arms swung the jacket around with one arm in the hole and another following. Warmth from the booze kept her body from freezing for now against the colder winds. Amber eyes were kept low and kept her steps light, so not to intrude in the bubbles others formed around her. The woman blended in with the shadows as much as she could. Until she found herself near a servant entrance glancing into the room where the celebratory events were happening.

It wasn’t much to relish in. It was like any other party she had seen. But for some reason she lingered and gazed at the faces of the people. The masks they held to one another to keep friendly appearances, the way they presented themselves with perfect postures, and the attire made by hands less fortunate only to be worn on such nights. The muscles in her face showed nothing, but her eyes would speak differently. Imagination would come in and have her wonder about things that didn’t need to be wondered. What it would be like to dance, to laugh, or smile so freely. To feel weightless and carefree. Her foot almost stepped into the light and she forced herself away.

The booze really must have messed with her mind. To think she would do something so reckless and almost give up her position. Taking in a sharp breath she continued down the other direction of the ship. Passing by a couple a strong whiff of lavender and roses clouded her sense of smell. Her eyes darted back to the couple, the woman who wore such an elegant dress and wore an infectious smile. For some reason her face felt familiar. An odd occurrence, even for Dahlia. Regaining her focus back she finally found somewhat of a quiet spot.

Stopping near the side of the deck she opened the flask and dumped out the contents into the ocean. The less she has on her, the more focused she can be. Right now it seemed to be one of those moments. Leaning against the wood she went back to gazing at the sky. If this night would go by faster, that would be nice.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

RAAAA

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.

Their eyes freeze over with a shore of white, another eye-roll to a growing collection. Everything said with unspoken ire; the blonde is not entertained by his droll rebellion.

Ren does not find it reasonable. Ren has been called cute and it would be morally wrong to lie to such an honest, creative, law-abiding man like himself.

Generous patience continued to wane at the arrival of a small bread roll, still warm from being stowed away at his side. The snob twitches like a stuttering linchpin, a warning of blood-soaked retribution that shadows their features like a threat. Obvious comparison with their ivory fabrics would be spidering ice, yet their hair is an alarm in the hallway’s dusk. Risen and lit with silence like the sun, verdant eyes at the centre of boiling blonde flame. Evokes a huff that cannot bode well for the thief, a dangerous wordless reply that is becoming common.

They are not happy with the bread roll. How selfish.

“I am growing tired of you.” The blonde is not alone in this sentiment.

“Go take a nap then.” There is more to his counter than dismissal, thinly veiled scorn that translates to I am not in the mood to play with you any longer. Must tuck the teeth that urge to untether war as he cannot afford the luxury of outright insulting the rich (ogling eyes aside). An abstract improvisation of chivalry, attacking someone of prestige on a royal vessel was sure to shatter his jaw in the repercussion.

A spliced tongue borders on such mutiny— one punch wouldn’t hurt, he could even avoid bruising their pretty face —but is suffocated by a clamp of flashing talons that flay the barrier of his skin. The same jaw once gritted in a partition of tension is slathered with something supremely odious. Grabbed, his neck seeks to lash away, intends to recoil away from their touch like a scalding burn. Instead rears like a horse taut at the end of their bridle with nowhere to run but the slough of wood at his spine.

It’s a stubborn mind now unspooling like a dripping ribbon, frayed and turned loose. Severed of rationale, a subconscious hand latches around their forearm to both hold them in place and warn, another infraction on his growing list of mishaps. Must think of the Ouroboros snake in its lurid destiny to forever cannibalise itself; always off-axis, always turning in a strictly chronological order; Ren is much the same with his cycle of mistakes.

The first bite to the dragged swallow down rolling jugular, bone cages and canvas skin and a spine once solidified like a righteous spire now curved towards the ground in familiar omission; he is not anything more than this, never will be.

But there’s a snag, perhaps a conscious decision, that catches and secures the same thread, same serpent body, deadens a stern hold and dissolves it down to a menacing fragility. Ren stills his pull momentarily. Would like to believe their trembling relent is borne from fear that someone like him would take a literal stab to make his ire known, but something tells otherwise. In the most bizarre way the arrogant blonde is not afraid of finding him alone in a hallway and approaching and demanding and blurring the boundaries of personal space; a positively fuelled haunting that is both comforting and aggravating.

Be afraid of me! He wants to grab the sides of their face and rattle back and forth till they understand he is something bad to avoid; they wouldn’t bother him if they assumed he’s not worth the risk. Paper tigers must find the right angle of light and cast a larger shadow to ward off intruders, even the painfully ignorant.

Catalogues they don't appear eager to resort to physical harm, only the psychological, and is troubled by the revelation that this blonde is so dauntless in their pointless resolve. Another time and another life he may have dwelled selfishly on the touch grazing the curve of his mandible. A smug bench-rest for his jaw where he can squeeze his eyes shut and bathe languid in pepperings of attention. Could sigh peacefully and tilt his head to guide their indulgence.

Alas, Ren does not currently want such attention from this gropey noble.

The sea rises darkly to meet brunette accusations, pulls annoyance to features to hide the fact he does not know what absolves means. Pretentious. Eyes track as sharp lips grow abrasive edges and lamplight carves it lupine. Their hand is a false warmth, nails like splinters, jaw a blade, and the thief is still trying to calculate exactly where in his increasing tally of mistakes and sheer stupidity how he landed himself into this fucking mess: getting manhandled by a small snob on day one.

Ren has never been obedient in his entire life, and there is nothing more aggravating than being shepherded along by the whims of someone so pompous. Intermittent temper returns as they trespass the ghost of space between them, and at this distance he can feel the tide of their slow, measured breathing. Does not tarry that black hair has fallen to cradle around Vasariah’s face in a mimicry of affection, craned to them by force of gravity rather than emotional will.

Caught between wall and man, it’s a barrier of escape, both restraint and warning that lines exist that are not to be crossed. It is an unjust delicacy when one is rich and respected enough to afford behaviour that would get anyone lesser beaten or spat on. When you can engage in corruption and have it be called a hobby or business, Vasariah must be glutted on it, devouring no matter the distress.

Ren wants to break the nearby lantern over their head, wants to pinch at their white layers and mock and berate. After failing miserably with his flirting, he knows to argue would be his only mooring line to climb out of this cursed crux. Opens to bicker yet finds his throat cleaved into two like a wishbone at the incising weight pressed gentle past his lip.

He is still his stature, mindless hand wrapped around the blonde’s arm in the quickly forgotten weak-willed plan to force them away. Still his frown, brows knitted and features considering the jail-time of attacking. But he is not still there, another cruel ploy from the blonde, thoughts dashed to fractured segments with no hope of a quick repair.

The blonde redraws the line, can feel their thumb against teeth that absentmindedly yield to such palatable violence. Knows the taste of boiled bones and hot water, of swirling ash and seeping decay. Knows not the taste of a stranger’s hand— or in truth, specifically, this stranger's hand… He could flirt with irony, could flirt with a lot of things, sticking fingers into someone’s mouth after making a great display of disgust at being touched by that same someone is one of them.

Is the blonde trying to solicit him for intercourse?

Mouth once a shrapnel wound, now pried apart like a passive, open gash. Ren is barely cognizant as he stumbles for notions beyond an intellectual panic. Their touch weighs down until he can feel nail grazing against tongue.

Is this some weird foreplay aristocrats enjoy?

Bite him.

No.

You can’t bite rich people.

Unless they ask you to.

No.

Some are particularly lewd, like this blonde.

Stop it.

Whatever polite waltz (albeit poor) had existed between them now curdled, etiquette rendered down to the crude jostle of a bug in a jar, uncaring of what pane collides with leg or body or brain or if Ren cannot form a coherent thought outside of arguing the merits of whether the blonde desires to be bitten.

It’s entirely blunt when something soft jams into his mouth. The scowl softens with a blink, the crease between brows loosens at the reflex to set teeth into the familiar item.

Bread. Amen.

Some not-so-forgotten instinct leads him to a halfway chew before recollecting that he is not meant to be eating right now. And while there is no (physical) wound to heal, Ren is ready to claw back his composure like a drowned thing at the walls of a congested gutter. Rare to encounter someone more brash than himself, unheard of to rival his steely nerves by breaching the confidence he has in his raucous performances. If he does not react now, he fears he may remain as some half-frozen, half-shocked victim.

They are wiping their fingers against his chest— copping another feel with no payment! —when Ren remembers to move the hand he’d forgotten was still wrapped around the blonde’s arm to pull the bread away from his face.

Spurred with the need to move, he points it accusingly at their nose like admonishing an animal. Ren does not see much difference.

“You! Back!” It’s a minced look, small and skittish and made of severed parts rather than a complete sirloin cut. He’d recoil further into the wall if he could merge through osmosis. “Get back or I’ll scream for help! Everyone will know you're a depraved maniac!” The self command of a prey-animal, he shares a wary look as if the blonde is going to shred his clothes from body and then his skin from bone. Cracked composure devours desperation, and next to reveal itself is the thief’s skill in bartering and endless patience for being exhausting.

He has noted their reach for the hairpin.

“N–No. Hey. Stop.” He tries to warn their interest away. “You don’t want that.” Feels their hand, untouched by precision, latch with his own like a troublesome parasite. “It’s a tacky thing, won’t look good on you. You’re nice and expensive and not depraved and—” the base of his wrist smothered by their own, like crushed flowers blooming watercolour to the surface and resonating a pulse echo through damp veins.

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

Ren took that personally.

“I’m not twisting anything,” he bickers with the ease of a native tongue, “you’re the brute ravaging me.” Never at fault, never the instigator, seraphs would hiss at the proposition that Ren could be anything but sacrilegious.

Their second hand joins the battle, and something power-hungry in Ren wants to stand there as the blonde struggles, watching them grabbing at the pin like a forgotten family pet clawing at the front door. Unsteady fingers betray them and Ren would express pity if not having already offered the bread roll as sustenance.

A clash of iris, his fingers are an iron maw ensnared around the warm metal.

“You let go.” He is stubborn as a fishwife. “I found it.” In their hair, but that context does not prove convenient and therefore Ren shall overlook it. Two children wanting for the same toy, he assumes he weighs more than the blonde, thinks he could rip it out of reach from their senile hands with little more than a sharp movement. Decides getting away from the imposing restriction of the wall should be the first objective.

He steps to the side so he can stand comfortably in the hallway, dragging his new found tumor on two legs with him. Strains to stifle the bad-tempered sigh that escapes through his nose. Looks to the blonde still adamant to retrieve their lost property.

“Blondie, buddy,” he begins again with a writhe of his wrist to try free itself from the shackle that is Vasariah. “There is no need to be clingy. We’re friends, I know how to share.” Another twist of his wrist to try to loosen the snob, as despite this newest friendly extension to earn their favour, his body language is growing increasingly impatient.

“As soon as you let me go, ‘kay?” A poor attempt to compel acquiescence, but an attempt nonetheless. A barb of annoyance spikes a hive on the tongue. “I’ll wait, it’s fine. I got all night.”

He tugs again, childish. Something twitches in his jaw. If he cannot charm his way to freedom, he shall have to resort to emotional measures. The realisation that he cannot defend his treasured trinket with two occupied hands arrives with another restless turn of his wrist.

“And look, my nice, generous, very pretty friend,” truly buttering for their kindness as he offers a sheepish smile, “this bread can be a symbol of my goodwill.”

He waves the roll (now missing a bite) in their face before returning the generous favour and shoving it into their mouth. Artless like most of Ren’s behaviours are, it lacks the perfunctory fidelity that Vasariah possessed, and is instead mangled against their lips as a collision of dough and crust.

Ren knows it is petty, is gratified nonetheless. With a hand now free he can fasten it around one of the blondes, Wrap it around the slender of their birdbone wrist to try and pry them away like a leech.

“Can you just—" sounds of struggle as he wrestles with the blonde's hand, "if you don’t mind, I have things to do!"

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Harrowhark]

mood

drunk

outfit

link

location

ship

tags

floralmoon Kader

No matter the party, Aurelia would always take the opportunity to get hammered. Sure she was on a boat with complete strangers and no one knew where she was, but there was booze, so she did shots. Swaying with the ship, she was simply a pinball bouncing from person to person. A pinball who was magnetic and attracted to shiny things. And fuck, was that a big shiny thing?

Pulled out of the middle of a conversation, Aurelia reached out, grabbing on to that big, round, shiny orb. So smooth. Her hands delicately stroked it, the feeling much like something she must have felt before in this lifetime.

When the orb began to turn, Aurelia ruffled her brow. How perplexing that it could move on it’s own. When a face was revealed, she was only more confused. A shiny orb with a face… And neck… and… Oh!

Aurelia stumbled back in shock, almost tripping over her own feet. “You’re a person!” A very bald person. Well, that's alright, we can’t all be blessed with stunning, flowing strands! Poor, poor bald lady. Denied of one of the best traits of humanity.

“Your head is lovely.” Despite the shock of it all, Aurelia reached back out, petting the skin. Now that she knew what it was, some of the magic had gone. Now it was only skin, not a mysterious object she was feeling for the first time.

Still, it was a feeling she could appreciate. “There's no reason to be sad about it!” Losing one’s hair must be traumatic! “You’re pretty without it. There are plenty of people who will love you regardless.” Yes, the most important things in life, beauty and love.

Social cues were out the door. Aurelia was petting this head forever. There was no telling how much time had actually passed. Seconds and minutes were all the same when one is pondering the orb. Of course, the orb did not wish to be pondered. It was removed from her grasp rather abruptly. How unfortunate.

Aurelia frowned. The face across from her did not seem happy. “Sensitive subject?” Sorry orb! She didn’t mean to offend! “Did you lose it in the war?” The very real and violent war on hair. RIP.

The Scribe

© reveriee

 

[Mypilot]

Mention: Magnus Pepsionne

Antarin was abuzz with the conversations around him, his gaze and attention on the one before him even as he tried to keep his ears from catching remnants from other conversations. There was that rush of need always thrumming in his veins to ensure everything was well, that everyone was safe on this start of the journey. He reasoned that it was because it was here, on its initial start, where things might certainly first go wrong either via sabotage or general drunken tomfoolery, and although he had spoken first with Magnus to, of sorts, interview the man, he still felt threads of focus attaching him to other key members in the room, those drawing attention for good or for bad.

But it wasn’t all bad, no, for surely there were many aboard who simply wished to be there for the joy of it. Perhaps this extended to the one before him, Magnus, who could very well just wish for a change of scenery. If Antarin was being optimistic. His gaze caught on the inaudible tapping of the bounty hunter’s fingers on his glass, momentarily snared by the movement. Impatience or nerves? Or simply a tick, something to do with his hands? Antarin tore his gaze upwards, back to Magnus who cleared his throat as if to speak, smiling in that strange wolfish way of his that Antarin was already paying notice to.

“I travel quite often for my trade.” Antarin supposed this would be true, although he wondered now at the process and how one heard of a bounty from another nation entirely, and was it worth it then for the constant movement? Unimportant thoughts and questions, Antarin shifted them to the side. “And what of you? Eager to leave Zenith behind for something more open? Or, like other flightless birds, do choppy waves break such a sturdy resolve?”

Antarin tilted his head, as if in thought. While his true purpose aboard the ship was not for the ears of anyone with a silver enough tongue to ask, it was also not entirely a secret. It was this almost-truth that Antarin chose to give.

“A ship of this size needs crew to tend to it,”

he answered plainly,

“and to ensure everything runs smoothly. I’m pleased to be journeying with The Leviathan same as anyone, but truthfully it is only the job that has me aboard her.”

He shrugged his shoulders as if to say it is what it is and took another sip of his drink, washing out the taste of another diplomatic answer full of words that say nothing.

After a moment's contemplation, trying to figure out where next to try and put a pin on the man before him, Antarin found himself mimicking that glass tapping of Magnus’ for a second before speaking next.

“I must admit I’m not familiar with your trade as well as I could be—do you venture in pairs, or have you begun this grand journey alone?”

It was with this question that Antarin would be disappointed if Magnus did not recognize this conversation for the examination it was, although he imagined with clever eyes like that it had already been surmised. Despite the watchful intentions from (very likely) both parties, Antarin found he was rather enjoying himself, this little dance of theirs as they mentally circled each other. He could only hope now Magnus was normal.

For a bounty hunter.

the ambassador

ANTARIN.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

THE DEVOUT.

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Vasariah

Nightingale

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Felt evil. Backfired.

OUTFIT

Napkin. Necklace.

LOCATION

Zesty ass hallway.

MENTIONS

Ren (unfortunate).

INTERACTS

Ren. Gao

FAMILY TREE (INTRO) —
ETHEL CAIN.

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I CAN FEEL IT GETTING NEAR

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

CHAPTER ONE.

“you’re the brute ravaging me.”

Okay.

Brute was a strong word given the context and current actions of the situation. By definition, a savagely violent person. Vasariah was not a savagely violent person. This could hardly be considered violent. There was no physical harm being done, nor was there any intent to harm the man.

Ravage was plainly inaccurate to use. He was not causing severe or extensive damage, nor was he “ravaging” the man in the common slang used for intimate activities. Which, by the speech and behavior of the man, Vas is led to believe this second definition is what he was referring to. Which…he questioned what events had allowed the thief to arrive at the conclusion that Vasariah was ravaging him.

Vasariah, of course, had no experience in the matter. What he did have, was knowledge. Some unsavory books where plot and grounded story writing had been foolishly left out in order to fulfill the writer’s selfish want for debauchery. He had also read of the other variety. Still a sin, but portrayed in a meaningful way that enhanced the story, rather than forgetting it all together. Regardless, due to his hobby, he had gained insight into the world of intimacy. He had seen ravaging on paper. This…this was far from it.

It was an opportunity to analyze his own behavior leading up to this moment. Perhaps it was because he broke his rule, and had ventured much too far into the thief’s personal space.

If he were to ravage the man, his lips would fall his first victim. Unbearably soft and supple. Gentle to the touch. Receptive. He had taken a bite and chewed when being so harshly fed, though the word fed is a reach given the intention. He wondered how the thief would react to mouth meeting a matching part. Shy and inexperienced, Vasariah was sure to do it wrong. Clashing teeth, flesh that is too easy to bruise. Too gentle, too nervous to do anything that might be worth the time for the other. He wondered what reaction he could possibly draw from the other. Perhaps he wouldn’t entertain the idea at all. Perhaps it would be too gentle, too questioning, too focused on searching for love hidden between their breaths.

Yet an inexperienced kiss is not ravaging. No. It would be much different. In another reality where things are different. A loving relationship, as to not worry about what doing such an act could possibly mean. Lips touching would only be a delicate garnish in comparison. If he were to truly “ravage” the other, then his first goal would be to not leave a single inch of skin untouched, unpraised. And—Oh.

Disgust had not yet washed over him. A peculiar turn of events. Something that had plagued him for many years. An innate disgust at anything regarding intimacy, he is aware, derived from fear. Anxious at the thought, yes. He wouldn’t consider turning such a thought into reality due to the circumstances, given that he doesn’t even know the thief’s name, nor what he enjoys of life, nor what he plans to do with golden pins. Yet the acknowledgment that this is greatly departed from his usual behavior…raises concerns.

Perhaps he had grown to be something like desperate after his many years of not participating in humanity. Though, the comfort that waved and crashed against his heart felt far from desperate.

Safe. Safe. Safe.

It would be helpful if you elaborated more. Safe doesn’t always mean good.

Still learning. Still learning. Still learning.

We both are.

When he thought about it, not once had he ever felt wrong around the man. Even as a knife was held to his back, he felt an abnormal sense of calm inside of him. Another feeling as well. One he cannot place, nor would he be able to find the words for if he could. Perhaps it was derived from curiosity, when he handed over the pin. An innate knowledge it would not be the last time their paths crossed.

Even now, he still feels it. Circling inside of him, singing him a melody that hasn’t yet reached his ears. He knows, at the least, this will be far from the last time he stands in front of the other.

Vasariah had slipped completely into his mind. It was only by the star’s grace that he had managed to hold onto his hairpin when his mind had ventured to another space. Though, it wouldn’t last long. With dull pain running back and forth along the bones structuring his hands, he was certain his shaky grip would give at any moment.

Before he could readjust, the man selfishly trapping the warm metal behind steeled fingers had wisely retracted from the wall. This sudden withdrawal left him off balance, stumbling forward with an awkward, desperate flailing. His feet tangled in shock as he attempted to keep pace with the man. His hand slipped from the pin, moving almost instinctively to envelop those unfairly strong fingers. At the same time, his other hand flew forward, grasping at a bicep drowned in layers of clothing. Despite the layers, he could feel the lean, sinewy strength beneath, a surprising and not unattractive revelation.

For a moment, he clung there, a tableau of awkward intimacy, his breath mingling with the other’s in the narrow space. The scent of the man, a mix of citrus and something indefinable, filled his nostrils, grounding him in the strange reality of the moment. The warmth of the other’s body seeped through the fabric in a way that nearly relieves the aching tension in his fingers.

Steadying himself, he quickly removed his hand from the other’s arm, the sudden absence of contact leaving his fingers tingling. With renewed determination, both hands returned to the pin. The sensation of cold metal against his skin was a shock after the warmth of human touch. He wrapped his fingers around it, his grip tightening as he prepared to wrestle it free from the iron grip that had held it so securely. With both hands now firmly in place, he had a better chance of winning this battle. Not great, but better.

“Blondie, buddy,”

The thief seemed to keep circling back to his hair.

“There is no need to be clingy. We’re friends, I know how to share.”

Untrue, yet again. Doubtful. The man knew how to take. Taking is not sharing. Taking like this is holding hostage something that was never meant to be his. Words spilled from crimson lips. Vasariah had learned well enough not to partake in any friendly extension. He was not stupid. He knew as soon as he let go of the pin it would be ripped away from him cruelly.

Suspicions were confirmed when the thief, yet again, attempted to tug away the gold metal. Vasariah’s nose twitched as the aching of his bones spiked. It was no longer a dull, bearable pain but a sharp, relentless agony that surged through his body each time the man pulled. He would not last long at this rate, his energy waning as the struggle persisted.

Vasariah’s mind raced, desperately seeking another way out. He scanned his surroundings, the dim light casting long shadows that seemed to mock his plight. He needed another way to win his possession back, to reclaim what was rightfully his. The thief’s grip was like iron, unyielding and fierce, but Vasariah knew there had to be a weakness, a chink in the armor he could exploit.

That. Flirting.

He remembered the other’s flustered panic when he believed Vasariah had wanted to accept his offer of…sleeping with him. He could turn the gun back on him.

Yet before he could truly delve deep into figuring out how to flirt with the man, golden wheat smashed against his lips. The sensation was... awful. The rough texture of the bread, dry and unforgiving, scraped against his mouth, making him grimace. Desperation mingled with irritation as he bit down into the bread, hoping to end the unpleasant experience swiftly. His eyes narrowed into a glare directed at the man, a silent accusation of the unfairness of it all.

But then, a thought struck him, a bitter taste lingering not just from the bread but from the realization that this was karma, playing out in real time. He couldn’t truly be mad at the other man. An eye for an eye was fair, after all. He had started this ridiculous game by stuffing the bread into the other’s mouth first. What he hated the most, was how he could feel the hollow section of bread the other had bit with his tongue. It was best not to linger on the thoughts regarding such a thing.

Now he looked ridiculous. He was sure. Bread stuffed in his mouth, shaking hands with pale white joints that were growing surrounded by irritated red skin. He would spit the bread out, but that was the incorrect thing to do. He was taught not to throw his food. He was taught it was improper, and not socially appropriate. Even in a situation like this, the rules forbid him from ridding of the roll.

His face scrunched together as he let out a muffled yelp through layers of gluten when the thief’s now free hand began yanking at his hand. It worked briefly, before he was able to return his grip to the hairpin. Unfair. Scoundrel’s don’t deserve this kind of strength in their fingers. They don’t deserve fingers at all, for that matter.

Vasariah glowers at the man. The field they were playing on had a steep slope that gave the other quite an advantage. Height. Strength. Annoyingly determined. Incredibly attractive. Talks more than he should, not that Vasariah minded. It was amusing, listening to the other scramble to find the next phrase to say to him. As if anything he said would make him give up on his prized possession. His voice was charming. He should find another use for it rather than trying to slither his way out of trouble.

Focus.

Another plan. Even the field. The thief’s lanky build allowed for his balance to grow uneven whenever he attempted to wrestle the pin away from Vasariah. He had read books on something like this before. The trajectory of force, and just what would happen if…

When the other began a particularly strong tug, Vasariah met with an equally strong tug to coax the other into pulling back more. Then, he suddenly loosened his grip and swept his foot under the other, sending the thief flailing backwards.

In a split second, images flashed through his mind: a skull crashing against the harsh wood, the sickening crunch echoing in his ears. Crimson pooling atop the floor, spreading in a dark, viscous puddle that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. He hadn’t considered that.

Vas's hands fell from the metal as he lunged forward, his instincts overriding any lingering hesitation. He settled in silky ink to cradle the thief’s head, the sudden motion causing a hiss to escape his lips as his hands were momentarily crushed between bone and wood. Debilitating pain radiated through his fingers, the kind that was going to leave him in agony for days.

Ignoring the throbbing ache as best he could, he gently lifted the other’s head, moving one hand to cup the side of his face. His hands shook terribly, the stabbing pain when he made the slightest movement making it hard to hold the skin firm enough to coax the thief's head to one side and then to the other, checking for any injuries. Each breath he took was shallow, his heart pounding in his chest as he examined the man’s features for signs of harm.

His eyes scanned for any trace of blood, any indication of a wound, his touch as tender as he could manage given the circumstances. Relief flooded through him as he found no serious injuries; the thief was safe. Vasariah’s breath came out in a shaky exhale, the tension in his body slowly beginning to unwind.

Sat, now, just below the other’s stomach, he could briefly feel the steady rise and fall of his diaphragm as he breathed. For a moment, he allowed himself to pause their fighting, his hand still gently cradling the thief’s face, his thumb brushing against a cheekbone. The intimacy of the gesture was not lost on him, the strange connection that perhaps only he felt sparked across where pale skin melted into hues of bronzed flesh. He could feel the warmth of the man’s skin beneath his fingertips.

A thought. However brief. That for the first time, his instinct was to save, not hurt.

Forgiven. Forgiven. Forgiven.

You may be the only.

The warmth radiating from the other began to soothe his trembling hands. Yet, with a final, gentle touch, Vasariah withdrew his hand. Jade irises lingering on the thief’s face for a beat too long. An apology bubbling in his throat. He knows he should, yet the words taste so foreign in his mouth. It takes a moment to build, for him to find the right vowels and consonants before it spills from his tongue in a quiet whisper. If they were not so close to each other, it would have gone unheard, “...I’m sorry.”

He nearly forgot what his goal was in the first place. Gold metal glinting out of the corner of his eye. His hand found his own wrist, attempting to press against the muscles to relieve pressure on shaking bones. It only earned a wince, and the inability to grip past a certain point. His chances of wrestling the pin were truly squandered now.

Fine.

He leans forward. Golden curls, now fully free from it’s clipped prison from the force of the fall, cascading past his shoulders and enveloping the other’s space. Elaborate wrapping of gold around two large ruby stones dangled from his neck by an equally elaborate chain. He debated briefly, returning to the idea of flirting with him, yet Vasariah decided that he was not going to be ingenuine in such a way.

Vasariah takes in a deep breath, exhaling as he places his on the ground beside his ribcage. A conscious decision, to not touch the other more than he already has. It seems to have finally clicked how disrespectful and wrong he has been in touching the other without warning or permission.

“I don’t know how to reason this with you,” a pause as he stares into those darling onyx eyes, “I do not care for the aesthetics of it, nor the monetary value. It is important to me.” Another pause, a glance away as he debates how much he wishes to share with the thief. He decides against it. What was the point in sharing such stories to a stranger? It would hold no value to them.

“I won’t leave without it. I can pester you all night, if that’s what you wish.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

the warden.

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Junshi

军石

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Fumbling!! PT 2!!

OUTFIT

skrunkly

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Rosaline

INTERACTS

Rosaline
AnimeGenork

not a lot, just forever — adrianne lenker

scroll

i could be a good mother

and I want to be your wife

CHAPTER ONE.

Junshi inclined his head in acknowledgment, his expression softening with a hint of relief. "I'm glad to hear he didn't escalate things," he replied, his voice steady and reassuring. "Drunken violence is all too common, especially among the Kingsmen." His gaze shifted towards the direction Damien had been led, a deep frown creasing his brow. "I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about it though, since I’m sure you’ve seen how these men drink themselves until there’s nothing but mush up in the noggin."

A pause. 1. 2. 3. A thought flickering behind his eyes. “I guess there normally isn’t much up there in the first place? At least not when it comes to respecting anyone but their superior…” He turned back to the woman, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth that was tempered by a serious undertone. "I'm truly relieved he didn't lay a hand on you. No person should have to feel unwanted advances like that."

Junshi's expression grew more intense, his jaw tightening slightly as a flicker of determination crossed his features. "If he had, though," he continued, his voice carrying a subtle edge, "I would have made sure he regretted it. No one should ever feel they can harm another without facing consequences.”

He paused for another moment, his gaze unwavering as he looked at the woman. "You know I…these things aren’t just about like…physical harm too," he added, his tone softening slightly, cautious. "Sometimes when these things happen they can leave a lasting effect and…wait that sounds accusatory no. Uhm–okay so basically what I’m trying to say is that if anything happens you are more than welcome to hunt me down. Like…whether or not it’s someone harassing you or if you just need a friend, I like to think I am a good friend—but that’s besides the point. Just if you ever need it, you can come get me."

Junshi blinked, his eyes widening slightly in surprise at her unexpected proposition. He tilted his head ever so subtly, the gears in his mind turning as he attempted to decipher her meaning. "Warm my bed?" he echoed, his voice tinged with genuine confusion. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean by that."

His weight shifted from one foot to the other. Calloused fingers finding their way back to absently fiddle with the screws of his prosthetic arm. A habit that helped him focus, or at the very least the repetitive motion soothed him. It kept the brain quiet enough that he might be able to hear his own thoughts, if they were to ever form. "I normally just grab a blanket if I find it cold, but…" he said, his tone steady yet laced with a hint of uncertainty.

A thought appeared in his mind. A memory from being dragged to the bar with his fellow Kingsmen, however unfortunate that event was. It did serve some purpose, such as right now, remembering how the drunken fools were stumbling after companionship. Vaguely, ever so vaguely, he remembers them trying to win another’s company by asking if they would warm their bed. Then. It was an offer of sex. Probably. Right?

Oh. It was her offering her body in need to thank him. Right. 1. 2. 3. A heart rested on canvas sleeve, the woman would easily be able to tell each distinct range of emotion as he sorted out the meaning in his head. With me? Beige skin flushing a deep shade of red as he looks bashfully at her. “Oh–! Oh that is a very kind offer I—no, I really couldn’t. Ah…uhm I am so sorry I don’t mean to be rude by turning you down.”

Junshi gave her a polite, albeit puzzled, smile. “You are a very beautiful woman, but I…well I'm just here to keep an eye on things and make sure everyone stays safe.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle, then continued with a gentle, reassuring inflection, “Knowing you are safe, that’s reward enough for me," he continued, his tone softening.

Another thought crossed his mind. Unusual. He was having many more thoughts than what appeared on a usual basis. Perhaps she was looking for a night with him outside of reward? He didn’t want to assume…but he didn’t want to lead her on. Junshi’s eyes crinkled slightly as he considered the possibility. He cleared his throat, his smile turning a touch awkward. “You know, I…I don’t mean to assume but, if you’re looking for…that…outside of thanking me I–um, I’m not really sure if I’m the right person for what you’re looking for.”

He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck as he continued. “Oh gosh I am so awkward at these social things, I am so sorry. I could–I could introduce you to a few people who might be more suited to, uh, what you’re after. Uhm, or if you’re willing I would be happy to spend the rest of the evening with you outside of all of that. Oh heavens, I am so sorry if I assumed anything wrong—”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[sunshineysoul]

• .
• .

• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  click here

  
  
  
  

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

  
  
  
  

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

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  aawake at night

  
  
  

  half alive

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  "the drowned"

  
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  GENEVIEVE

  
  
  
  

  Why is this pretty lady so pretty??

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  Genevieve's eyes stayed on her acquaintance. Not just because Genny couldn't remember seeing anyone half as captivating as her, but also because she was incredibly annoyed at her seeming lack of a heart.
  
  Genevieve knew she was a stranger, sure! But those people on the docks were so nice and helped her in her situation even without knowing the whole story. Why wasn't this Dolores lady doing the same? It must be because Genny's story was suspicious as all hell, which made Genny herself suspicious as all hell.
  
  "I'd advise you to stay out of trouble"
  
  Dolores remarked with a surprisingly monotone voice, to which Genevieve scoffed and rolled her eyes. The only sensible thing she could find herself doing was sipping whatever drink the bar tender gave her. It was bitter, and somehow spicy as it burned her throat when she drank. She found herself wishing it was sweeter and made a mental note to ask for a sweeter drink next time around.
  
  Another thing that frustrated Genevieve. She didn't even know what she did and didn't like until she tasted it with her own tongue. If she sat and thought about it, there were some basic foods that she could identify as sweet or savory or bitter or salty, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember what her preferences were. How dumb, how frustrating, how skin boiling infuriating.
  
  Genevieve was a bit shocked to hear Dolores speak more, but certainly wasn't going to complain when nobody else on the ship was speaking to her yet. She asked some question about what her plans were to get her memory back and Genny shrugged after throwing back the rest of her bitter-spicy-not-sweet-juice.
  
  
  

  "Why? You wanna snitch that to the Captain and all of his 'mates'?"

  She made air quotes around the word "mates", since Dolores had spoken about them so formally. Why did the captain have to call his best friend "first mate"? And why the hell did he have to embarrass the rest of his friends by ranking them as "second" and "third" mates?
  
  After Dolores didn't leave, Genevieve sighed and motioned for Dolores to sit across the table from her.
  
  

  "This might come as a shock to you, but I don't know. With a brain as empty as mine, I don't get a whole lot of good ideas. Or even ideas in general."

  Her eyes finally left Dolores to scan those around them. There were some other ship-passengers who were sitting at tables, having discussion just like the two women themselves. A few more who were playing live music, and then the rest of the passengers were dancing on their own self-proclaimed dance floor. The coast was clear, she couldn't see anyone in white cloaks or even anyone who wanted to listen in on Genny's secrets.
  
  Turning back to Dolores, Genny shared her one ounce of a plan.

  "The only idea I have floating around this brain is to... Talk to people. What better way to recover memories than to talk and get 'new' information right? I mean, I've already had two fragmented memories come back within the span of one day, who knows what else I can uncover as the voyage goes on."

  Genny tried to act like she had it all together, like everything was perfectly planned and she already had a precise agenda of who to talk to. But for some reason, Dolores' presence melted just about any and all confidence that Genevieve could scrape together. She was rambling, of course, but she wasn't quite sure what else to do.
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  location

  
  

  The Leviathan dining hall

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  interaction

  
  

  Dolores ( Nifty )

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  mood

  
  

  Now the pretty woman wants to play nice?

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

♡design by miyabi, coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FREAK.

OUTFIT

FLUTTERS BY

LOCATION

MESS HALL

MENTIONS

ILYA & GROG

INTERACTS

ILYA qunqun

MERCY DOWN — S. JAMES.

scroll

YOUR JOURNEY IS

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

CHAPTER ONE.

Hopes Ilya doesn’t notice it, the passing eclipse of a disgusted expression at their smile. All that excess of pallid personage and pallid personality and splintering second of a grin that, frankly, only pissed Rat off more. Jury’s still out whether to kill this vexatious man in his sleep and find another home for the cat.

In another life the botanist could only hope to be so simple-minded that the name “Grog” summons such amusement. A cloud for a brain must be easy, no purpose beyond floating around with a skull parcel of air, too weak to tread against currents and too weak to survive a slap to the head.

He killed Dandelion.

Good riddance.

The doctor locks like seizing ribs, mid-breath fold and forfeiting the honor of standing.

In the aftermath Rat is still, culpable hand hovered in vacant air. Well-trained enough not to reveal a reaction towards the surprise, not trained well enough to remember a lack of reaction is equally strange. The incessant energy that has done nothing but hum its pestilent tune tapers to a point of concentration, and quite pointedly, his gaze follows the doctor rearrange every braincell (few and far between and perhaps allergic to each other) on the table.

He has little patience for the doctor’s transgressions, even if those of lesser intelligence could label it charmingly pathetic. See, Rat can identify what he feels is pity.

Unheard of to look down at another being and feel sympathy when he inhabits a shell as derelict as his own. Is it wrong to kick something when it’s down? All it must know in its miserable life is being a melancholic doormat. The sad, sad little man will never know peace.

Rat may not like them, but when the pelt of a dog is combed by rising gutter water, it is necessary— some may argue kind, to remove the body.

“Thank you Mr Marmalade.”

No. Fuck you. Stay in the gutter.

“Ay!” Rat rears his hand in threat to smack him again if he keeps up the philanthropy. “Shuts that natterin’ gob.”

It has struck the botanist on a personal note that he is not a physically aggressive person (neither of them are, he should be grateful, not be annoyed by it), this is just where impatience has brought him. Flat red glowing on the doctor’s forehead wrestles something from the pyre of his actions, not regret for the impromptu stunt— Rat has no time to feel bad for anything, but dissatisfaction to their mewl of “ow”.

Put that shit right the fuck away.

Sour-faced to their doleful eyes, he is not sure if Ilya is unaccustomed, or too accustomed, with getting slapped around. He times it meticulously, an overthought as he turns away to pick fingers through a nearby plate that has long been abandoned by its patron. Not too fast to seem panicked, not too slow that it looks as if he had to argue the thought; pulls a square of white from pocket and pinches a slab of meat with a scintilla of disgust icing along vertebrae, folding it into the fabric as a provisional cold compress.

He’s blasé with the action, does it all the same. Holding the silk-cushioned meat against Ilya’s rubescent forehead.

“Whammed by ham, ya.”

Ever bludgeoned with impatience, he grabs Ilya’s wrist with the same taloned claw that snatched away his drink, to irately hold it in place instead. Withdrawing Marmalade’s nursing services to drop into the seat opposite the doctor, it was, by all means, a weird play, and in the brief silence Rat must quickly search for something to say.

“Wants that handkerchief backs, Rat do.” The debt is settled, nothing can grate at him any longer. “Washed.” He adds, small fuss, doesn't want ham smell pervading his cascade silk. “Neatly folded with crispy edges, ya. Lard-brain can manage this, we bethinks.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Physician.

scroll

Ilya

Jovanovic

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

HELP ME. HELP ME DEVANA-

OUTFIT

Party woo

LOCATION

Mess Hall

MENTIONS

Rat

INTERACTS

Gao

Cigar — Tamino.

scroll

Humanist's Folly.

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

Chapter One.

Paradigm shift in the thoughts of the physician, Rat was officially slightly dangerous. Not particularly cause for concern (he'd been stabbed one too many times for light snacks to truly register as threats), but enough that when a white handkerchief came floating towards him, Ilya’s initial instinct was immediately to duck it and stand.

Wrist grabbed, Ilya now standing, he stared at Rat with that same owlish dark stare. Eyes flickered from one little paw clasping his wrist, the other on the meat handkerchief that was still coming towards him like a threatening miniature ghost from the hands of a walking corpse (Marmalade’s hands were icy, that made him sad). He blinked. Oh. Was this Rat trying to be nice? Trying to make amends?

Was this a mating dance?

“Sorry, I'm not really interested in... your... meat.” A tone that wasn't… Doctor Ilya Jovanović but sounded something similar, even as he leaned as far back from the encroaching cloth as he could. More akin to perhaps what would be best defined as “just Ilya.” A kind of dried out sarcastic simplistic response to ridiculous absurdity. The lilt of the maniacal grin back, it faded into the bleak smudgy melancholy before too long. A return to character.

Blink.

That was some really fucking dumb shit he just said wasn't it.

Unable to beat empty headed dandelion allegations, Rat was beholden to a look of miserable regret at Ilya’s ill-timed outburst.

… was it a little sad that he protested the hamkerchief more than he protested getting slapped? He was not certain. Maybe that was something to ask someone more… stable on this ship.

They were now both sat on opposite sides of the table, a farcical play of civility. The meat compress was on the table, sitting there between the two of them. Lulled into the first rest, Ilya found his attention wandering once more, off of the pallid ill man before him and towards the others before it drifted back to Rat Marmalade.

“... It's a nice handkerchief.” He was absolutely not touching it. The quality of which, though, was noticeable enough for Rat to comment on it. “... is that Cascadian Silk?”

Was it strange to return to small talk after a man offers you his cat and smacks you upside the head? Perhaps this was a normal interaction and he’d been so locked up with work he'd completely forgotten how conversations occurred. Or maybe there was a new emperor in charge that had declared whatever this was was the new normal.

Who was the king anyways?

…

He was absolutely NOT touching that hamkerchief-

“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Mr Marmalade. I believe I saw a noble from Umbra who I have to give my regards to, if you could drop off Mx. Grog at my office tomorrow that would be-”

Right as he was giving an excuse to leave whatever this was, he saw the form of said Umbrian noble approaching.

No! Go away! Turn around!

She did not leave or go away like Ilya wanted but instead definitely appeared to be approaching. Fuck.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[erzulie]

DEVANA ACINDIUS ─ THE SHACKLED
tags: Gao qunqun ; location: the mess hall
interactions: ilya & rat
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. With a final bow between them, Devana released her partner from her clutches.

There was no specific location that she had set on seeing. No, Devana wandered around the ship like the specter that she was. Her form weaved through the shadows so well that she seemed to melt into them. Lurking had been a force of habit in all honesty. Dealing with the beings that she often did in Umbra had left Devana with an extra sense of vigilance. Patrolling was a second nature to her, placed right below wielding a sword. When her little stroll proved useless, she returned to the mess hall.

Devana walked through the crowd of people for a time before she caught wind of the end of a conversation “…a noble from Umbra…” caught her attention, causing her to tilt her head to the side. Devana stepped into the light then, her footsteps deliberately quiet. Silence stretched as she looked between the two who sat, then her gaze flickered to the meat between them.

Porcelain gleamed within the light of the room and her inky gaze settled on sad brown eyes again. She gave him a slow once over, the urge to yank at his curls growing with each moment. Devana gazed at the other stranger just as long. She did enjoy looking at pretty things sometimes and she enjoyed monopolizing them even more.

“You’re familiar…who are you?” She looked at sad eyes once again.

coded by archangel_

 

[escapist]

MOOD:
Friendly, curious, drunk

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

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

Dahlia, Captain

The old-timer

Maltke

Interactions: Dahlia, CrimsonInk

"That be right, Captain" The savory voice stumbled through the thin air above the deck like a drunk pirate whose uncertain steps rumbled towards the seclued part of the deck where Dahlia was leaning against the wooden railing. "I tell ye, that nail, poking out of the deck was dangerous...it wasn't my fault that I..." The louder voice was silenced by a quieter, more composed one. "What can I say?! When I work I get hungry...and thirsty...nevermind! I am not tryin' to find an excuse, I'm just sayin' that it's not entirely my fault." The louder one kept rambling as the two figures' footsteps were approaching.

Firstly, the captain of The Leviathan appeared, his otherwise stern expression mirrors fatigue. "I simply asked you to clean up your mess! If that's too much to ask from you, you can still swim back to Zenith!" The Captain groaned in frustration, trying to stay calm. Next to him, a crew-member walked louldy who could been seen at the departure. The thick black coat that he was wearing almost hid his robust form - if he weren't that loud. "Eh? No, I told ye, I'll clean up! I only ask for a little help...!" The old man shouted, before he tried to wrap his arms the captain's shoulders in a friendly way but surely to his luck, Maltke gave up this dead idea. "Maaaybe..." The old man looked around but except that couple which already disappeared, he saw just the redhead passenger. "How about her?" He asked, leaning closer to the Captain, pointing right at Dahlia.

Maltke sniffed his nose and chuckled to himself as he walked over the critical area: where the wooden floor was stained with almost comical amount of drink and remnants of food. Besides the small burnt stain that started all of this. The old pirate's single eye squinted curiously to the red-haired woman, his eye glinted with a little amusement when he saw the captain giving order to the woman, then walk away. "Hey, you! Stop lurking around with that thoughtful expression and come here!" Maltke seemed like he felt himself good in his skin - he just recieved a helping hand!

With this, Maltke fell into silence, placing a bucket of water and two rough brushes between them, grabbing one of the brushes. He hunched over, crouching on the floor with his fur coat like a bizarre, sardonic bird. He pushed the brush in the water and started stroking the wooden floor with it lazily, his single eye was following the Captain's receding figure. "Good-good. That's enough for now" he groaned after a few stroke. Putting down the brush, he pulled a plate, full of food and with a few glass of drink. "There's no way I would work without an empty stomach, right?" He snorted making himself comfortable. "Damn, my bones are hurting already..." He whined, probably to himself.

"Serve yourself" he said casually to Dahlia as he poured himself a generous glass of rum. "I wonder..." Maltke started speaking again. It seemed like enjoyed moving his mouth in company. "How come ye saunter alone instead of enjoying the chaos of the party?" He asked without any politeness, only guided by genuine curiousity.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
coy

LOCATION:
The Leviathan: Event Hall, Main Deck

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

the huntsman

magnus

Interactions: Mypilot , Antarin

“A ship of this size needs crew to tend to it,” he answered plainly, “and to ensure everything runs smoothly. I’m pleased to be journeying with The Leviathan same as anyone, but truthfully it is only the job that has me aboard her.”

The bounty hunter nodded in understanding. Antarin’s focus seemed to be splitting off, scrutiny shared amongst the milling crowd around them as well. Always on duty, he supposed. How exhausting that must be.

“I must admit I’m not familiar with your trade as well as I could be—do you venture in pairs, or have you begun this grand journey alone?”

Magnus’ mask shifted, expression darkening for a beat at Antarin’s prodding. Like a dog on alert, he let out a low hum in thought, but the sound was more akin to a warning growl. Tread lightly, Antarin. You are getting rather close to questions that will bare my teeth in threat.

“I never work in pairs,” the bounty hunter stated flatly. His reputation for collecting the dead as opposed to the living was a well known fact in the bounty hunter community. Most steered clear from his path. When it was known that Magnus had taken on a bounty, it was commonly left uncontested for fear of facing the cold steel of his apathetic brutality.

Magnus downed the rest of the amber liquid in his glass with one quick swallow. He glanced back at Antarin, and the darkness in his eyes had cleared into something polite and glassy.

“Now If you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of a bit of air,” Magnus smiled. He stood, limbs moving with a fluid grace, before turning to offer Antarin a curt bow. “It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

Magnus’ stride was full of a practiced pride he often noticed among gentlemen of nobility. A self-righteous stride, as if everything they desired belonged to them and them alone. It was quite a paradoxical trait of his, considering the man believed nothing belonged to him at all.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding in a long hiss, expression dropping from the mask he had plastered on during his conversation. The crowd thinned as he neared the doors to the large room. He slipped through them soundlessly, eyes sliding to his peripheral to glance at Antarin once more before he melded into the night.

The bounty hunter leaned against the hard railing of the Leviathan’s main deck. He titled his head back, soft gust of air that ghosted across the sea carding its fingers through his hair. Smoke from the cigarette in his hand twisted upwards like twin snakes, stretching and thinning until it dissipated into nothing.

It felt good to get away from Zenith. He hadn’t been in the city long, but unwanted memories had a way of stretching the illusion of time. His footsteps overlapped years of the same path--over and over in an unbearable cycle. Sure, those memories belonged to him--but they felt implanted. Fake. Who even was that boy all those years ago? Certainly not whatever was harbored within him now.

Magnus took a long drag. Smoke curled softly from his nostrils, obscuring the dark glaze of his eyes in a thin film of grey. New places meant new memories. New memories better aligned who he currently was with who he had been--no disconnect to mess with his head. The Leviathan was easy to understand. Every memory here was fresh. Each step was an untrodden path, and the person he was aboard this ship was within his control. Finnick never stepped foot here. Finnick would never step foot here. Only Magnus, and the blood that dripped in his wake.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Harrowhark]

mood

Yapping

outfit

link

location

Bow of the ship

tags

Ari qunqun

Gasp. A negative response? Who would have expected that?

Elera was often met with an insult under one’s breath. Something she had grown to pay no mind to. This situation was no different. If one could not voice their opinions loudly and in earnest, those thoughts were of no value.

“And what a lovely night it is to enjoy the sea breeze.” Elera had never been one to take a hint. Even one as blatant as she was just given. The smile never left her face.

“Oh, so you make the food. Honestly I was a little worried we could be eating stale bread everyday while we are away from port. Though I suppose I am assuming you are proficient in your profession. I have no reason to believe you are not, but I imagine I could easily be made to eat my words.”

“Regardless, I have been excited to experience foreign cuisine. I am unsure if I’d even like many regional specialties, but in the books I have read on the subject, foods from the Sirocco Sands do quite interest me.”

All implications of violence from the chef were lost on Elera as she continued to talk his ear off.

“Of course, an introduction. My apologies. I am Elera Korey and I would like to introduce to you-”

Oh?!

Elera looked back at Ari wide eyed. She had, obviously, expected people to be abrasive about the subject, but not as blatantly as this.

“Well I…” Elera cleared her throat, “I wouldn’t put it like that, but yes, I do follow the path of the stars.” Perhaps the way he spoke was not out of malice but instead a lack of manners. “You seem to be familiar with The Order. Though it does seem you only have a vague grasp on our culture and perhaps some internal bias against us. I understand the unknown can be off putting, especially when we so often keep to ourselves. This is why I have come to change the narrative for outsiders.”

“We are not as bad as you may think us to be. I cannot pretend to know the impression you may have of The Cascades, but by your reaction, it is not positive. Perhaps we could have an intellectual discussion on the topic. You can tell me what you believe to be true of us, and I can set the record straight. I must admit though, I have had a bit of wine, so I might not speak as clearly as I would hope to. But if you do not mind, I am more than willing to converse now.”

Uh oh, Ari, you may have been better off not saying anything...

The Crusader

© reveriee

 

[qunqun]

THE BUTCHER.

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Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FUCK YOU.

OUTFIT

BUT A BLACK SHIRT

LOCATION

Docks

MENTIONS

Elera

INTERACTS

Harrowhark

... And Justice For All — Metallica

scroll

The Tertiary Sin.

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

Chapter One.

Aurelian fucking hated himself.

Not actually, okay maybe a little, but a healthy dose of reality was good for his tendency to be overconfident. But currently he fucking hated himself for opening his stupid mouth and letting the floodgates in.

You’re one of those star fanatics. Are you shitting me. That was just going to make this stupid peppy bitchass star fanatic talk to you even more. God he wished Danny was here to make this fucking idiot go away. He was good at finding common ground and steering the ship away from rocky bullshit like religion and openly insulting people.

She was yapping still. He was not going to punch someone on the first night, he was not going to punch someone on the first night, he was not going-

She was giving him a headache.

His bad mood had soured even worse at the small digs at his ability to do his fucking job, fuck you for that by the way, but something in her tone made him even more pissed off than before as the placations seemed to work in opposite effect on him.

“What… I believe” He said as he digested that information, horrifically too sober to put up with any of this nonsense. “Fucking stars almighty you're patronizing.”

A small humorless chuckle escaped him as he shook his head, and then turned towards Elera with a yellow eyed stare. A flip having switched. Suddenly not in stop talking to me Mormon preacher mode and in way too much eye contact mode.

“I believe” He spat out the word with so much venom that it may have been an attack in itself “that I was sitting here minding my own fucking business, when a nosy little bitch who thinks she's better than me for following a bunch of old musty geriatrics came flouncing over here to insult me-”

Had he taken a breath yet in his rant? He was definitely advancing on her now, a predator stalking prey.

“-For no fucking reason other than my fucking aura gave her bad vibes.” He took a deep breath in. “And guess what, THATS A SIGN TO FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out. With a great amount of effort, Aurelian broke the eye contact and settled back down to where he'd been before.

He seemed to allow the silence to fill in the gaps. “If you're about to say I need to find the stars and let it ease my temper, I'm going to punch you in the face.”

That one wasn't said as a threat. It was a fact. In the same humorless razor's edge that he'd laughed in before his tirade.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Wyll]

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

The Anvil

Anon
Keep

The rocking. He knew it well. It was the same towing that had put him to sleep after working on this ship for days without a wink of sleep. He and the others would sing their work songs to carry themselves through the long hours, but eventually, the swaying of the ship won over their resolve. He would even dare to say that it feels more natural to sleep swayed by the waters than it does to sleep in his own bed. Here, with the waters, it feels as though one is in the loving arms of a mother once again, caught in her tender embrace as she rocks you to sleep and tells you that you're safe in her arms. Here, that mother is the ocean and it is with great annoyance that he pried himself awake from her soothing embrace.

He heard a commotion going on above him and figured that must have been the fellow workers he had gotten to know adding final touches. Ah, it would be rude of him to leave them up there to do all the work. "Aye, aye, you scouns. I'll be up there in a wee." he groaned as he stretched, joints popping into place and his mouth exerting itself in a yawn. Many of his muscles were still tight and sore from the work he had done the nights before so the stretch was a rather long one and contained a lot of groaning and moaning. "Ah, far too tight for my age, this. Cannae keep waking up like this everyday," he mumbled as he tracked his way back up to the deck of the ship.

In his still-waking-up-from-sleep state, he wasn't really processing much of what he was seeing or hearing, casually greeting people with winks, waves and nods of the head as he passed them - people he had never seen. When he had a second to think about it, he figured that, it being the day before launch, a lot of the royal families had requested to take a look around before the maiden voyage. He could understand that. Plus, he also would never say no to people admiring his handiwork. HE was proud like that.

When he got up to the deck, what he saw surprised him. The smell of fresh fish and spices was gone and had been replaced by the undiluted, unfiltered and unrelenting smell of salt that burned his nostrils. The yellow, brown and grey colours he was used to seeing had been replaced by blue, blue and a slightly different shade of blue. Actually...that might be the same shade of blue after all - apparently he was still bleary-eyed.

Suddenly, realisation hit him like a brick wall. Ah! I must really have my bearings turned around, I'm on the wrong side of the ship. He convinced himself that if he walked to the other side of the deck, that the sight of tall buildings, the scent of peppers and fish, the sounds of the bustling trade port would all find their way back to him. And so, in the slightest bit of a panic he makes his way over to the other side...only to find the exact same view waiting for him. Well, not exactly the same view. This one at least had the moon.

His mind started to run with a million and a half thoughts and there was little time to process them all.

What is the ship's top speed? I should know, I helped design it. I don't see land, so we must be a ways out. At this time of night, swimming back to shore would be a death sentence on myself. I'll have to wait until we make port and find the next ship back. To do so, having living quarters would be ideal. If we've already taken off, that means everybody we were expecting has boarded. Nobody sane would miss this if they had a ticket. Rooms are out of the option. Money is out of the option. Clothes are out of the option. Thinking complete. Conclusion...

"I am so royally screwed, aren't I?"

He closed his eyes and tried to focus. Breathe Anon. Breathe. People would give up an arm and a leg to be where you're standing right now. Savor it, enjoy it. Worry about how to get back home when you get to the next port. Worry about where you'll sleep when your eyes start to close. Worry about what to wear when the ones you have on no longer serve you. For now...he looked around the deck...make friends.

Mentions:

 

[AnimeGenork]

mood :

Amused & Touched

location :

The Deck

outfit :

mentions :

Magnus Pepsionne
A Secret Other

interactions :

Junshi morcetyx

Enamored

;; rosaline

If she were to be frank, Rosaline was not quite sure what to do with such a talkative man. It was not the drunken ramblings of her usual callers, that much was certain. She fluttered her fan every now and again to remind herself that she was conscious. Her eyes lowered as he mentioned unwanted advances. “There are those who will always feel them, I’m afraid. For the sake of survival, there are crosses we all must bear. Mine happens to be the filthy hands of drunk men.” A harsh laugh left her mouth, an unusual sound from her. Usually such sounds were kept within her own mind. “Haven’t you heard? There are plenty who never face consequences. Perhaps they simply haven’t met you yet to atone for their actions.”

My, how this was a depressing line of thought. Even so, the man continued radiating a kindness she was not used to from someone of his stature. Or gender. Or—anyway. Her fan stopped mid-flutter, and she lowered it, an incredulous look on her face. “You truly mean that?” They had just met. Surely he was not serious about doing such things to defend her? “You’re odd.” Wait, that was rude. “In a good way.” A smile. “I will do well to remember you’ve said that.” Was this affection stirring in her chest? How strange. That was not a feeling she was used to feeling.

The dance began of him processing her proposition. She simply waited for him to puzzle out the riddle that she had not given, but rather he’d invented for himself. Rosaline tilted her head, a delighted smile on her face as she watched him figure it out. The smile did not disappear even as he turned her down. Rather, it was entertaining watching him fumble through such a rejection. When he’d finally reached his conclusion, she inclined her head. “It is no offense, I assure you. I understand. Forgive me for being so forward—the only currency I deal in is my body. I’m afraid I have nothing much else to offer.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true. But a lady harlot deserved some secrets.

Now she laughed again. “Oh, you are truly a delight, sir. Please stop apologizing; there is nothing to forgive. Thank you for the offer, but I am sure I will find someone to occupy my time tonight. For now, I will greatly appreciate your company… Hm. I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. How rude of me.” Dipping into a proper curtsy, Rosaline smiled up at him. “Rosaline Touchard, though call me whatever you wish based on that name. I have responded to several nicknames in the past, and you have certainly curried my delight enough to grant me one.”

As she finished up her introduction, she spotted a shadow against the railing elsewhere on the deck. She did a double take, almost recognizing the silhouette. But no… what were the odds he was here as well? Surely his tasks had taken him elsewhere, and not on this ship? Strange… Rosaline shook off the confusion and faced her hero again, smiling once more. “And what brings you aboard the Leviathan, sir? Business or recreation?”

While awaiting his answer, Rosaline let her eyes sweep over the deck, searching for the one whose bed would also become hers for the evening. Hm. She might have just spotted just the person. Poor unfortunate soul.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

HELPING :3

OUTFIT

NOT SUSPICIOUS

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN HALLWAY

MENTIONS

VAS, DOLORES

INTERACTS

morcetyx

BLUE AS INDIGO — TIGERCUB.

scroll

HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER ONE.

As any noble would, Ren lifts a petulant gaze to the truant touch against his arm. Having performed yet another display of impertinence, another scandalous grope, Vasariah is earning himself a sadistically handsy reputation. Five-fingered impiety charged with uncalculated instinct to grab, the tips of their fingers meld to black and the crescents of their thin wrists curve below foam white. Half of a mockery prayer, charcoal and ivory clash and in that union rises a quiet warmth.

An interval of something softer, he is yet to realise there is not much on the line for either of them. The pin, of course, but pride has long expired; a cheap, flimsy thing. The thief considers briefly, with the man against him and stun of proximity, that pride is overrated anyway.

Focus.

In spite of Ren’s bravado, the napkin must feel the way his body tenses with uncertainty at all this excess. Hopes he can sell the face he tries to wear, assertive and steady and less like a haphazard moth dipping past oil-flames. There is no contempt, such an avid patron of attention-seeking appreciates a dose or two or seven, but it is unknown whether it’s a stab of annoyance or anxiety that serrates his persona towards it.

Brilliance is a consequence of cut, this is where rarely-ventured aptitude takes him. Impressions of jewels and their formal shapes he is intimate with, knows a pavilion angle by feel alone, knows when the cut is too deep, light reflected to viewers from the interior of the stone prematurely dispersed dampens both lustre and worth.

He has looked it over with the sharpness of a larcenist, can notice the cut of the blonde’s fingers and recognises there are fissures, dispersions of light that bleed energy. Charred bones disintegrate beneath pressure into easily-digestible dust but a strange compulsion spurs Vasariah all the same, seeped to the core of rotten marrow that spindle the meat of their hands. Fingers clawing like air rend from desiccated lungs, the thief watches in both distraction and focus how every tendon works to compensate for trembling exhaustion.

Ren would have played differently if aware his movements were causing pain. Not kinder or anything fair, never that, but at least something that isn’t going to hurt. It is that same detour that had tarried focus and their sudden pull rips him back to the crushing reality with a lacuna of shock. Requites gravity with an instinctual pull of his own in forget of the underlying concern.

There was no winning here, it seemed. Consequential wrench has Ren come away easily, dislodged and falling backwards and too late to orchestrate any nimble-footed respite. Every action demands payment; the floor punches half the air from his lungs, crushes meat into bone against wooden planks, and with gritted teeth there is a moment of resistance to shove away the blonde that must have followed him to the floor to commit another malicious act.

But the snob’s palms are not in view to deflect or hit, are instead curled behind skull to pillow impact— the only reason there’s not a splitting headache in tandem with a splitting body. Unlike all the gnarled expressions pulled onto features, an arrival of something crestfallen. The brunt of their fear gives Ren pause, recognises pervasive worry that has the blonde half-gone with an unpredictable reaction. Plagued with panic and trembling hands as if some lifetime has lived and died and left them with the grief of such haunting apprehension.

They coax his head one way then another with the same sacred hands, with a newborn wary handle on humanitarianism. Can hear their seizing lungs squeezing salt sediment into veins to goad their frenzy. Clothing may be starched white and saturated with censer’s cinders, but that alone is not what makes them sacred, no more than a costume to shed and don at will. It is that faith in the higher, that they’re too spineless to face actions without guilt. The blonde has paid enough penance in the form of Ren’s distracted silence.

“Hey,” voice gentle, breathless from sudden descent and their proximity. Brings a hand around Vasariah’s elbow and squeezes once to pass understanding:

You are okay and so am I.

Brewing storm crests and declines, he watches tension be liberated from their shoulders.

His blood would be worth little currency, and yet the blonde looks at him like something valuable that deserves care. Their touch is cold but gentle, a scalpel tenderness as if to know his bones by shape. Mouth wrung dry as an oil-cloth, teeth settle crescent moons against crushed velvet tongue; Ren is not at all immune to it. Forgets to blink, breathe, how easy to remember it has been a long while since someone treated him like this. Sentimentality drags from chest to lower ribs where it could all but beg an ode of sorrow to be let out.

There has never been a moment since it happened when the urge to run back had not perched beside him like a bedside reaper. Even if he has left her, she still sits with him; regret does not require company to keep itself occupied. Longing is appropriate for the heart-shaped mistake branded in his chest, the shadow of Dolores where the suffocation of crushed lavender will always soften his eyes an inexpressibly gentle amount.

Grief ruins the mood. He should not spend time selfishly dwelling when the blonde’s hand is warm against his face. Their affection may be false but the attention is sincere and Ren is not much else outside of a glutton. A subtle turn of the head in discreet search of where their touch has withdrawn to, finds the snob looking down at him, raw as a wound. He’d be content to wait there until the man has scoured him of every detail on the floor (engage in the Ravaging, per say)– but it takes a few long moments before remembering the limited space between them is oppressive.

An apology barely discernible if not for their adjacency. The coal-black of Ren’s eyes are strategically impassive towards it. He does what he does least and stays silent, both a reaction and reply. Not done out of spite but the notion that he does not know what to say. Thank-you does not sound right, a shrug feels too dismissive. When you are pinned to the floor, it is best to stay humble.

A curtain of gold ringlets canopies over him, and beneath the lantern backglow the blonde is all halo. Ren considers religion.

Focus.

Hail of aurelian dangles to orbit, and coal iris are instant in how they watch the sway of thin chain and arc of light across ruby gems, the true canvas of his devotion. He is warring the decision to surge forward and catch the jewel in his teeth like a fish clamping hook, but they draw away to the floor with the item of interest still sitting, unattainable on their torso.

There’s signals of pain in protesting bones as he slowly sits up, swivelling to lean his back against the wall. Given the blonde’s apprehension towards the idea they’d hurt him, he is not dissuaded from sitting on the floor with them.

“I don’t know how to reason this with you–”

“You cannot.” Interjected with a flat tone reserved for bickering, “I am unreasonable.”

The pin is still in his hand, but an implication arrives. Material items ought to have value to him, but being respected and cared for is a rare (albeit frustrating) value. He has been asked with a measured respect, no accusation of stealing or insult, and their attachment to the item is from strings of sentimentality rather than hoarding greed.

Not quite mature enough to hand it back like a scolded child, he hesitantly settles the hairpin on the ground between them. There is a lapse of silence as he watches the blonde, motioning his eyes to the pin in bitter admission they can have it.

But a growing glint in his eyes is obvious as he scans the other up and down. Mischievous. Ren has been good, has followed the law for at least three hours, and has now returned the hairpin to its rightful owner. Still, something in him always feels the need to paw at unknown waters.

“If you were really sorry, you’d let me have your necklace.” To no exhaustion, the bargaining resumes. “I can be very forgiving after a gift.” He is toying again, forever hounding the patron saint of profit, but martini salt has its underlying sweet-note.

If Vasariah’s hands feel anything like Ren’s spine, he is sure there is tenderness radiating the meat-clung bones. Ren extends a hand in request, insouciant despite the oddity of it.

“Give me your hands,” sincere unlike his common forked tongue, “I know they hurt.”

Ice lances their fingers, he has felt them melt against the heat of his face, and this seems a small favor for their sanctuary from the fall. Preens something smitten to find them acquiescent, the thief makes sure to handle them with the care of silk and gossamer threads. Like fragments of a wreckage, all precarious edges blossoming with unseen wounds, he shells their hands in his own and brings them close to his lips.

They are cold, smell of fragrant thyme and jasmine, and he breathes life into them as if to ignite cinders into kindling.

“I’m Ren.” His gaze is delayed when rising from the hands cupped in his own to search for Vasariah’s eyes.

“You can invite me to dinner another time.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[CrimsonInk]

mood :

Annoyed, Cautious

location :

The deck of the Leviathan

outfit :

mentions :

escapist

interactions :

Maltke

THE DESCENDANT

;; Dahlia

Chapter One

colored italicized = thoughts || colored bold = speaking

A sense of relaxation washed over the woman peering over the still waters just waiting for the night to fly. She took a deep breath in and out, slowly pacing her heart. Thoughts of where to sleep tonight made her wonder if there was a way she can make a hammock or bed out of something. Hopefully down below where the cargo was could suffice.

"Hey, you! Stop lurking around with that thoughtful expression and come here!"

Confusion made the woman follow where the voice was coming from and her body tensed at the sight of the two figures ahead of her. A tall man dressed head to toe in black wearing an eyepatch, and another who was more neatly combed and crisp stood authoritative and annoyed. Something they can both agree on as she started to make her way towards them. The muscles in her face were still and dull compared to their own expressions. Dark brown eyes watch both in a cautious manner listening on what the matter was about. The man who was much cleaner and smelled of wood polish – oh fuck it was the goddamn captain.

The drop of the bucket and two brushes had her look down at the deep stain that tainted the boat. She caught at the disgust the Captain wore and his repulse that dragged out her reasoning for coming over. Does she look like she was part of the cleaning crew to him?

There was no reason to try to make herself found out now. Her eye twitched and a soft glare was made towards them as she began to hunch down, getting down on her knees, and grabbing a brush to start cleaning the stain. She pressed the bristles harshly against it, using the muscles in her arms to brush firmly and diligently. The lazy brushing the other man was doing made her eyes roll to the back of her skull.

Typical loaf not doing jack-

Once the steps of the other man faltered from an earshot, the lazy oaf stood to his feet and beckoned her, allowing the half-ridden stain to remain on the wooden floor. Blowing away a strand of her hair falling on her face, she continued to work on the mess he most likely made. Resting har palm on the wood, she used her right hand to scrub faster. After a few moments of elbow grease, the leftover stain seemed to have gotten better and soon it would need to be polished for it to blend back to its original state.

Standing up she took a deep breath, tossing the brush into the bucket, and walked over glancing at the plate he was offering. The food looked good, like really good. It was the kind she was eyeballing when stealing the small bits of cheese, fruit, and bread from earlier. The smell was heavenly even. Small noises from her stomach rumbled and begged for whatever it was on that plate. A cautious eye looked the man up and down, a hand reaching hesitantly for the smallest morsel of food. She brought it to her lips wearingly, sniffing it, then taking a timid bite.

"How come ye saunter alone instead of enjoying the chaos of the party?"

Ah. She has come to recognize that tone. That nosey, small talk tone. Her first instinct was to just walk away, but the man offered her food and something of an alibi from the Captain from finding out she was a stowaway. It seemed that a courtesy back should be given to the man at the very least.

She gave him a shrug. “I just don’t want to be found.”

Being around people makes me anxious.

Talking to someone was the hardest part when an unwavering sense of mistrust and paranoia weighed heavily on her shoulders. He must want something. No kindness is ever given unless a price is hidden behind a friendly gesture.

“What of you? Ye must have some high enough connections. Squabbling around like a fucking peacock shat on yer shoulders.”

coded by reveriee.

 

[morcetyx]

the warden.

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Junshi

军石

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Fumbling!! PT 2!!

OUTFIT

skrunkly

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Rosaline
Magnus

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.

Junshi watched Rosaline’s reaction with a mix of relief and embarrassment, feeling his tension ease as her laughter filled the room. Her kind words reassured him, and he couldn't help but feel a warm glow in the face of her amusement. It was a strange sensation for him, to find solace in being considered odd, but if odd could be taken in a good way, he was more than happy to embrace it. As long as he wasn’t perceived as something bad, he could live with whatever words people used to describe him. It was a comforting thought, knowing that his quirks didn’t alienate him from her.

He adjusted his stance, attempting to regain his composure after the awkward exchange. As he did so, he felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, relieved that he hadn't upset the lovely woman by turning her down. Her gracious response and gentle smile eased his worry, reassuring him that his decision hadn't caused any offense. It was a small but significant relief, and he silently thanked her for her understanding. He admired her grace and kindness, feeling fortunate to have encountered such a beautiful soul.

“Rosaline Touchard,” he repeated with a nod, taking in her introduction. “It’s not rude at all! Well I uh…forgot to introduce myself too so maybe we are both in trouble according to social rules and stuff.” He places his hand behind his head, fingers gently running along the nape of his neck. A hearty laugh that flows from his chest fills the buzzling air of the deck.

"I'm Junshi Jing," he said, offering a genuine smile. "I don’t think I’ve really had any nicknames before, but you're welcome to come up with whatever you like! I'm not super strict about my name or anything, no worries." He paused, considering his words, and glanced at her with curiosity. He liked the idea of her giving him a nickname; it felt like a small step toward familiarity.

He tilted his head slightly, contemplating what to call her. "Oh, and speaking of nicknames!" he began, excitement creeping into his voice. "I don’t know if like... Rose is your brand, but I was thinking maybe something like Rosalie? Oh, wait, wait, what about Lili, like the flower? That's a flower...right?" His eyes lit up as he suggested the names, his enthusiasm bubbling over. He caught himself, wondering if he was being too forward. He wanted her to feel comfortable and hoped she would appreciate his playful suggestions. “Is that—would that be okay?”

His eyes followed her gaze towards the shadow on the deck, curiosity piqued by the subtle change in her demeanor. The presence, admittedly, felt familiar but…faces only blurred together in his mind after the thought. He furrowed his brows in confusion, but chose to let it slide for now. It seemed more prudent to focus on their current conversation rather than press her about the mysterious figure.

Junshi tilted his head at her next question, his smile brightening as he looked at her. "Business, I'm afraid!" he replied with a lighthearted tone. He scratched his cheek, a hint of embarrassment creeping in. "Uh, I can’t remember the official title because it was on the letter and I couldn’t really read it, but—" He trailed off, feeling his cheeks flush a deep red. He let out a nervous chuckle, feeling a bit self-conscious. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. "I'm just here as a top guard, basically. Ensure the ship and the crew’s safety."

He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I’m also like... I think they called it a quartermaster? Yeah, that's it," he nodded, reassuring himself. "I represent the crew to the captain, and again, just making sure everyone is safe and content." As he spoke, his voice grew more confident, even if the details were a bit fuzzy. The warmth of his smile never wavered, though, and he hoped she would understand his humble admission. He genuinely enjoyed his role, despite the occasional confusion over titles and responsibilities, and he wanted to convey that to her.

“And you? Business or pleasure?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

THE DEVOUT.

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Vasariah

Nightingale

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

WHAT IS HE DOING WITH MY HANDS??!?!

OUTFIT

Napkin. Necklace.

LOCATION

Zesty ass hallway.

MENTIONS

Ren (unfortunate).

INTERACTS

Ren. Gao

FAMILY TREE (INTRO) —
ETHEL CAIN.

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I CAN FEEL IT GETTING NEAR

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

CHAPTER ONE.

Vasariah takes a slow breath, feeling the thief's hand on his elbow, the touch both foreign and strangely welcome. The gentle squeeze, a silent communication that he cannot decipher, yet it stirs something deep within him. Eyes that speak volumes, actions rich with meaning, though he remains adrift in their subtleties, unaccustomed to the language of human interaction.

What…? Some sort of…gesture? Thing?

A voice, soft and soothing, caresses his ears, glowing like a small, inviting fire. He is drawn to it, a beacon in the eternal winter of his soul, for he has never known the warmth of such a blaze. It wraps around him, soothing and inviting, stirring something deep within—a longing, perhaps, for something more than the cold solitude he has always known. This warmth is not just a sensation; it feels like the beating of a heart, a pulse of life and emotion. It is something Vasariah yearns to hold onto, to take with him. Perhaps it was something like a home.

Yes. He could make a home of this. Brick and mortar encircling its delicate light, a sanctuary from the ceaseless chill that has always surrounded him. Cutting down the finest trees to feed this blaze, nurturing it with the richest of fuel, hoping it will blaze brighter than it ever has before. Radiant. Vibrant. Full of life. Healthy. Warm.

Yet, there’s a whisper of doubt in the corners of his mind. Dreams are fragile, and they are just that—dreams. Perhaps his yearning is naive, a fragile hope against a backdrop of harsh reality. The fire, after all, will seek the path of least resistance, and his forest is strewn with fallen trees and encased in icy rocks. He wonders if, despite his best efforts, the flame might struggle to thrive in such a relentless environment.

This is stupid.

A touch of clarity finally pierces the young man’s fog. A lifetime spent immersed in pages, seeking a semblance of humanity within their ink-stained confines. A lifetime of crafting fantastical dreams to escape the desolation of a weary mind. Now, the mere whisper of connection, the hint of safety, and the glimmer of possibility have stirred a longing so profound that it nudges his disenchanted soul into a state of yearning.

In this fragile moment, he dares to believe that there might be something more, something greater, worth the effort of living. Worth reaching beyond the confines of his own imagination.

Overwhelming, a stark contrast to the quiet resignation he had grown accustomed to. It is as if the very ground beneath him, once a grave of tangled roots and decaying dreams, had shifted. If he tried hard enough, he might be able to claw his way through bleeding dirt and reach the sun. Was his heart still waiting for him on the other side?

Warm flesh beneath chilled fingers and breath intertwining across his very bones pull him back to the present. Grounding. Beacon. What is a star if not a burning blaze against black canvas.

He shifts ever so slightly, the tension in his body easing just a fraction, though his hands remain firmly cradling the back of the other’s head—a protective gesture he finds he cannot release. He clings to this moment, this connection, with a fierce determination. The ideal he chases is one where pain no longer has a place, where he can be of help rather than cause harm.

No blood drains from tan skin, no color fades from those darling brown eyes. Here, in his hands, lies a fragile sanctuary of safety, a haven he is unwilling to relinquish. Safe. In his hands, and safe.

Please, let me hold something like this.

Yet, there is somewhere distant the other goes. In his mind. He is familiar with that look. The gaze of absence. The gaze of the past.

Uncertainty claws its way into his mind, and hands are withdrawn. Frozen bones could provide no warmth. He could not be a beacon of light when his soul was only a dark canvas of a portrait painted over with black.

Present. Present. Present.

The man beneath him shifts, adjusting his weight to press his back against the wall, seemingly unaware of the unspoken cue to move aside. Instead, he finds himself repositioned, now resting atop the other’s lap. This new arrangement was a departure from the previous encounter, where he had fallen onto a softer, yielding stomach. Here, the sensation is different—bonier, sturdier. It carries an intense intimacy greater than before.

Suddenly he had gained spacial awareness. The other’s heat rose through him and made way for the urge to curl up against warm flesh like a kitten trying to bathe in the sun. He did not. He was, after all, in control of his urges.

“I am unreasonable.”

And rude. Interrupting him. But there was a strange honesty in this intrusion, a raw acknowledgment of his own faults. Unreasonable, yes, but perhaps it was this very unreasonableness that found a peculiar sense of reason in…whatever this was. It was ironic. Perhaps the other was just foolish.

Golden pin finally laid to rest on wooden planks. A show of good faith. A returning of his beloved possession to its rightful owner. At least, that is what he could infer from the show the other made of setting the pin down and encouraging Vasariah with his eyes. He would be more excited about such a sentimental item being bestowed back in his graces, if he weren’t so focused on the other.

Was it truly acceptable to simply...take it back? The thief’s gestures and actions seemed to indicate a willingness to relinquish the hairpin, but Vasariah felt uncertain. He was accustomed to a certain, well-known kind of implicit meaning and explicit orders. This man did not fall under that category, and he was left clueless.

His hand trembles, hovering above the pin like a vampire hesitating at a door. The pain in his hands, a persistent reminder of past wounds, only adds to his hesitation. He is caught in a limbo, unable to grasp the pin without a direct order, without that concrete assurance. Unable to grab it, even, as he is reminded of the searing pain in his hands.

Luckily the other speaks, yet it is not the order he hopes for. No. A request for his necklace.

Vasariah’s gaze shifts to the golden chain encircling the ruby stone—a gift from a follower. While it is a beautiful item, its value to him lies more in its aesthetic appeal and status rather than any personal significance. He no longer finds himself in need of status, yet he grapples with the idea of whether the thief is deserving of such a valuable token.

His mind races, analyzing every nuance of their interactions, assigning moral weight to each small phrase and gesture. The thief’s actions and the context of their exchange are scrutinized as he weighs the worthiness of bestowing the gift.

The reverie is broken when the thief speaks again, issuing a clear directive: offer his hands to the other. This is a command Vasariah understands well, a command he can follow with certainty. He shifts his focus, preparing to comply, his hands moving into the required position with a blind obedience that comes from years of just that: blind obedience.

Cold flesh meets warm bronze as their fingers intertwine, palms pressing together. Vasariah braces for a harsh tug, the absence of tenderness he has come to expect—anticipating more pain and sorrow. Yet, the reality is something of his midnight readings. Instead of the expected roughness, he is met with a gentle touch. Nimble hands cradle his own with a reverence that surprises him, treating them as if they were sacred.

It’s not the persona of a divine heir that is honored in this moment, but simply the essence of who he is. The care conveyed is not a performance, but a genuine expression of worthiness, a recognition of his inherent value. Or, at the very least, that the other is not a careless scoundrel. And perhaps Vasariah had overlooked that people steal for a reason too.

Though the gesture itself remains cloaked in a veil of enigma, there is something profoundly tender about it. Fingers, wrapped in the delicate embrace of warmth, as though they were cradled before a radiant forge. The heat, a slow and steady balm, melts away the frost that has long besieged them, easing the ache that has lingered through countless nights. The relief, though modest in its scope, is enough to carve out a sanctuary from suffering. There emerges a comfort so deep that even if the grip had not unraveled the tension from swollen knuckles, the very presence of such gentle hands would remain a comfort unto itself.

In the embrace of this gesture, he finds himself adrift, caught in a hurricane of possibilities. The warmth that envelops his fingers, the solace that seeps into his weary bones—does it signify a deeper intention or is it a simple act of kindness? What does it seek to convey? Is it a balm intended to mend the frayed edges of his suffering, to heal wounds that time alone has failed to soothe? Or does it carry the subtler undertones of courtship, a tender advance veiled in warmth and touch?

He considers briefly that it does not matter the meaning behind such an action. He finds comfort so easily in the other, despite their beginnings, despite their initial attitudes. A seemingly impossible act to many others. A thick garden wall laced with thorns and poisonous shade. Yet he had run through unscathed, like the wall had never been there in the first place.

Why did my attitude change so easily? Am I that desperate? Lonely?

Maybe he was just finally getting a glimpse of the connection he always wanted.

It looks like you’re beginning to understand.

Back to speaking in full sentences?

You listen best in 3’s.

It’s cryptic. And I miss your voice.

Present. Present. Present.

“I’m Ren.”

Oh. Suddenly those beautiful eyes of onyx only serve as a mirror to reflect briefly his own worries. He feels the weight of his desires pressing too heavily, the intensity of his feelings surging like an unbridled tide. The rush of it all threatens to sweep him off his feet, compelling him to grasp at meaning and connection with a fervor he hadn’t anticipated. His mind whispers urgently to slow down, to temper the surge of his emotions and to allow the moments to unfold with a steadier rhythm.

One step at a time. One foot ahead of the other. Down before up, up before down.

Nightingale.

Try again.

“Vasariah.” A brief pause as he processes all of the words that have reached his ears. Perhaps he should have done better at responding, so he didn’t have to rush through it at the last second. “Is it possible to be invited to dinner on a ship such as this? I would imagine meals would be prepared and eaten at once…”

A realization. Perhaps it was simply a toss away flirt, or a phrase not to be taken literally. Humankind is confusing.

“Can the bread roll not be considered as our first meal? I found the scenery of it all quite lovely.” He could make a joke. Probably.

As the golden chain sways heavily from his neck, its weight grows increasingly burdensome. The once-ornate jewel now feels like a shackle, its cold metal pressing unkindly against the nape of his neck. In the midst of this discomfort, his thoughts drift to the golden pin lying abandoned on the splintered floor. He had never picked it up with his aching hands.

Jade eyes find their way back to the dark, captivating pools of ink that are Ren’s eyes. The name, “Ren,” is softly mulled over in his mind, its syllables weighed and tasted as if they were a delicate morsel. When he finally speaks, his voice betrays a tremor of uncertainty.

“Ren, I… in my current state, I can’t.” His words falter, his gaze drifting to the golden pin on the floor, a silent witness to his disquiet. The admission hangs awkwardly in the air, a confession too difficult to articulate fully. “I cannot undo the clasp of my necklace either. Would you…” His voice, unused and raspy from disuse, struggles to form the request. The rare sight of him speaking so much, especially to someone he barely knows. The Oracles would be reeling at the sight.

Instead of finishing his plea, he leans forward. He gently presses his face to Ren’s warm hands, his eyes remain locked on Ren’s, a plea unspoken but clear. “Please?” The simple word, uttered with such earnestness, carries the weight of his plea, an appeal wrapped in the warmth of his touch. His fingers trail shakily along the palm of the other, tracing the creases in the skin, reading the lines as if they could tell him more if the other. The heart line, generally the most prominent line among people. Curved downwards. What was that again? The meaning sits at the tip of his tongue, blurred words blending into a page he can't quite remember. Right. Seeks validation and affection, but struggles greatly with expressing and communicating emotional needs. He couldn't feel much else, there was only so much he could gather without seeing it in the light. He would never know if this form of divination had any truth behind it without experiencing Ren first hand.

He was getting distracted.

Pin in his hair, necklace in Ren’s pocket. Or at least, that was what he was trying to convey when his words seemed to betray him.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[escapist]

MOOD:
Friendly, curious, drunk

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

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

Dahlia

The old-timer

Maltke

Interactions: Dahlia, CrimsonInk

"Heartbreak, I see..." Thought Maltke, drawing a false conclusion without a second thought after he had heard the redhead's minimal answer to his warm-up question. "So that's why she's so reserved...!" In his mind, Maltke slowly but surely connected the dots, reaching a second conclusion. Being proud of himself and his ability of understanding the people around him by single signs, he grabbed a delicious-looking, fat drumstick from the plate and started munching on it, tasting the flavour of success. However the constant swaying of the ship seemingly effected everything else, such as the conversations, making them shift; that's how the taste of success became a suffocating bite in Maltke's throat right after he heard Dahlia's question: "What of you?"

Maltke started coughing and the voice, which was loud alone, was joined by his raspy laugh, making it an especially annoying blend of the dark amusement's voice. His hand moved in panick, searching for the bottle of rum with need. One sip, two sip...the old man made sure that the flesh be washed away by the burning flow of the rum. "Better..." He muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and turning his attention back to his company. "High enough connections, ye say? Me?" He asked with a smirk, a smirk which clearly didn't reach his eye. "Look at me..." He pointed to himself with his hand. "I am a passenger who wipes the floor without any payment!" He whined, obviously forgetting to tell the part of the story which was called the 'ballad of that ducking nail poking our of the floor' in his head. "I'm just a humble sailor...name be Maltke..." He lied without a blink of an eye. Eyes met and the old man extended his hand towards the woman, planning to shake hands but the woman's face...well, it was wearing an expression that even someone like Maltke understood - maybe he even more than others.

When it became clear that the handshake wouldn't happen, Maltke pulled back his hand, his rough face was distorted by annoyance. "You rude little son of a..." He muttered under his breath, exhaling the air loudly. However, Maltke's expression quickly changed again as he continued eating the chixken meat. "Anyways..." He shook his head in disbelief. "You know I knew some redhead...but I've always believed that who have a red hair like that..." He pointed with the halfly eaten drumstick towards Dahlia's face. "...are spawns or descendants of the devil..." Maltke mused out loud with a mouth full with food. When he felt the urge of talking which happened almost any time he had company, Maltke just burted out the thing coming to his mind first. "You know what people say...but again, I knew someone with red hair and surprisingly enough, the fucker wasn't the impre-...inperson-...fiction...fuck, I forgot the word, but he wasn't that thing of the devil so...I guess looks be deceiving, interesting, ay?"

As he was talking back and forth, not even noticing his company's reactions to his rambling at all, the half of the food was already swallowed up by him. The blissful silence flutter in, giving Maltke enough time to take a breath. An empathic breeze blew strands of his gray hair in front of his face, partly conceiling the bitter expression on it.

"So!" His hand was smashed against the plate, the sound sliced through the heavy silence, possibly cutting its throat before throwing the silence into the sea. "About that..." I pointed towards the messy ground. "We have two options: getting drunk before we clean up or getting drunk after we clean up. You choose!" He slurred, a mischievous glint appeared in his lone eye.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Nifty]

THE SCOURGE.

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Dolores

THORNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Whoever made these strawberry tarts, u have my soul

OUTFIT

Mmm, comfy.

LOCATION

Dining Hall

MENTIONS

Genevieve

INTERACTS

sunshineysoul

False Confidence — Noah Kahan

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Bronze Beauty,

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

Chapter One.

"Why? You wanna snitch that to the Captain and all of his 'mates'?"

Snitch?! Is that what you really think of me?! As her thoughts loudly proclaimed her feelings, a brand new and annoying voice entered her mind. She’s not wrong, though. While her thoughts brewed a storm, her expression remained bleak and unbothered.

“Yes, and it depends on your answer.” Dolores retorted swiftly, with a stone-cold composure.

Composure is a fickle thing, is it not? It may be a luxury only the detached ones can afford. With the way the bronze maiden has been acting lately, she might as well have a freezing tumour attached to her heart. Dolores is a woman moulded by man's cruelties, and she will not be apologetic for her straightforwardness, no matter how cruel or cold it may seem to others.

However, seeing Genevieve's cheeks tinted red, Dolores found her composure thin and fickle like a spider's web. Who knew a pretty face could be so… vexing(-ly beautiful)? Something inside her wished to poke more amusement from the stranger, but she held back, thinking it would be disgustingly inappropriate.

Dolores brushed her gaze away before something slithered and pierced her heart, injecting it with viridescent mania. Unbeknownst to her, something mirthful and benign had already taken root deep within the most minuscule and warmest part of her heart. And that fervour seemed to flourish the more her bronze gaze met her golden ones. Even while she turned her eyes away, the specks of stardust in her eyes burned themselves deep into her memory; it was as if the sands of Sirocco had utterly consumed her whole being through its brilliant colour.

When Genevieve offered her a seat, Dolores gave her a curt nod. Before settling in her chair, she looked at the nearby strawberry tarts. While she remained seated, her eyes wafted at them. She coveted one, welcoming the sweet, sugary taste of the delightful treat.

Once Genevieve opened her mouth to speak, Dolores found herself discarding her favourite treat in exchange for her new favourite sound: her voice. “This might come as a shock to you, but I don't know. With a brain as empty as mine, I don't get a whole lot of good ideas. Or even ideas in general."

The puppeteers of her heart jerked a string awake. Is it Sympathy? Guilt? Or something else?

Another strand twisted itself alive at Genevieve’s quick sweep of the area. Dolores noted how her eyes darted across the room in search of a face or an object. Once her search bore no fruit, a sigh of relief can be seen from how her shoulders lowered and the tension in her brow and eyes dissipated.

“... I mean, I've already had two fragmented memories come back within the span of one day, who knows what else I can uncover as the voyage goes on."

Dolores drank each word she spoke. She lowered her head thoughtfully, and a loose ebony ringlet freed itself from her bun and brushed past her forehead.

It is the most sensible thing to do, after all. Knowledge and information will be her most helpful ally in this scenario. Another voice chirped in. Or you could be her most beneficial ally. Her eyebrows slightly twitched; to others, her face remained the same as always, cold and nonchalant, but to her and a nearby fly, her eyebrows moved in trepidation. No, Lori, you will do no such thing.

She steadied her breathing before she met Genevieve’s gaze. “Smart. That would be the way to go in your situation,” she proclaimed in a ‘matter-of-fact’ tone. Dolores relaxed her nerves and leaned back in her chair. “While you may not pose any issues, my agreement with the King will pose problems with what I can and cannot do.” Dolores stretched her arm to reach the strawberry tart, deliberately revealing her branded wrist, a brand in the shape of a crown, symbolising her life of servitude to nobility and royalty.

Is it a symbol of servitude? Or Torment? Either way, one thing is for sure: Before she boarded the Leviathan, her loyalty to the King was slowly withering. If she puts her train of thought into action, she might as well solidify the final detachment of that singular petal of loyalty.

Her eyes met Genevieve’s golden orbs as she nibbled on the strawberry tart. “But my contract doesn’t specifically have a clause for a truce between friends. I’ll withhold your status from the rest of the crew on one condition.” Dolores declared with a raised index finger. “You will not cause any trouble for me or the rest of the crew. As long as you behave yourself, I’ll turn the other way while you gather whatever you need throughout the voyage.”

Is this you turning the other way? You could’ve easily turned away earlier instead of sitting here, drinking and eating with her. The voice inside her came back, spitting fiery truths.

“Do we have a deal?” She asked while reaching for another tart, this time to offer to the pretty maiden. “Sweetness?” Dolores offered.

The emphasis of her voice makes her phrase a simple yet innocent question. But a minuscule part of her became flustered at the thought of calling a mere stranger an awfully sweetened endearment.

♡coded by uxie♡