Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

MISBEHAVING IMMEDIATELY

OUTFIT

NO HAT SWAG

LOCATION

DECK

MENTIONS

VAS, MAGNUS, ARI, DANTE

INTERACTS

qunqun

BAD IDEAS — THE 5:55.

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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 TWO.

A tango in perpetual limbo, he’d made a game out of pestering Vasariah.

A game that was not inherently malicious, but a silent demand of attention when tired of telling half-lies to haughty snobs or trying to convince married women into keeping him as their favorite boytoy. Eclipsing to pluck the jewel from bundles of golden hair, it would be only a matter of time for the blonde to locate and interrupt irises.

“Looking for this?” Ren would wave the metal like a feather taunt, asked conversationally as if not the very source of their ire. Perched smug in a place he most likely shouldn’t be with reflections flaring in his eyes, he’d be a willing culprit if it means coaxing the unfortunate napkin out of the shadows into entertaining his boyish antics.

Admittedly— even if Ren was not the type to ever admit to it —there was an earnest appeal to the blonde. Mistaken for a drunk concoction of intrusive and conceited, they wear patience like a second skin and Ren is in urgent need of those that can tolerate his attention-seeking indiscretions.

How utterly starkly apart they are, Vasariah’s imperial spine to Ren’s lax form, always lounging; how silently appreciative Ren is to have someone outside of all the droning pomp.

Come daylight he is found at starboard, leaning at the railing with face turned up to the sun. Gorging with half-lidded eyes, the narcotic warmth has him drawing comparisons to the labyrinth of Zenith’s cobble streets. Chilled damp stones bathed by looming scaffolding, sunlight like this was hard to come by. Warmer climates comply with him, and he supposes he has never made peace with the gray skies of the capital anyway.

But something cold lounges in the air, an apparition he cannot ascertain. Feels it often, a hive of discomfort that slathers nape and ices frost down the spine. There is something important sheared from context, something folded out of view like a dreadful stare on the demarcation of his vision. Finds himself habitually chasing eyes over the darkest corners to divine what sharp-toothed predatory shift has sewn itself into the shadow, all while loathing the vessel for its dangerous confinement.

Then Ren recollects himself, disregards it as the caution of not being where one should be. He is no stranger to that feeling, knows that this is something different, must plead a willing ignorance because there is no other option. Sometimes people go mad at sea, and dovetailing baseless paranoia seems a sure way to join them.

In the polite prattle of the deck he remains languid as velvet, lost in a swell of satin waves and coveted sun. The periphery is where he hears it, the yelled BITCH.

Oh? Who calls? A blink to sober the opium of the sun, and Ren is worried his time aboard The Leviathan has finally been severed short. He’d been lucky thus far, unnoticed by using the skilled and awfully rare parlour trick: Not Starting Problems.

A second blink and a turn to locate the spectacle settles the matter: He is not The Bitch. Not this time.

Locating the maelstrom of anger is easy when guests cede to the shouting with no resistance at all, a well-built man rivalling a familiar face. Ren stills when pupils recognize the victim. He knows Vasariah can be an acquired taste, their first impression was equally as poor, but that does not mean he thinks Vasariah deserves to be attacked.

He’s also wearing a little bow today. It’s hard to stay mad at people who wear little bows.

Getting involved would draw unwanted attention that Ren wanted to desperately avoid, but staying idle feels like a twisting bone. Blistering with reluctance, rationale is screaming to let it be. If he were a man of any less mettle he’d have turned away and ignored it, but urgent shoes are already betraying him and moving towards the scene.

There is no plan, never is. Just improvise the little fool out of being mauled.

But there is nothing like a collision to make you more cautious of your surroundings, the outside hum of guests and ache fragmenting into his head. Careens a step back and redirects an annoyed gaze towards the clumsy proprietor in accusation, he’d been good lately, but blundering snobs with no consideration for others have that restraint splitting by a seam.

“You f–!” He’ll ordinarily snap at any old balding idiot for being too insolent to watch the orbit around their spherical guts, instead puncturing his tongue with sharp crescents to find no such thing. He thinks he tasted blood.

A rich man. Handsome.

“You…” signature waltz, Ren’s ire unfurls into a sheepish redemption. A nervous flutter to scrabble for something to say. “... You are new.”

Nevermind that he was moments off trying to scalp the stranger with words alone.

He’d have noticed someone like this sooner. Chrysalis eyes, Ren is learning there are many green-eyed beauties on this boat. Lets a languid gaze rake the upward stretch of sienna fabrics, slicked hair and a jawline; no wonder the collision hurt, the stranger has a calcified helmet of hair product.

But the thief knows old money when he sees it, when they pull a warm smile and a well-placed Sorry. Ren has no interest in politesse veneers. Hello, how are you? The weather is good, let’s map each other's tonsils. It is all very boring to navigate one's way through shallow small-talk.

They gesture to what he can assume is Vasariah’s nearing death. Ren’s head lilts a fraction to the side, listening for the debacle, yet otherwise makes no other display to look at or continue on his way. He wants to whip around and yell at Vas to stop prodding the feral beast. Not now sweetie! Mommy’s found a trust-fund!

“Playing hero?” Behave, he can feel rationality holding him back by the scruff and trying to force him back into a gilded cage that contains his brain cells. It is not entirely his fault, there’s something ethically wrong in placing a nicely dressed man before Ren and expecting him not to shake them like a gift. Whether through bedroom propaganda or purely conversational, there is always a habit to circle to the composed ones and paw them around.

“I'm Dante, it's nice to meet you.”

That is what dawns Ren with the audacity. Don’t, something warns, but the thief is preoccupied and something amused is upturning his eyes.

“Nice? Bit eager, calm down tiger.” The first of many taps against their enclosure, it is difficult to dissuade from his usual habits of not saying whatever leaps to the forefront of his mind.

He looks to their offending hand which is extended for a handshake. While an opportune moment to check cufflinks, he can already see a butter-yellow tinge to their fingers. Smoker. Takes the hand in his own, marble cold and just as smooth, yet does not nurse it with the common greeting. Not a point of contention or a mockery, he gently turns till Dante’s hand is in view, baring the point of interest Ren had inconspicuously checked. Eyes flash to Dante’s in curiosity of what dissuades him.

“No ring.”

Which meant something was wrong with him.

Ren wants to know what kind of wrong.

“Well, wedless Dan,” he invites himself to the nickname and withdraws his hand from theirs. “I’m Ren.” A smile, all teeth and mischief. “We can be friends, since it was nice meeting me.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
Exasperated, resolved

LOCATION:
Unnamed Port

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS:

the acrobat

percy

“Um--sir?” A timid voice prodded. The maid shifted, her eyes nervously roaming across the lean figure strewn across the bed, limbs tangled within sheets. “Sir?”

Percy’s eyes fluttered, black lashes batting as he squinted against the bright streaks of light that poured into the room. “Mmm what?” He mumbled. The young man closed his eyes again, turning over onto his other side.

The air was humid. An open window offered little relief from the fine sheen of sweat that stuck to his skin. Seagull calls and the blaring of ship horns filled the air, making one wonder just how it was that the man was able to sleep soundly before.

“Check out was an hour ago,” She said, body leaning to one side as she peered at Percy’s face. “You’ll be charged a late check out fee.”

“Right yeah,” He responded, eyes still closed. “Just charge it to the troupe, it’s fine.”

“But they already checked out days ago sir,” She said, brows knitting in worry.

“There’s money on the nightstand,” He waved a hand lazily in the direction of the wooden table. Percy cracked one eye open, offering the maid a charming smile. “Go ahead and pocket it for yourself. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

The woman shifted side to side as she debated the choice Percy had generously offered her. After a moment of thought, she shuffled forward and pocketed the cash. Her eyes narrowed in warning. “You have thirty minutes, nothing more.”

Percy propped himself up on his elbows, features shifting into a lazy smirk. “Appreciate it.”

He flopped back down onto the bed when the maid retreated from the room. His head pounded lightly from the previous night of drowning his sorrows in the inn’s infamous red wine. The sticky flavor of it plastered itself to the back of his throat, sending nausea with a threat down into the pit of his stomach.

The troupe departed from the port city several days ago, but the reality still hadn’t quite sunk in for Percy. He hadn’t performed in months, really, a recently removed cast around his ankle preventing the man from his rightful place in the limelight.

Watching his position get filled, watching his act be replicated with such ease--it created some void in him. Percy had written it off as a temporary feeling, disappointment from the cold that came with the shadows of backstage, but no amount of alcohol or distraction could fill it.

He stared at the ceiling. Soft rays of morning light shifted across, dancing in a performance of their very own. The young man pushed sweat matted curls up and off his forehead. A scowl ruptured his features. He had half a mind to sabotage the troupe for the wrong they had done him. Cut the lines, grease the trapeze swings. Chaos released from his own fingertips.

Percy sat upright, breath turning shallow. No--no he didn’t want that, he would never do that. They were his friends, weren’t they? His family. Where did this darkness even come from? Who did it belong to?

The young man got up and began gathering his things. He would push it from his mind. Idleness was the only thing to bring about such evil images, so long as he continued to keep active, he could keep the strange feeling at bay. Or so he’d like to believe. He could still feel it, if allowed himself to be truly honest. It had been there ever since he had sustained his injury, growing like a vicious mold. A dark grasp wrapping itself tighter and tighter around his neck. The pressure was always there--it was just a matter of when he’d admit to the true feelings that fed it.

He kept it from his mind while he packed and dressed, limbs flailing in a chaotic fashion in an effort to messily prepare himself for the newest leg of his journey. The Leviathan. Various bags jingled and clattered while they trailed behind him on the rough cobblestone streets. Percy cursed as he pulled one of the rollers from a watery pot hole. He was more than sweating now, curls plastered against his forehead in dark swirls. The troupe always handled the logistics of travel--this was the first time the young man even had to think about his own passage, let alone the bags that would accompany him. One thing learned, he was certainly no good at it.

The Leviathan loomed in the waters of the port like some kind of dark beast. Its shadow nearly blocked the sun entirely, swathing the space behind it in shadow. While Percy was grateful for a break from the heat, he couldn’t help but feel a foreboding message as his body became swallowed by sudden darkness. Despite the desire for distraction, the void within him called out in an echo.

Usually there would be crowds of excited children lined up in anticipation of the troupe’s arrival. Smiling faces waving fiercely while their eyes glittered like stars. There was no such reception for Percy here. Only loitering passengers and gruff working men. The bitterness in his chest bubbled upward like bile.

Whatever awaited the young acrobat aboard The Leviathan--darkness or not, it was the only direction he had waiting for him. So, he plastered a wide, plastic smile on his face and boarded the vessel.

coded by reveriee.

 

[qunqun]

THE BUTCHER.

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Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FUCK YOU.

OUTFIT

EDGE

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Vas, Dante

INTERACTS

morcetyx

May These Noises — Pierce the Veil

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The Tertiary Sin.

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

Chapter Two.

Are you an angry person?

If asked, Aurelian would absolutely respond with fuck no. Anger was an appropriate response to stressful situations. Maybe not his personal brand of violent rage, but it was still a productive feeling. Was it his dominant feeling? No. Not even a little. Not until someone fucking pissed him off-

Aurelian felt a wildfire light in his chest, the comfort of warmth but completely untamable. A rage that spread to his limbs and got him itchy to fight, his fists slowly turning white from strain as his vision began to go hazy and red and-

Calm down.

The voice that sounded like Danny rang through his ears. A drizzle on an inferno, but enough of a leash to be able to hold his temper off.

Out of spite, he considered very briefly stepping down. But then the second insult had hit and he decided that it was full steam ahead with the path that he was on. Squared his shoulders, drew his stance back just a little bit, gearing up for a fight if it turned into that.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

He wasn't going to punch someone much smaller than him.

Aurelian’s lips pulled back into a snarl bite of a smile as he made a halfhearted play towards diplomacy, a tiny humorless chuckle sliding its way forth from the deep held part of him that found this entire thing just a little funny. This bitch in front of him obviously and aggressively egging on his rage. “Alright. So what I’m hearing is you really want to get punched in your teeth… Reeeeallly fucking badly.”

The threat was idle, his voice seemed uncharacteristically amiable while he was speaking, taking on an almost lilting tone. Almost familiar in a sense. Like the dark twisted version of a person who had too much charisma for his own body… Also known as, definitely not Aurelian.

“So what I’m going to do, out of the kindness of my heart, is I’m gonna give you… one chance to take it back. After that… we’re going to have fucking problems.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

THE CHIMERA.

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Dante

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

IM FINE.

OUTFIT

Formal

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Aurelian, Vas, Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito

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Icarian Cloud.

To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils

Chapter Two.

Dante took the flirting into stride. Ren being a little extra friendly was no real skin off his back, and he was never one for not rolling with a punch.

“Bit eager, calm down tiger.”

“Yeah, well, I like it active.” He replied in a dry tone, a volley of remarks to reflect the energy given to him back. “As for eagerness… only have so much time on your hands.”

He observed as Ren tilted his hand so obviously looking for a sign of marriage or a ring, looked at the expensive cufflinks with a tiny crystal in each, watched him take note of soft hands and slight yellow tinges to his fingers. Soft memories of plush down filled couches and afternoon teas spent in sitting rooms at exactly the proper hour. Long letters written to each other, bouquets sent. And somewhere in those grand gestures lost pleasure. Perhaps companionship would learn to flourish under such circumstances, but Dante knew from a young age he was cattle bred to wed some countess in Zenith. And he would never expect anything more than that.

“No ring.” It sounded almost surprised, though perhaps his lack of marriage came as a blemish at an otherwise spotless career. His betrothal, after all, had fallen through after allegations of prior… engagements had been brought up (there was so much blood everywhere).

“No ring.” Dante confirmed. An invitation for more as he blinked out crystal sharp images of kneeling over that body. Some restless energy sliding its way under his skin. “Too busy with having a little fun to settle down currently.”

You could be the fun. Stop it.

“Well, wedless Dan” (Seriously?) “I’m Ren.”

The name echoed off the caverns of his mind, memorized and sunk into a part of him he wasn't aware still existed. The smile given all predatory teeth and bad ideas and- did it get a little hotter on this goddamn boat?

“We can be friends, since it was nice meeting me.”

“Obviously, I'd never lie to you.” Dante responded with his own crooked grin, head tilted upwards to reach eye contact. Gray eyes meeting brown, dancing with the little sparring match that his attention had snapped onto.

“Anyways, hero I may be, I got here… like, yesterday. You know that guy?” Dante jammed his thumb towards the two snarling animals that were about to attack each other, completely and totally uninterested in that drama now that he had a little mystery to unpack before him. Neither sentences were lies, but he was aware that the wording would make his

He wasn’t unaware that he was younger than a lot of the rich in Sirocco were, but he was also aware that he didn’t quite show how green he was in his movements. Partially by design, the slicked back hair and the sharp smiles, the way that he spoke fast and confident showed a seasoned veteran by at least two decades. And that wasn’t completely untrue, he’d been working since he was 7 after all, but he was aware that he wore his years poorly. His mother’s vision for her little boy all grown up.

Young, rich, fairly attractive by his estimations.

Yeah, alright, Ren was probably more after social climbing greed, the strings of 0s and stacks of gold bars rather than himself. But it was sure as fuck a step up from promises he couldn’t ever possible hope to achieve, wasn’t it? Another in a long line of people that didn’t care for Dante, but for what he could give them.

Game on.

Those that he’d wager were like Ren, those that seemed like they should not be passengers on this ship, often craved attention, validation, riches… sometimes food. He might as well knock all four out in one go, couldn’t he?

“I know the chef of the ship actually.” Idle conversation starter. Again, nobody needed to know that that guy was currently one of the people in the brawl if Ren didn't know already. “He works at my mansion in Sirocco.”

A stretch, it was his parents’ mansion, but what was a good story with a couple lies sprinkled in. Subtle display of wealth in the showcase that he both had a private chef, and lived in a mansion.

“I’ll ask him to make something nice for you one day… tiger.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

THE DEVOUT.

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Vasariah

Nightingale

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Don't dish what you can't take mf.

OUTFIT

Hellooo sailor!

LOCATION

Deck.

MENTIONS

Ari. Ren. Rosa

INTERACTS

Aurelian. qunqun

DRIVERS SEAT — MADDS BUCKLEY.

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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 TWO.

Vasariah I do not want to see you hurt.

Vasariah’s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile at the warning, but it was a fleeting expression, one that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He knew the sentiment was genuine, and for a moment, he let himself linger on the idea of stopping, taking back his words. But then, it simmered in his veins once more.

Why should I have to apologize if he started this? This stupid fucking act is making me sick.

The notion of self-preservation had long since lost its allure; what mattered now was the inevitability of the path he had chosen, or perhaps, the one that had chosen him.

Vasariah’s gaze drifted into the distance, his head tilting ever so slightly as though he were trying to catch the faintest whisper carried by the wind. The tension in his posture betrayed the calm demeanor his face displayed. Unflinching, at peace. Each breath felt heavy, as if the very air around him conspired to weigh him down, anchoring him to a fate he hadn’t truly planned out, nor fully accepted. It dripped inside his mouth like a poison. He didn’t have a choice in accepting his fate when he knew he couldn’t change his ways.

Ah.

Twinkling voices settled over him like a shroud. It seemed the stars, those cold, distant sentinels of the night, had finally decided to speak once more. Only ever whispering when they had something cruel to say, when their revelations promised pain. Perhaps they wanted him dead; the notion was hardly surprising. He was intimate with their voice, heard their indifference in every blink of light. They were always keen on a tragedy, especially one where he played the fool, bleeding for their amusement. They weren’t like him.

Stand down. Stand down. Stand down. Please.

The command echoed in his mind, a desperate plea from the fragments of his sanity. But he wasn’t listening. He couldn’t. The violence inside him wasn’t just learned behavior—it was an instinct, a primal force that surged through his veins like a wildfire, burning away reason and restraint. It was something he could never quite extinguish, no matter how much he tried to smother it with logic or morality.

I can’t.

His chin dipped toward his chest, yet his eyes never left the face of the man towering above him. Those eyes, however, held no fear—only a dangerous, simmering defiance. The words that escaped his lips were laced with venom, spoken as if they had been boiling inside him for too long, desperate to be released. They were uncontrollable, reckless, and he knew exactly what they would bring. He had been warned about the consequences of provoking the beast. But swallowing that poison had never been an option. It was too bitter, too corrosive to keep inside.

"All that charity work wasted on you, what a tragic failure. Deep down, you know the truth—no one could ever love the vile monster you are unless there was something to gain. You’re a poor excuse for a human, a disgrace to the very concept. No one will ever buy it. Go on, hit me, show them exactly what you are."

As the last word left his mouth, his teeth clenched, bracing for the inevitable. He had taken enough punches to know how to absorb the blow, to let the pain wash over him like a wave without flinching. The moment before impact was always the worst.

And in some twisted way, this was what he wanted. It was the only thing that felt familiar on the tongue, and it was his punishment for thinking he could live a life outside of bleeding wrists bound too tightly by rusted chains. He had earned this fate, for daring to believe he could find solace in the friendship of a girl so ethereal, with a mind as beautiful as moonlight, and a presence that felt like an eternal embrace. Or in the companionship of an endearingly annoying man, whose hands held the warmth of summer and ignited a quiet longing with every touch, making life feel as tender as his heart whenever he was near.

And suddenly at the thought of them, he regretted his words, and no longer wanted to put himself in harm's way. A shame he hadn’t thought of them sooner.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[CrimsonInk]

mood :

I hate learning

location :

The Deck...again

outfit :

mentions :

No One

interactions :

N/A

THE DESCENDANT

;; Dahlia

Chapter Two

Weeks have passed since the night of the celebration. While she had made an acquaintance who served as good company, the ‘cover’ he provided didn’t last long. Right now she was concealing herself from the Captain. Anytime he was nearby, she would simply either blend with those around her or find some way to cover her face. This came to be her daily routine for the most part. Thankfully it was beginning to not be all too bad. She found herself to focus on something else entirely – what she stole from some bloody noble man.

Memories of her stealing the item came and went, when Maltke had pushed the idea about causing some ruckus that last night. His idea of fun didn’t last long, but stealing wasn’t below her either. It was fairly easy actually. A simple bump into the guy and her hands grabbed the first thing her fingers grazed. A book, and it looked fancy. The intricate golden letters, symbols, and fine leather were smooth against her fingertips. Opening the book itself her eyes scanned over the letters with her curiosity peaking to words that were familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

That morning the woman had found herself a nice spot on the deck where the breeze was cold, and the sun gave her enough light to read. Or what she deemed as an attempt to read. Her spine laid against the metal wall with her legs crossed over one another. The grungy sea smell of the boat's equipment didn’t bother her. It was one of the few places little people would walk by, and would have to really notice someone over the junk she was hiding behind. Dahlia mumbled softly, sounding out each word the best she knew how. Though without knowing how the word sounded naturally, some of the words were beginning to sound foreign to her. Reading was frustrating for Dahlia. Learning how to read was even more frustrating.

“My being out…𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉?”

Re-what?

Her nose scrunched at the word. Her head tilted bewildered and with a heavy sigh, started to break up the word into syllables.

“R-ree….sssppl…” she tried to pronounce, her hands gripping the book tighter, “p-puh..”

Fuck.

Dahlia was going mad at this point. Ten, no – fifteen minutes on a single word she didn’t understand was crazy. Her stubborn nature didn’t want to give up, no matter how annoyed she currently was. That was until the repetition of sounding it out and getting the word to sound more naturally finally clicked.

“Resplendent! Resplendent, there was no reason for that word to be so bloody hard….” she huffed.

Continuing the read, she was finding this to sound a lot like a letter you send to someone. Who was ‘dewdrop’? That’s a weird name, and who were they that this person needed them to look over the city? It’s a large city. No one can look over an entire city, other than the King. Maybe. This person was weird. Really weird. The more she continued to read, the more certain words were beginning to blend with each other and the girl would have to start from a space that was familiar to her.

The amount of mental work she was trying to use was hurting her head. It was as if her hangover had crawled back to make her suffer again. Dahlia laid her head back rocking, adjusting her position with her legs curled towards her with the book in her lap. Hunching over, she rested her hand on her cheek forcing herself to read the words. As much as she was disliking this way of educating herself, it was the only way she knew. Forcing herself to look at the words she would continue her reading.

When sounding out the word ‘𝐿𝑒𝓋𝒾𝒶𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃’ the second time around, she recognized it being the name of the ship. Huh, I didn’t think it would look this way on paper. Placing the unknown words on paper for Dahlia to see it has made her realize how much she relies on her vision. She relies on her vision to recognize the words, so that she knows the word itself. Words also have meaning, and that was the more difficult part of her learning process. Knowing the meaning behind them.

‘𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓈’.

Sir…

What the fuck.

“Why do scholars always have to assert their stupid smart agenda on the common people? Just use simple words. Pompous bastard,” she grumbled, throwing her free hand in an upward motion.

It was another ten minutes of her life that she would never get back. The word ‘𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓈’ didn’t make her feel prosperous for how difficult it was to pronounce. Getting through those last few words of that sentence, she reread the whole paragraph out loud with full clarity. The words read out loud sounded….sad. They feel almost empty and dull. Maybe this pompous man was sad. It wasn’t her business to find out why he was sad, but just reading it….she understood what being sad was too.

coded by reveriee.

the raven.

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  Oh Ilya~I'm coming to haunt you~
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Chapter 2

Pain.

It is a complex feeling when an opposing force inflicts that discomfort on you with intention. When the intention is self inflicted and accidental, the pain is numbing and senseless to the individual. Lucrezia had always pondered about the nerves of her body since she was dug out of her grave. While it was a blessing that she was able to surpass Death’s kiss, it followed her subtly. It would be little happy accidents like this that would remind her of her humanity.

Her body was alive, heart pumping, blood running, bones aching –

Yet nothing about these things made her feel alive. They were just happy little reminders.

While pouring a glass of wine, she accidentally squeezed the wine glass with her hand from feeling the boat swaying. Pieces of glass and wine spilled to the floor, with an unseeming crimson liquid spilling from her palm. Cold, blue eyes glanced at the stinging sensation she was feeling. Pieces of the glass stuck out from her hand and that sting soon dissipated. Numbness overcame her and she stared longingly at her hand. Just to feel something she closed her palm allowing the pieces to dig deeper before opening it again.

“....ow.”

Just a sting. Nothing to worry about, but it does need medical attention.

Thinking for another few moments, she decided to finally exit her room and ask for the ship’s doctor to see her hand. Grotesque looks and worried expressions were given to Lucrezia from other passengers who looked her way. Lucrezia was deaf to the drops of blood that would spill on the ship floor. What a mess, and those unfortunate must clean the mess.

“Miss, are you alright?”

“I am! It’s just a little cut.”

“Little? Madness! I fear your mind is ill to think that is little!”

It was interactions similar to these that discouraged Lucrezia to socialize. While she does enjoy her own solitude, she craved for *someone* to talk to. Someone who would give her a chance, but alas that sort of privilege was not dawned on this noble woman. Maybe she was overexaggerating her reality, and they didn’t mean to belittle her optimistic thoughts. Happy little scrumptious thoughts. Yummy just like lemon cake. Oh how she wished to eat another piece of that cake. Ouch.

That’s right. She needs to see the doctor about her hand. How silly of her. With a few moments of asking the staff for directions, she luckily found the medical office and with a smile she entered the room.

“Hello? Is anyone here? I had a bit of an accident…”

Radecliff's Fate

Chris Vrenna

♡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 unfortunate thing about being a man that knows no end to work is that, even when there is no work to do, there is an itch that stops you from knowing rest. He was on the ship, far away from the smithy, cut off from his clients and the ship was in such perfect condition that he'd pat himself on the back twice already for being on the crew that designed this.

He was currently taking his third lap round the ship and the sun wasn't even up yet. It had only just started rising. He had spent all night looking for something, anything that needed fixing. Not having work to do was driving him mental. When people were awake and moving around, he could keep himself occupied by socializing and making friends - he'd even bumped into a few of his clients. for example, who would have thought that he'd meet Magnus of all people here. Now, a part of him did wonder what had brought the famously infamous bounty hunter to the ship, but Anon preferred not knowing people's business. After all, the less you know of someone's business, the easier it is to keep liking them

As more sun peeked past the horizon, Anon let out a deep groan. It had been his third night without sleep on the ship - one more night and the symptoms would start, but he'd learned to manage them. However, he couldn't be blamed for his inability to sleep: while the spot he'd found on boarding day was comfortable for a nap, his standards of where to sleep were far too high for him to afford to actually spend whole nights there. However, even as he returned to storage room he'd been holed up in, the reality of the situation was the pile of crates in here were the closest thing he'd be getting to an actual bed.

On the first night of the voyage, he had found the captain and explained the situation. Thankfully, the captain seemed to recognise him and believed his story. According to the captain, it would be possible for Anon to remain on the ship, however, there were no rooms available for him. At the moment, Anon was bewildered at how the captain could leave a friend out to dry so readily. It wasn't until later that him considering the captain a friend was very likely a one-way relationship.

Anon huffed as he propped himself on what was his favorite set of crates and leaned back, wondering what to do. He'd arranged them all so that, at the very least, he could fit his large frame comfortably on them. Unfortunately, in his leaning back, he brought his head down too hard and accidentally cracked the top of one of the crates. The jump up was immediate, spinning to look at the damage he had done. Thankfully, it didn't seem to bad. It was definitely noticeable but it wasn't problematic. Satisfied with the fact that he hadn't created a big problem, he went to move the crate so that he could replace it with a new one. However, as he bent down to move it, he noticed that its content was familiar to him.

As gasp escaped his lips. A look left. A look right. Another look both directions to verify that he was truly alone. After peeking out the door and making certain that he wouldn't be disturbed, a wicked grin lit up his features as he walked boldly toward the crate. He didn't stop when he reached it, rather, he packed all that momentum into a fist and punched a hole clean through the top of the crate. His hands were thick enough from endless hammering sessions that the sharp wood pieces only left surface scratches over his skin.

He grinned as he reached inside and pulled out some wood. He understood that the ship had carried extra blocks of wood to use in modifications as the went along its way. This was probably for that. However, he was also certain that they wouldn't miss a single block of wood. And if they did - well then it's a good thing that he'd be working with them because he'd know how to make do. The captain had essentially allowed him stay on the ship assuming that he'd help with repairs and maintenance, which he was beyond happy to do - it was his passion at the end of the day.

He ran around looking for something long, sharp and metal. It wasn't long before he found a nice, thin sheet of steel that he honestly wasn't sure what they'd be using it for. He shrugged and laid flat on his belly, as he began carving. As soon as the metal touched the wood, his pupils contracted. Nothing else in the room existed but the block of wood in his hand and his carving tool. His breathing slowed as he embraced the moment, the sound of his own breathing working as white noise to aid in his concentration. And, slowly but surely, his tongue found its way between his teeth and it stuck out ever so slightly in concentration. Despite the rocking of the boat, his body stayed perfectly still, almost as if nothing was happening in the world around him.

Time passed. Lots of time. His stomach was growling, there was a light dusting of sweat beads on his forehead, afternoon had come...and Anon was in the exact same position. However, he was making the final touches to his carving - a detailed, textured, wooden butterfly.

Knock.

He was currently adding the finishing touches to the pattern on the wings. It wasn't one of any butterfly he'd seen - rather it was a pattern that his creative liberties had told him would go well on a butterfly. Watching the pattern come to life, he felt a fluttering in his chest, a heartbeat of pride. The floor beneath him was covered in wood shavings and two drops of blood from when Anon had concentrated so hard he bit down on his tongue hard enough to form small pools of blood.

Knock.

The moment he added the final detail, he froze. He took the moment to adore his work as his pupils expanded back to normal and his tongue found its place back in his mouth - which had now been dried out. He let out a sigh, finally pulling himself to his feet. He stretched out and every joint in his body let out cracks of relief as they were finally allowed to move freely once more. Even Anon had to let out a sigh because of how good it felt.

Knock.

He blew on the butterfly carving to get rid of the wood dust that was left behind and found a space for it in his pocket. Another stretch and he looked back toward the door, hearing people were out an about now, so perhaps he wouldn't be as bored as he was a couple minutes ago ((from his perspective, it had only been about thirty minutes)). He made his way back on deck and was immediately blinded by the sun that was well past its halfway point. His eyes took a while to adjust to the sudden change in brightness and his mind needed some time to process just how much time had passed since he went down.

Knock.

A knock caught his attention - a knock like metal on wood. Something about it sounded familiar, though he couldn't exactly place what. It wasn't from the sound of people walking - he knew that. It wasn't from the sound of someone hammering - the knocks would have been louder. His eyes scanned until he found the source of the knocking.

Knock.

Beat.

His heart beat - leapt actually - he immediately knew where the knocking was coming from. It was from a cane...*his* cane. He'd only made one like it and had only given it to one person. Her face was veiled so it wasn't the easiest to make out. But he had spent two months with her. He knew it was her. Without regard for whoever was in his way, he charged toward her - a 6'2" mountain of muscle bounding toward someone much smaller with the biggest of grins on his face.

Reaching her, he scooped her in his arms and twirled her around, with enough space between her feet and the deck for a small child to run under. "Valerie!" he laughed, his loud voice booming across the surrounding area. His smile was uncontainable and there was a tempting of tears in his eyes. "You're alive! You're actually alive! I spent months wondering what happened to you!"

Any and all fatigue was gone. Replaced, simply, by the ecstasy of reuniting with a friend.

Mentions: Valerie ( q r o w )

 

[qunqun]

THE BUTCHER.

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Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FUCK YOU.

OUTFIT

EDGE

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Vas, Dante

INTERACTS

morcetyx

Psychosocial — Slipknot

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The Tertiary Sin.

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

Chapter Two.

Vas’s expression was not apologetic, but Aurelian was never one to judge what someone would say by the expression on their face. After all, he usually spoke in a more animated manner to indicate his pleasure in conversation. And he expressed some twisted version of joy before he really started seeing red.

However.

When he heard the first words were not “My bad” or “I'll stop” or “Back off” his body tensed. Aurelian’s fists rose by the word wasted. He took a step back at “you” to properly square up.

By the time the first sentence was completely out, Aurelian’s fist was already flying, connecting, and following through.

He bounced back, snapping back into a boxer’s stance and shook his fist out, point made. Stop it.

Trying to force his body and mind into a calmer state. Come down from the adrenaline spike early. Ocean. Listen to the ocean.

Calm down.

Vas was still talking

…

… No he was not going to fucking calm down THAT MAN JUST CALLED HIM AN IRREDEEMABLE MONSTER. HE WAS FULLY GOING TO FIGHT HIM NOW-

With his own conscience’s permission, Aurelian reared back and punched Vas again before squaring up and attacking with a rage filled ferocity. Not nearly as controlled as it’d usually be, but trained.

He’d lasted the bulk of it, but those last couple taunts went unheard as he jabbed outwards to strike the blond in the gut with an uppercut.

Huh. When someone was mimicking the voice in the back of your head, telling you your deepest insecurities, it actually felt really good to punch them in their fucking face. Who knew. The red from his eyes faded. He breathed deeply in and out a couple times, anticipating Vas now that he’d most definitely started a fight proper, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet.

He watched as Vas got up, let him get up, really because he didn't just continue attacking in a blind rage anymore. An honorable fighter, he was going to let Vas at least fight back. It wouldn't be fucking fair if he couldn't.

Alright. Alright. Fucking hit him-

Aurelian fucking hated the quiet whispers and the stares behind his back and the feelings of silent ostracization. This made sense. This was the most correct thing that had happened so far at the cruise.

The feral notsmile seemed to get a scooch more real as Vas attacked.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Wyll]

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

The Gemini

Luc Cardin
Gallin Forestson

Here's the thing about losing a book on a ship as massive as this - there is simply no shortage of places it could be. He tried thinking through all the places he'd been to in the last week but, with the duties and responsibilities of recounting the stories of this maiden voyage, there wasn't anywhere he hadn't been.

He had acquainted himself with every nook and cranny of the vessel, fraternized with everybody worth knowing and indulged himself in all of the ship's secrets. He'd been given nigh unlimited, almost unfettered access to the ship and all that concerned it and - in the last week - he'd definitely used that to the max. In this moment, he chastised and berated himself for not actively taking notes in his journal as he went from place to place. Perhaps, if he did, then he would have noticed exactly when the journal went missing and it would have been easier to track down.

WHOMP.

The sound of fist meeting cheek in a violent kiss catches him off guard and he immediately jumps back, his eyes zeroing in on where the sound came from. His movement was similar to that of a cap that felt scared or threatened, hair on his skin standing up and all. He had learned that it was always better to create distance between yourself and a perceived threat even if you weren't exactly sure that the threat was directed at you.

When he had calmed down enough to actually identify what was going on, he watched as a blonde-haired bystander was pommeled by what he could only describe as a raging bull in human form. Upon closer inspection, he could swear that the person currently being turned to ground beef was the Nightingale. Luc was too far away to confirm but it was at least a close match to the information he'd received from his sources.

Even further attention revealed that the person pounding on him was none other than Aurelian Fiocchi. He didn't know much about Aurelian but had a few interactions with his brother Dante.

Were they both on the ship? His eyes scanned and, sure enough, he found Dante...fraternizing? Shouldn't he be pulling Aurelian back? Unless this was normal behavior? Wait...wasn't the Nightingale reported kidnapped? Wasn't there controversy surrounding the Fiocchi family? Wait. No. surely not. Could...could the Fiocchi family be the kidnappers? Was Aurelian trying to stop the Nightingale from running? Surely not! Dante is smarter than that! Just Aurelian then? Did Dante not know who the blonde was? No, of course not. The only reason I know is because I have contacts everywhere, even within the Covenant.

His mind was a frantic mess. His thoughts were like fish in the rapids, navigating the merciless current, impossible to pin down and too dangerous to reach in. Dangerous because of what it would mean; dangerous because of the absolute upset it would cause; dangerous because of the ripple effect this would have throughout Solas.

Journal. I need my journal. I need to write this down!

That was his reminder that he didn't in fact have said journal. Keeping the gossip in himself was going to drive him to mad. He turned around, knowing better than to get himself physically involved in that chaos. If he wanted to find the journal before, he needed to find it now. Keeping this to himself would be sinful. That's when he heard it.

"Resplendent!"

He paused his movement and raised a brow. He didn't think much of it, however, his curiosity did want to know what was so resplendent so he moved toward where he heard the voice and started looking around. Was it...just the ocean? Were they calling the ocean resplendent? I mean, he agreed, but he had thought he'd be the only one that would be so captivated by simply being on the ocean and appreciating the ocean for its beauty. No, surely it couldn't be that. He continued walking, hanging around that general area, either hoping to see what was so majestic or to meet someone that shared his appreciation of the ocean.

"Prosperous!"

This one made him jump because the voice came from directly behind him. He was certain that there was nobody there, at least, none that he could see, yet he was certain that's where the words came from. Was someone hiding and just shouting random words? Was this some prank?

Alas, it was no prank. Because the more he paid attention, the more he picked up on the rest of the words that were being said and the more the words sounded familiar...why did they sound familiar? The dots connected like a flintlock going off in his head. Those were his words! Hearing his own words read back to him was a weird type of uncomfortable and he couldn't understand why. He always proofread his work before he sent it out to the masses and he was familiar and comfortable with his style of writing - proud of it even. However, something about this felt off.

His only conclusion was that it was the breach of privacy. This was work that he hadn't even finished yet. This was work that he deliberately hadn't given anyone to read because it wasn't meant to be read yet. He was angry, he was upset. Yet...the more he listened, the more he was pacified. This wasn't someone that had robbed him looking for gossip or trying to leak the latest Gallin Forestson, or even learn about kingdom secrets - granted he should probably do a better job protecting said kingdom secrets. He heard the struggle with the words, he heard the restarting sentences several times. It was familiar to him. More than familiar; not that many years ago, it was him. It was him struggling to keep up with the nobles at his academy and having to spend more time in the library than he did in his room in order to keep up. Without knowing, he allowed himself the very slightest of smiles as he took a step back, the heart that he so denied having, getting a single degree warmer as he heard his past self in this person's voice. He looked around and noticed that they were in one of the more remote areas of the ship and so foot traffic wasn't very heavy. Probably safe for the person to come out of hiding then.

"You know," he began, his voice tender, inviting even, "Learning is quicker when you're not doing it alone." He still couldn't see the person but he simply sent his words in their direction, letting them know he knew they were there. "You want to try coming out here - they are my words, after all."

Mentions: Dahlia ( CrimsonInk )

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

oo oug OaOA OUAWAA WAWA W

OUTFIT

NO HAT SWAG

LOCATION

DECK

MENTIONS

VAS, ARI, DANTE

INTERACTS

qunqun

BAD IDEAS — THE 5:55.

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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 TWO.

Ren’s behaviours are all tests in not so subtle ways— never trying to venture too far out of the unspoken fear he has tarried ahead and mistaken the man’s diet. There is a dividing line between destruction and creation, gambled precariously on the chance he may receive a split lip for making such blasphemous assumptions.

The thief connives it with not much subtlety, and the aristocrat challenges it in a way he had not predicted.

“Yeah, well, I like it active.”

It is already a poor omen so willingly welcomed: Dante is going to be a problem.

“Convince me.” Dear god. “Kidding! Kidding.” He was not kidding. Like a dying cinder ground into asphalt, Ren has given up behaving. “I learn best with private demonstration.”

Of course surprised by the lack of ring. A man both wealthy and easy on the eyes, there’d seem no plausible reason to not be a viable bachelor. Ren can only assume Dante has a penchant for undesirable habits, and in this case, men appear to be one of them. Affirms suspicions with their comment of not settling down: snakes are perversions of nature.

“I'd never lie to you.” A chessboard where he is trying to pry hints of their next move, Ren is cynical enough to assume Dante is full of shit. But Ren is also loath to realise Dante is terrible as he was beautiful. With the crook of their smile and lavish fabric, they are both brilliant and untouchable.

“Handsome and smart, I fancy that.” He thinks this man is adorable, dressed with a fluffy white collar like the puffed chest of a pompous cat. They are not so different, Ren will find ways to make him purr. With Dante’s head tilted to reach eye contact, Ren must flex fingers by his side to tamp the urge to give a little pet under prideful chin.

The little rich idiot. Ren seems to be collecting them.

But despite all of the thief's faults, he does have the capacity for discretion. To a point.

Dante has motioned to the pair behind him, the original cornerstone of their meet, and Ren takes this opportune moment to compensate for all the touch he cannot have. Under the pretence of brushing past behind Dante, there is a deliberate hand slid along the flat of their lower back. Smooth and without hesitation like the glide of imperial glass, it is as easily withdrawn as he comes to stand at the man’s side for better observation.

To say he has been distracted from vigilance, detouring completely from the brewing fight, is an understatement.

“Know the blonde. Stares often but overall harmless.” Vasariah says something, and although Ren is not within earshot to hear it, he knows it is unlikely to be anything nice. “I think.” A quieter afterthought, the jury was still out on that one. “First night he had his fingers in my mouth. Think he’s lonely.”

Conversational as a butter cube, Ren had not lingered to consider the oddity of sharing that. He’d been in stranger scenarios with stranger people and Vas is just one on a long list of peculiarities.

But smoke-sweet Dante says all the right things and Ren is shallow enough to entertain it with a horrible kind of curiosity. Worst case scenario they have to awkwardly see each other on the boat sometimes. Best case scenario, wallet.

Mansion in Sirocco. Their claws grip his heart tight, rich and red with little splinters that coax him down a step. Thinks of what he has heard of the sands, the furnace grains like an ocean that the sun has baked into dry myth. Gifts from the gods tend to burn, and red silk flutters inside Ren’s skin, ribboning and dissipating.

The thief is not foolish enough to believe the impossible, but it is nice to bask in the fantasy that he’d be allowed even a taste of a lifestyle he’d been starved of. Maybe it is a futile effort to pretend disinterest, he is not known for his tact. How quickly Ren has forgotten he is meant to stay demure.

But with this sharp-mouthed daydream, all gentle wind chime and something wicked in their smile, perhaps this is the direction he’d willingly follow.

“Dan.” Gently amused. “Are you trying to impress me?” Ren won’t neglect to make it known, he likes the attention. Would be twirling his hair if not assuming a very levelled caricature who is not at all being enticed by the false ideals of a mansion and a chef. No, most certainly not.

The weak protest lasted approximately 2 seconds.

“I’ll ask him to make something nice for you one day… tiger.”

Jump his bones.

Barely finished the words before Ren turns with otherworldly speed. Something surprised, dark pupils blown round and wanting. When born starved, eventually it does not matter how many faces one must wear to get fed.

“Really?” A hushed whisper. In Ren’s distraction he’d taken a step closer. “Like what? What would they make? Would it–”

Oh. Snags tongue between teeth like a setting trap, blooms a poppy petal. Dante isn’t to blame for that particular hitch, still, the mistake in broadcasting a hungry ecosystem has Ren donning a frown. Foolish to think this is the moment where he has besmirched his play pretend, for he’d lost the first moment he’d set eyes on Dante.

Just because Richie Mcgee has a chef, it is not at all impressive. After all, Ren knows lots about what nobles eat and how they behave.

“I like caviar.” Right. Not a good start, only a small improvement from saying: I hate poor people. He is not sure who he’s trying to convince, Dante or himself, but he feels the need to compensate for his stumble.

He’d never even tried caviar.

That is when the tempest storm arrives, some have a gift for violence. Feasting until near knuckle burst, apparently the yelling proved too slow results. It swipes a faint scrunch to Ren’s brows, a blur of distress to the bloodthirst. Vasariah's involvement does not help.

“Should... Should we…” Ren trails off, a parallel to Dante’s earlier dismissal. Maybe the thief isn’t ready to lay his neck out for the axe of crew attention, and part of him hopes someone else will intervene quickly. He likes it here, this provocation for sport with a stranger.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

THE BLIGHTED.

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Kukuvajke

Asllani

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

???

OUTFIT

We blanchin

LOCATION

IDK IM LOST

MENTIONS

Milo :3

INTERACTS

Milo AnimeGenork

SUICIDE — SUISOH.

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oh worship them until content.

so now you really care
when you're feeling that stare
can we not survive without a faith to rely?

CHAPTER TWO.

The creature lurked in the shadows, barely distinguishable from the darkness that clung to the corners of the room. It moved with a disturbing grace, its elongated limbs bending at angles that defied nature. Its skin, stretched tight over a gaunt frame, was an ashen gray, mottled and cracked like old parchment. Its emaciated form suggested hunger, an endless, gnawing hunger that had hollowed out its once-human flesh and left behind a grotesque parody of life.

The creature’s breath came in shallow, rasping gasps, each exhale accompanied by a sickly wheeze that sent a chill down her spine. Its movements were unnatural, almost mechanical, as it crept closer, the claws at the ends of its bony fingers clicking softly against the floor. Every inch of its body seemed alive with a restless energy, melting skin rippling as though something squirmed just beneath the surface, desperate to break free.

Shades.

Kukuvajke took a step back, her movements ghostly and hesitant, as if the very air around her had thickened into a smothering shroud. Each breath a fragile gasp, the razor of fear digging deeper into the flesh of her neck, constricting, suffocating, burning. Her thoughts were a hurricane of desperate impulses, but each one was drowned in the rising tide of panic seeping into her mind.

Out. Out. Out. Out. O̶͇̦͂̽ŭ̶̬̈́ṯ̶̃̚.̵̤͠ O̴͚̣̾̀͒ͅȗ̷̗̳̭̥̋͂͆̀t̶̡̠̲̮̘̑̃͐̉̅.̸̧͊͊̅̕O̸̧͊̉͠u̸̩̹͈͈̫̱͉̽̌̃ẗ̴̢͉̰̗̣̭́̄̌́́͝.̴̮̠̱̕O̵̡̝͖̾͐̌̋̒͊̽͘̕͝͝ŭ̴̼̹͇̺̻͙̑̊͒̏̂͝ͅṭ̴͇̹̹̘̹̖̬̻̪̊̄̂̿͛̂̉̒.̵̢͈̫̱̞̤̘͖́̽̉́̊̆͛̎͛͜͝͝Ơ̶̫͈̋̄̇͆͊̐̐̊̏̒̐̀͝͝ŭ̸̠͇͖͑t̵̬͙̣̬̟̗̠̻̹̙͍̼̖̣̊̏͋͑̆̀̓͐̊͐̽̌̉̀̈́͆̾̾.̵̧̧̨̲̮͍̫̱̟̰͓̺́̈́̏͝͝ͅ

“Zogu.”

A box-like shape, brown in color, jutting out from the shadows of a hull like a lifeline. It was a meager refuge against the encroaching horror, but it was all she had. Without a second thought, she darted toward it, limbs trembling as the creature’s rasping breath grew louder.

Kukuvajke stumbled into the box, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. Her fingers fumbled against splintered wood as she pulled the lid down, leaving not even a sliver of light—not her best moment. The dark was worse. The space was tight, claustrophobic, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and dust. Her hands shook violently as she pressed them over her mouth, desperate to stifle the ragged, gasping breaths that spilled from her tongue.

“There you are, zogu. Where did you go?”

The terror receded, replaced by the warm glow of a sunlit forest, the scent of fresh pine and sawdust filling her senses. She was no longer in the dark, confined to a crate with a monster lurking just beyond—she was sitting beside her father, listening as he carefully carved patterns into a block of wood. The rhythmic scrape of the chisel against the wood was soothing, a steady, predictable sound that lulled her into a sense of calm.

“Here, kukulla ime,” he said, smiling down at her as he gently placed the chisel into her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. “Your turn.”

Kukuvajke ran her fingers against the tool, feeling its weight, the coolness of the metal. She hesitated, staring distantly at the light brown splotch against a pool of green. Helpful, at least, that it was a different color. He hummed quietly, easing her as she pressed the chisel to the wood, fingers placed awkwardly to feel where the tool had been and where it was going. The pattern she traced was uneven, the lines shaky, but her father’s hand covered hers, steadying it, guiding her strokes until they were smooth, flowing.

“That’s it, zogu. You've got it.”

A growing sense of confidence filled her as the wood beneath her hands began to take shape. She could feel the grain of the wood under her fingers, the resistance it offered as she pressed the chisel into it, and it felt real—more real than anything she had experienced in a long time.

The room around them was filled with the scent of pine and the soft hum of contentment. It was as if time had slowed. She took the time to savor each second, each gentle scrape of the chisel, each smile from her father. Here, in this workshop, there was only peace, only the soothing rhythm of creation and the warmth of her father’s presence. Nothing could happen here. Nothing would happen here.

For what felt like hours, they worked together, carving, shaping, and smoothing the wood until it was transformed into something beautiful. Her father’s laughter filled the room, deep and rich, as he playfully mussed her hair, praising her work with a proud smile. The sound of it made her heart swell with joy.

She missed this. Why didn’t they do this more often? How long had it been? How long had—

Suddenly she was younger, her hair wild and tangled from a day spent exploring the forest with her father. They had returned home as the sky blushed with the colors of twilight, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine needles. Kukuvajke’s feet were sore from running, and dirty from running through the mud barefoot.

As they approached their home, her father reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, delicate object and placing it in her hands—a feather, its edges frayed and worn, but still so soft against her palms.

“Look what I found for you little zogu,” he said, kneeling to her level. “A gift from the forest.”

“A feather,” she whispered, her voice mixed with awe and confusion. “Why?”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray curl from her face. “It’s an owl feather, they’re very special Kuvush. They carry messages from the spirits of the forest.”

Kukuvajke trails the feather against her fingers, feeling the tickle it leaves on her skin. “What is it saying?”

“This one, I believe, is telling you to keep dreaming, to hold on to your wonder.”

She beamed up at him, her fingers curling tightly around the feather as if it were a treasure. “I like dreaming Babai. I’ll keep doing it, it will be easy then.”

The world around her was bathed in a warm, golden glow, the kind of light that made everything feel timeless and safe. She could hear the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant call of a bird, and the steady heartbeat of the earth beneath her feet.

The light grew brighter, the golden hue intensifying, as if the sun itself was drawing nearer. The air around her became softer, almost hazy, the edges of the world blurring as if she were drifting into a dream. The warmth on her skin grew more intense, and the light seemed to seep into her, and it felt wrong.

The warmth became searing, and the light so intense that she had to close her eyes against it. The feather fell from her grasp, its softness replaced by a cold, hard surface beneath her fingers. Hollow, echoing silence filled her eardrums where the comforting sounds of the forest should have been.

Amber eyes opening to find the golden forest was gone, replaced by the fear of reality. She was no longer standing in the sunlight, but lying on her back in the cramped, stifling space of the crate. The light that had filled her world was now a harsh beam from above. A shadow loomed over her, blocking out part of the light. She blinked, her mind struggling to piece together where she was and what had happened. The world felt sluggish, her body heavy and unresponsive, as if she had been submerged in water for days.

Her throat was dry, the taste of dust and wood thick on her tongue. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was so parched that it felt like sandpaper. Her stomach twisted painfully, the gnawing ache of hunger clawing at her insides, and every muscle in her body screamed with soreness.

They were saying something, but the words were muffled, as if coming from a great distance. Kukuvajke’s head lolled to the side, her eyelids heavy, her body too weak to respond. The pain in her stomach was a relentless, gnawing void, and every breath felt like it was being dragged out of her, each one a struggle against the oppressive weight of exhaustion.

Hungry…

Wooden limbs finding just enough grease to bend at the joints, bringing stiff spine to an upright position. Her weight shifted forward as her hands reached out to weakly grab onto the stranger’s forearm. Kukuvajke let their head fall against their soft flesh, silently breathing in their scent. Sawdust, hay, animals. It smelled like home.

Disoriented mind and unbearable pain settling in their gut led to an instinctive act of betrayal against their mind. Her mouth opening to reveal sharp canines and molars aiming to taste a familiar meal, only to be cut short of her desires when exhaustion bares down on her. Her eyes and lips fall to a close as their head collides sleepily into a sturdy arm. But she wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t.

"Have…wat...er?"

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Physician.

scroll

Ilya

Jovanovic

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

I AM NORMAL I SWEAR

OUTFIT

No mask, unfortunately

LOCATION

Medbay

MENTIONS

Grog, Lucrezia, Rat?

INTERACTS

CrimsonInk

Cigar — Tamino.

scroll

Humanist's Folly.

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

Chapter Two.

Ilya stared into the eyes of the white haired feline that had been so graciously been given to him by his new mortal enemy Rat. They had been entrenched in mortal combat ever since this morning and it would be foolish to back away now.

Green eyes blinked slowly as they stared into Ilya’s brown ones.

Success! He had won! 3 to 2, he was winning against a cat. Huzzah, a win.

… There was nothing to do down here, luckily these were mostly people who didn’t particularly care about getting into trouble that he’d have to stitch up. No big mortal injuries that he had to say rites for, no terrifying limbs being hacked off. Ilya was doing great, actually. Kind of thriving, if he was to be so bold. And why wouldn’t he be? Life was great!

As Grog bumped his head against Ilya’s hand, the soft doctor picked the cat up and he began to purr in skeletal arms.

How adorable. What a loving creature.

The time was better spent when he had something to keep him company, he’d decided.

”Hello? Is anyone here? I had a bit of an accident…”

Hand. Much blood. Shit.

Ilya let the cat spring out of his hands and he wiped the cat fur off of his hands. “Yes, sorry, I haven’t been getting many visitors. It’s a good thing, probably, how can I help?”

He was going to pretend like he couldn’t see the red splattering across the floor, because the calmness of the woman meant that… well, even if that was the problem, it was best to not draw direct attention to the wound and potentially cause a panic.

Dark eyes wandered over Lucrezia’s form, making a show of examining her for any further injury as he guided her towards a cot with warm hands to sit.

“I’ll see what I can do, it might be terminal.” Ilya said, though the levity in his voice spoke to a joke rather than a serious diagnosis, he seemed to realize that that was not a normal thing someone said to another person. “Sorry, that’s a joke, obviously, it’s a bit of blood, but I’m sure I’ll have you out of here faster than”

He snapped for emphasis as he picked up some tweezers and began removing glass from her palm.

“How’d you do this anyways?”

The small plucks of shards of glass stung, but it wasn’t anything too painful. And the soft manner which he spoke took a lot of the edge out of his actions, the relaxation of a flight attendant in turbulence calmly going about their day.

More or less, allowing the goth noble to talk as a distraction as he continued to pluck out shards of glass.

Grog, meanwhile, meowed his approval in the corner.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

MOOD:
calm

LOCATION:
The Leviathan: Hidden Alcove

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS: Gao Ren, Wyll Anon

the huntsman

magnus

Interactions: AnimeGenork , Rosaline

While the majority of passengers aboard the mighty Leviathan spent its first days of passage in luxury, enjoying the many amenities their lawfully bought tickets had afforded them, Magnus had spent his time on the hunt.

A week was spent in Ren’s shadow, trailing the peculiar man’s habits and routines. Who was he talking to? Who noticed when he wasn’t around? Who didn’t? Such meticulous observations would be exhausting by normal means, but the bounty hunter was used to the demands of the hunt. He almost craved it, mouth watering when the scent of a kill grew stronger by the day.

Thanks to Anon’s tour of the vessel, Magnus had attained a high level knowledge of the ship’s layout. When he wasn’t watching Ren, he had invested a decent amount of time observing the passengers as a whole. There were a number of alcoves and hallways that he knew by pattern were rarely used. Secluded locations ripe for spilled blood. A bounty claimed, a criminal brought to their knees and the watchful eyes of the crown none the wiser.

He lingered in a shadowed alcove harbored in one of the short hallways leading to the mess hall. Magnus’ lithe fingers clung to a silver pocket watch. The monotonous tick was the only sound denoting his presence, each breath shallow and silent from the hunter’s lungs. It was at this time he could expect a familiar face, one who even in passing thought had his chest kicking up into a fluttery excitement. An odd feeling, but one he never dwelled on for long.

Confident heels paraded against the carpet. Right on time. Magnus closed the watch and pocketed it into the dark fabric of his slacks. When Rosaline passed his shadowy hideout, a pale hand emerged from the darkness. Silent, efficient, deadly. His hand wrapped around Rosaline’s slender wrist, hovering lightly for a beat so as not to scare her, before he tightened his hold and beckoned her to join him in shadow.

“Rosaline,” Magnus breathed, voice smooth and low in the small space. “I’ve been waiting for you. Have you heard anything since we’ve last talked?”

His eyes were a glassy onyx in the darkness that shrouded them, skin a stark contrast against the swathes of black fabric draped from his body. He swallowed while his eyes traced the woman’s features, Adam's apple bobbing from the movement. In the close space, the soft puffs of her breath were audible to him. Her perfume invaded the alcove with a seductive sweetness.

Magnus leaned against the wall behind him, offering as much distance as the narrow space allowed them. He fiddled with a silver ring on his finger absently, awaiting his informant’s response.

coded by reveriee.

 

[q r o w]

mood

Startled

location

Aboard the Leviathan

outfit

This, with the veil covering her face

tags

Wyll

Valerie

I think he might crush my ribs.

Tldr; Valerie gets startled by suddenly being lifted into the air. However, is happy to see a familiar face.


The ship was just as large standing on it as it was when looking at it from afar. Maybe bigger. It had to be, fitting so many people. The deck was buzzing with life. Valerie was pretty sure there was a fight going on toward the other side. As interesting as it seemed, she avoided it. People turned their heads toward the commotion. She couldn't be more glad for it. It had felt like everyone was staring at her moments ago. Though it was hard to say if anyone actually was. She was pretty certain it was just the nerves talking. Convincing her oh such a thing.

Still scuffling around the deck in search of a quite spot, Valerie stopped to stare out at the sea. The never ending sea. The unknown that it contained. There was so little she knew about it. So little recorded. She was worried if getting aboard this ship would be safe. As she let her mind roam, she heard the sound of fast approaching steps. Behind her, likely someone tall. Heading her direction. Valerie made a small side step. Assuming the person was running past her. However she was wrong. A subtle shift in sound told her they were coming for her. Panic sprung throughout her body.

She made the effort to turn around and face the person, but she had waited to late. Her turn had been too slow. She also had turned with the wrong side. her blind eye first. By the time Valerie could see who had come running to her, she was lifted into the air. Oh how fear seized her mind as she was twirled around. Closing her eyes, afraid to open them. She grasped at the shoulders on the man lifting her. Desperate for stability. A promise of support. Too afraid of being dropped to reach for her weapon hidden on her. Too startled to realize she dropped her cane the moment she was twirled in the air.

"Valerie!" She opened her eyes at the sound of her name. She knew that voice. Valerie dared to look down at the one holding her captive. Her shoulders relaxed. A breath escaped her. One she hadn't known she was holding. "You're alive! You're actually alive! I spent months wondering what happened to you!" A guilty feeling hit her heart. Valerie had left without much word. A mere note really, as she couldn't find the words to explain what she was planning on doing. What she was searching for. The revenge she desired. It had been her first friend outside of the Society. The first person she got to know after the night the society fell. Even still she couldn't bring herself to tell him what she had gone through or the path she set herself upon.

A small smile found its way to her lips. Bittersweet. "You didn't think I would pass away that easily, did you?" Deflection. A bitter taste it left her mouth. "Do you always greet friends this way?" Valerie was more shocked he had remembered her. Sure, she had spent two months or so with him while she recovered. But they hadn't seen each other since then. She was used to being forgotten. Valerie often made sure she was forgettable. The less who remembered her the better. Hearing that he had thought of her gave her this uncertain feeling.

"Could you set me down? I feel a bit uncomfortable in the air like this." Nervous laughter left her lips as she glanced between Anon and others standing nearby. His loud voice had drawn attention to them. A hand shakingly left it's grip on anon to fix her veil before quickly returning to his shoulder. He had lifted her quite high up after all. She would say she trusted him not to drop her, but she wasn't taking chances.

nine lives

 

[qunqun]

THE CHIMERA.

scroll

Dante

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

hihihihihihihihihi

OUTFIT

Formal

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Aurelian, Vas, Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito

scroll

Icarian Cloud.

To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils

Chapter Two.

The clothes, the stance. Ren was a shit noble if he was one. The type you’d read in those really shit novels about the duke pretending to be a pauper in order to be amongst the people. In Dante’s experience, those didn’t really exist. You were either thrust out of high society for whatever reason, or you were never one to begin with. The only people that would interact with both were people like him, sneaky underhanded backstabbers. Which meant Ren was dangerous, or he was not a passenger on this ship. Otherwise, why would he look so out of place?

He assumed Ren had to be a worker, perhaps akin to Aurelian, though the secondborn had his doubts. Ren didn’t seem like the type to do much manual labor, nor the type to be particularly skilled in a craft. The attention he’d lavished upon his finer flights of fancy meant that he was…

Ren was a stowaway, and maybe even a fugitive. What an awful idea it’d be to become… friends with such a person.

“Are you trying to impress me?”
Dante hadn’t stopped grinning. “Is it working?”

No need to stand on too much etiquette and ceremony, then, now is there?

“Maybe I need to make it a little more obvious if you’re questioning it.” Dante purred back, as smooth and flowing as ever.

The game ended early, though, upon the slight offering of a meal.

Well, damn, he should've opened with that instead of the mansion.

”I like caviar”

“Not for a meal though.” The response is immediate. A rebuke that is probably the most real thing he's said thus far if not just for the amount of unfiltered bewilderment in it. “...”

Did Ren even know what caviar is? Shit it'd been quiet for too long.

“Sorry, not to speak ill of your tastes, of course.” A hasty add on. “Which are normal for someone of your stature. I'm sure.”

The worst lie he's ever told in terms of quality, perhaps the best in terms of intent.

”Should… Should we”

Dante looked back at his younger brother punching a very important religious figure and was tempted, for a moment, to throw any caution to the wind. A shrug and a “that's not my problem.” Aurelian could handle himself in a fight, and Vas was… well he's sure Vas can do his best.

This did not show on Dante’s face though. His eyes widened by a hair's breadth as he took in the fighting and he began to march over with a seeming great intent to split the pair up.

A man with longish hair was stopping the fight.

Oh, well, problem solved then, huh?

His eyes lingered on Aurelian, one last final check to see if he was okay, as he turned back to his new shiny interesting bad idea. “I think that other guy’s got it.”

The initial draw was gone, but Dante found himself fixated anyways. “Personally I don’t really have much of a preference about my food so long as it’s good and worth the amount I pay the chef to make it.”

Talking a lot without saying much, he was trying to gauge exactly how much Ren was talking out of his ass. “But I’m sure that a man such as yourself who eats, truly, so much caviar would know the best caviar dish. What are your suggestions?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

THE DEVOUT.

scroll

Vasariah

Nightingale

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

You lucky he holding me back rn.

OUTFIT

Hellooo sailor!

LOCATION

Deck.

MENTIONS

Ari. Junshi.

INTERACTS

Aurelian. qunqun

DRIVERS SEAT — MADDS BUCKLEY.

scroll

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 TWO.

The first punch came like a lightning strike, sharp and unforgiving. It split through the fog of Vasariah’s thoughts, sending a white-hot jolt of pain radiating through his skull. Yet even as his head snapped to the side, the agony was something distant—relegated to a darker corner of his mind. The words kept flowing from his lips. his voice strained through the ringing in his ears. He failed to hear his own words properly, but that didn’t matter; the satisfaction of getting under Aurelian’s skin was enough to fuel him.

When the second punch connected, it was brutal, a sickening crunch that reverberated through his nose, sending blood streaming down his face. The metallic taste of it lingered on his tongue, but Vasariah barely acknowledged it. With an eerie calm, he wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, smearing crimson across pale skin. The pain was familiar. It hummed beneath the surface like a lullaby.

What was one more scar on a canvas already marred?

Then came the third punch, a hammering blow to his gut that lifted him off his feet, the world spinning in a nauseating blur. The force of it was enough to drive the air from his lungs, and for a moment, the sea and sky merged in a dizzying dance. But Vasariah swallowed the bile rising in his throat, refusing to let weakness show. The pain was a violent storm swirling in his gut, but he weathered it as he always had—by pushing it down, down into the dark where it couldn’t touch him.

No more. He was done being the canvas for Aurelian’s fury.

With a deliberate, almost graceful motion, Vasariah reached into his pocket and retrieved the rings he had set aside to relieve the pressure of pen in his hand. The metal felt cool against his skin as he slipped them onto his fingers. His eyes found Aurelian’s, jade glinting with a cold, predatory light. This wasn’t about strength—it was about precision, about leaving a mark that would linger long after the bruises faded.

He didn’t need to be a trained boxer to know how to recognize the patterns in the stance and find a weak spot.

He moved with the swiftness of a striking serpent, his first punch aimed with calculated intent. The rings bit into Aurelian’s skin, carving a jagged path as flesh met metal. The sensation was almost sweet—a dark, twisted satisfaction as he felt the give beneath his knuckles. The violence of it all sang in his blood.

But Vasariah wasn’t finished. His fist was already drawing back for another strike, fury and pain coiled tight within him, ready to spring. Yet before he could release the tension, strong hands seized him, yanking him back with a careful force. A steady arm kept him pressed against a broad chest as wood and metal joined to shield his head from any opposing blow.

A Kingsman, cutting the fight short. Vasariah didn’t struggle, didn’t resist, though his breath came in ragged gasps, the adrenaline still coursing through him like a wildfire. His gaze remained locked on Aurelian, eyes sending daggers through his skull. He would consider The pain in his body was secondary now, a muted throb beneath the heady rush of combat. He had done his best to leave his mark, and that, for now, was enough.

He would be fighting the urge to get ahold of a dagger and make a sick game of slicing open his vocal chords and watching him try desperately to scream for help and swing blindly as the light passes from his eyes. But no. He is reformed. And such violent thoughts are not healthy, and he no longer has to do such things to survive.

Behind him he can feel the vibrations of a chest speaking, yet it reached his ears as a muddled mess, still recovering from the blow that shook his hearing.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[morcetyx]

the warden.

scroll

Junshi

军石

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Concerned!! Mother mode!

OUTFIT

skrunkly

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Ari. Vas.

INTERACTS

Aurelian qunqun
Vasariah?? ME????

call your mom — noah kahan

scroll

i could be a good mother

and I want to be your wife

CHAPTER TWO.

Junshi sat at the edge of his quarters, the rhythmic creaking of the ship’s hull a constant backdrop to his thoughts. His fingers worked methodically, tightening the bolts on his prosthetic, feeling the tension in the metal as he adjusted for the wear of the salt-laden air and the relentless motion of the sea. The brass gleamed under the dim lantern light, polished and well-maintained, but the ocean had a way of finding the weaknesses in even the most resilient of constructs. A final twist, and the limb settled back into place with a reassuring click, the familiar weight once again balanced against his frame.

He rose, testing the movement with a practiced ease, the slight creaking sound of metal on wood a comforting sound. Satisfied, he grabbed his sword and headed for the deck, his steps measured and purposeful. The cool sea breeze greeted him as he ascended, the smell of salt and brine sharp in the air.

The scene that greeted him, however, was anything but serene. Tension crackled in the air like a live wire, and Junshi’s sharp eyes quickly took in the sight of two figures locked in a violent struggle. Aurelian, the cook, his stance wide and braced for another hit. Vasariah—who he now gathered was a stowaway—smaller but no less dangerous, fists clenched and eyes gleaming with a cold, calculated fury.

Junshi’s instincts kicked in immediately. He moved with a quiet swiftness, his mind already assessing the situation, calculating the best way to intervene without escalating the conflict further. As he approached, he saw Vasariah draw back, ready to strike again, but Junshi was faster.

With a fluid motion, he stepped between the two, his arm sweeping out to seize Vasariah by the waist. The smaller man was lifted effortlessly off the ground, and Junshi raised his prosthetic, the metal of his limb forming a protective barrier between Vasariah and any potential counterattack. He could feel the tension in Vasariah’s frame, the coiled energy of a fighter not yet ready to concede, but Junshi’s grip was firm, unyielding.

“Enough,” Junshi’s voice was calm, a deep rumble that carried easily over the din of the deck. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of Vasariah’s chest against his arm, the man’s breath hot and ragged with adrenaline, but Junshi held him steady, preventing any further escalation.

He turned his head slightly, directing his gaze to Aurelian, who was still bristling with pent-up aggression. “This ends here,” Junshi stated, his tone leaving no room for debate. “You’ve made your point.” There was no anger in his voice, just a quiet insistence that this was over, and that further violence would be neither tolerated nor necessary.

Beneath his grip, he felt Vasariah’s resistance slowly ebbing, the fight draining out of him as the reality of the situation settled in. Junshi didn’t relax his hold, though; he knew better than to underestimate the volatility of anger left unchecked. Instead, he shifted slightly, ensuring that any further attempts to lash out would be met with the unyielding wall of his body.

“Now, is this something we can solve with words right now? Or do we need to go our separate ways?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[q r o w]

mood

"Feeling under the weather"
Irritated

location

The Leviathan

outfit

xxxx

tags

Nifty

Countess

Why was she just standing there?

Tldr; Countess Liang has a 'flare up' and uses it as an excuse to pardon herself to her quarters. Along the way she bumps into someone. Was it really an accident, or was it a planned encounter?


12 days. It had just been twelve days since since they begun their voyage. Harmony could count that easily. You know what she couldn't count? Just how many times marriage had been brought up. Not just any marriage. Her own. She had left the capital to escape the marriage talk. Yet, here she was. Nobles and those of wealth squawking in her ear about it. Marriage this. Marriage that. "Aren't you worried about an heir?" Her smile faltered more and more as they drabbled on. They talked of her own future as if she wasn't right there. Oh so worried for her and her house's future. Vultures is what they were. They just wanted to know if they had a chance at her family's title. Her title. Her wealth. Did they take her for a fool?

Harmony couldn't blame them. Their false care for her. It's her own doing, this role of innocence. Her grip on her glass tightened. A good portion of the nobles that had bothered her the first night had gotten off a few ports ago. Excuses of work or other engagements. She bet money the truth was the voyage either bored them or they missed their lavish homes. What had they expected? They were on a ship. Not a lavish villa of one's dreams.

As the other's talked, her eyes scanned the ship. There was much commotion. Which, was in her expectations. A large ship meant large crowds. Large crowds meant things were just bound to happen. Her eyes spotted familiar faces in the commotion. Particularly, the ones causing a scene on the deck. She shifted her gaze, pretending not to notice. Countess wasn't the type to watch fights after all. Violence was in her nature. No matter how interested Harmony was to see who won. Given the chance she would have liked to observed to take note of the two's fighting skills.

Instead her eyes landed upon someone else. Someone she had seen in the papers. Public papers and papers not so public. Secrets passed along. Harmony had been wanting to meet her. Primarily out of her own curiosity. She could make this work if she could find an excuse to leave-

As she brought the glass to her lips, she felt an itch in her throat. A small twitch of her lips turned into a smile. Perfect timing. It had taken longer to kick in than expected, but now was a good time as any. Not one to let the opportunity slide, she forced herself into a coughing fit. The others looked at her in concern. Countess are you okay? You should go rest. She looked up at them apologetically. "I'm sorry. It's seems -" More coughs escaped her. "-it seems I'm not feeling well. Excuse me." She covered her mouth and faked a stumble as she made way to her quarters. Along the way however, she stumbled right into someone's back.

"I'm so sorry. I-" Another coughing fit. Not so violent this time. "I wasn't paying attention. Did I hurt you?" The way she had stumbled left her partially leaning into a wall and the woman for support. She looked up, easing her gaze into something she'd describe as a pitiful, helpless gaze.

nine lives

 

[Wyll]

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

The Anvil

Anon
Keep

Anon couldn't help but chuckle lightly at her startled expression. It hadn't been his intention to frighten her but, seeing how priceless her reaction was, he was glad that he did. In fact, now that he knew she was on the ship, he made a mental note to try and greet her like this more often to see what would happen. He almost pities the poor lady - barely on the boat and she was already the target of his pranks.

However, his boisterousness and her panic did turn a few heads, and not necessarily for the best of reasons. A couple eyes had drifted their way, the crowd seemingly split between watching the fight and watching the loud muscular man. He didn't mind the attention though. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that he didn't even notice the attention. He could only process, could only see one thing right now and that was Valerie.

His reaction to seeing her wasn't from something as fickle as infatuation, nor was it from something as pure as love. Rather, it was much like the feeling of having a long-lost loved one return home when you least expected it. After all this was one of the very few times - probably the first time in that month - that Anon could say that he was genuinely happy. Most of the time, he cared for people out of a sense of duty - he felt that he owed it to his former master to care about the well-being of those around him and those that he interacted with. He felt that the only way to keep his master's legacy alive was to adopt his philosophy of seeing the light in everything. However, it was different with Valerie.

When you spend two months looking after someone, nursing them back to health, investing in their growth everyday for two whole months, a part of that person is deposited in your heart. From going out to the shop to bartering in the markets; from the best of days to the worst of days; no matter what happened, for two whole months, coming back home to Valerie had been a constant in his life. In that time period, he subconsciously began associating her with home too. And so, when she up and left, home never quite felt like home after that. Something in it was missing.

In the weeks after she left, he spent what free time he could looking for her. After realising that he would likely never find her, he spent what time he could praying for her safety. He wasn't necessarily a religious man but he had come to care about the wee lamb in their time together and would feel responsible if something were to happen to her. Over time, the prayers grew quiet, but he still thought about her every now and then. He hadn't even realised it but, every day he heard no word from her; every day she spent doing whatever she was doing, that part of her that she'd deposited in him while they lived together was waiting for her. For a letter, for a random popping by the shop to fix the weapon, for anything. Seeing her on the ship was the last thing he had expected, yet it brought him more happiness that he could express -- that part of his heart suddenly complete.

He chuckled at her asking if he thought she'd be dead. He thought back to the state she'd been in when they first met. He didn't even understand how she was walking then; that was the first day she proved she was something special. "Naev lass, yer too damn stubborn to die," he retorted good-naturedly. "And nae, not all friends get treated this way..." he lifted his head so that their gazes locked as an earnest smile melted unto his face. "..only the special ones, me wee lamb."

He wasn't simply flattering either. She truly was special to him for several reasons. However, chiefest amongst them was that, on this ship, she was the closest thing he had to home and he was grateful for that gift.

At this point, he was vaguely aware of the eyes that were on the two of them, simply because it seemed like whatever excitement had been going on with the fight was resolving itself, so people's attention had moved on from that. Alas, there was nowhere else for their attention to be directed than Anon and Val. However, always one for the limelight, Anon was not about to start complaining. He did, however, notice that perhaps Valerie wasn't as comfortable with it as he was. And so he turned. He made it so that all she could see was the ocean behind him, hoping that if she couldn't see the people, she would be less bothered by them.

He did let out a hearty laugh when Valerie asked to be let down, his laugh reverberating through his body and causing him to shake her ever so slightly. He grinned up at her, his expression dripping with mischief like a sponge dripped with water. He did lower her, but only until his head was at her shoulder, her feet now only a couple inches off the floor. He moved from holding her waist with his hands to wrapping his arms round her so that she was more stable and comfortable, but also incinerating whatever space was between them before.

"Aye, I can let you down..." he began, lowering her ever so slightly more, almost as if teasing her with the idea of her own two feet being back on the ground. "I can put you down but you need to answer me one tottie question..." At this point his eyes were practically twinkling with mischief and his firm yet tender hold on her made it clear that she wasn't going anywhere.

"Did ye miss me, lass?"

The question was two things. It was his way of admitting that he had missed her, given that he asked it almost as if he hoped she would return the question to him. However, it was also a chance to gauge where her mind had been since they last saw each other. He was hoping for a yes, however, he would set her down no matter the answer. You can't force someone into missing you, after all. Whatever the case may be he was genuinely glad that she was safe and at this point was just looking for an ego boost.

Mentions: Valerie ( q r o w )

 

[sollie]

MOOD:
Taken Aback/Restrained

LOCATION:
The Main Deck

OUTFIT:

MENTIONS: Pepsionne

the mutineer

saar ennes

Interactions: Percy

The Leviathan was a goliath of a ship, massive in size and in passengers aboard the behemoth ship. If Saar had been any other kind of woman, she might have been in awe of the greatness of human engineering and strength, but as all man made objects were tainted with artificial vice, the Leviathan was nothing more than a ship. It served one purpose at the moment, though that purpose would be molded as time and its journey went on. Despite its mortal failings, the Leviathan was representative of hope for Saar. There were so many unturned minds aboard the ship. Once Saar could sort through the odious and the righteous, shaping the minds would be as simple as sharing the word of Saint Ilja with them. Oh how delighted Saar was.

Delight slowly faded as a whisper of doubt crept towards the back of her mind. Steadying her hands in small fists, she gazed at the leather gloves which fit her hands snuggly. The surface of the leather was durable, but had sustained many cosmetic damages. Small scratches and scuffs in the material tainted the surface, though the condition of the leather was pristine, well oiled and taken care of. They were ritualistically maintained. Black eyes bore into the black leather, as if attempting to look past it and find any impurity on the skin underneath it. Saar knew what she would see if she removed the gloves. The whisper sang to her, bade her to remove the protective item and reveal the mess underneath. Red. Blood. Sacrifice.

Her finger twitched with impulse, like an alcoholic craving the burn of rum in their throat. She could scrub away whatever was underneath and make it anew with water and repentance.

Snapping from her momentary delusion, she eyed the passengers aboard the main deck of the Levithan. Her late arrival proved to add difficulties to settling into the voyage– There was an entire crew to oversee, and yet she only had names written on parchment to indicate the crew she would oversee. How inconvenient. And how inconsiderate that the Captain had yet to greet is second in command.

Gently sucking on her teeth, her eyes stayed trained on the guests loitering, studying their form, the masks they put on as they interacted with each other. What treachery lived beneath the surface of their skin? Saar estimated that nearly half the passengers had tainted blood, sick and poisoned from their lives of wickedness. How many of them behaved like the scum that washed into the ports of Antares, Zenith, and farther reaches of Solas? As Saar had come to find, there were very few mortals that were guilt free.

She flexed her hand once more, clenching into a leather fist that balled tightly like a snake around its prey. Her holy mission was second only to gaining power and status on the ship. And as such, a slight shift in expression morphed her face to that of soft disgust to a pleasant, welcoming look. A friendly first mate wishing only to serve the needs of the captain, the crew, and the passengers aboard the Levithan.

The sparkle of an audaciously bright piece of fabric caught Saar’s eyes, forcing a hand to cover her eyes as she cast her direction towards the ornate individual. How inappropriate, Saar thought face not souring despite taking in the piece of clothing hanging off the even more inappropriate individual. How could a person feel at all comfortable looking so vile?

Saar’s body guided her before her mind could think to stop, gloved hand resting atop the hilt of her weapon, concealed by layers of black fabric. “Excuse me.” Saar asked harshly. “I hope you have prepared more voyage appropriate garments,” She began, eyeing him up and down in soft, hidden judgment. She offered a small smile, regulated and tight. “I only say this for I admire your boldness. I know not a single individual in my life that could sport such attire so boldly.”

coded by reveriee.

 

[Gao]

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

IM UNMEDICATED

OUTFIT

NO HAT SWAG

LOCATION

DECK

MENTIONS

VAS, ARI, DANTE

INTERACTS

qunqun

BAD IDEAS — THE 5:55.

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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 TWO.

“Not for a meal though.”

The riposte is swift, and Ren’s neck leans back a fraction in silent offence. Gives the man a once-over, a glimmer of the unknown as they exchange a levelled look. For all of Dante’s unflinching sangfroid, that response was unnaturally fast.

A coal-black stare as Dante continues to talk, hasty additions that feel fallen out of rote. Ren does not mean to affix the man with the featureless gaze, but is warring a confused conflict that does not lend itself to remembering to look friendly.

Why do rich people feel so passionate about arguing the size of meals? One complains a bread roll is enough, the other complains caviar is not enough. Which one is it? Do all roads lead to this inevitable problem? Is it an innuendo for something?

Rich people need to get better hobbies.

But pondering brings realisation: Vasariah prepared him for this, the definition of a meal. Ren is almost excited to share his knowledge that was carefully curated from another smart, accomplished noble. The thief was fitting in so easily with high society.

“A meal,” he begins with a brag, leaning suave against the railing with nonchalant detachment, “is eating food to satisfy the appetite, so portion size does not matter.”

Put Ren into Harvard.

“If you keep me around Dan buddy, I’ll teach you lots of things.”

Eyes tarry back to the unfolding violence, devastating what pillars of peace had held the boat in place. The invisible hand of instinct twists again, but the intervention of a man who Ren recognises as the quartermaster binds him to his spot. How easily he’d almost forgotten the need to stay low and unseen, almost quickly undone by the consequences of a violent chef and a loudmouth blonde.

He’d never seen the rich worry much for their workers, but casting a glance to Dante reveals the lingering look they have on Aurelian. Ren can assume this man likes to collect pretty ones, or perhaps the chef’s food is just too good to waste away in a consequential corner of the world after attacking the napkin.

That raises a new issue for Ren; if the blonde was the type to make bloodsport out of offence and have the chef’s head paraded on a spike. Power can decree natural injustice when it likes. He wouldn’t think Vasariah to be cruel, but he also wouldn’t think Vasariah to get in a fist-fight. Perhaps it is folly to think he understands anything about anyone, especially those from the upper class.

Dante pulls him back to conversation, and Ren surfaces from that swarm of thought with no more than a blink.

Unpicky to what they eat, that bodes well for the thief. If it wasn’t screamingly obvious already, that means low-standards. Dante will need that in order to waste time and money on him.

“What are your suggestions?”

Ren’s eyes shift avoidantly to the side.

This bitch.

“…”

“…”

It’s a damning quiet that could launch a thousand revelations, deadly in how it commands Ren silent as a catacomb.

“Ah,” a breathy laugh barely audible, a flutter of prey blood in trembling lungs. “Ahah, about that…” Ren graces a sheepish smile to stirring nerves, a mindless hand fussing with a tassel of hair. Can feel the curl of apprehension frosting along skin, searing the warmth straight from it. He should have learned by now the only absolution for liars is paved in the katabasis of getting caught with red-slick hands.

“Sun is nice today.” Maybe if he blinked big round eyes then Dante would forget what he asked. “You’re nice, too.”

It converges in him like fresh and saltwater, currents that churn something restless in his languid stance. No longer leaned to the railing like the arrogant morningstar, now stood to roll back and forth on the heels of his shoes. High-spirited if not for the turmoil that has descended him to inner woes.

With no time to anticipate a script, he must resort to what he does best.

Improvising.

“Listen,” he begins with a sigh, “I wouldn’t want to bore you.” Starts to pace a slow circle around Dante like a shark in search of ruby red waters, hoping the distracting movement will afford him valuable seconds of time to spin his stupid little web. “But I know lots of incredible dishes.” The best caviar meal, think. What else do rich people eat? Virgins. He can’t say that. Shut up.

“You wouldn’t know any of them.” Half-truth. Nobody knows them because they don’t exist. “Traditional, from unknown shores.” Unknown definitely. Two halves make a whole, maybe the same applies for lying. “But they are truly…” he appears at Dante’s side like fluid obsidian, one sliding over their shoulder and the other flourishing a banner over the ocean horizon to present the lavish word:

“Pulchritudinous.”

He mispronounced that in every possible way, but Dante must be impressed with the fluency in bullshit.

“So, Buttons,” a new name chirped in a tone directly at odds with all the dark fabric and darker eyes. Drums his fingers that are still against Dante’s shoulder. He notes they smell of mint. “That appease you?”

If it didn’t, Ren may have to resort to further recreational measures.

Like inventing soup names.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

THE CHIMERA.

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Dante

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

RAR.

OUTFIT

Formal

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Ren, Gallin

INTERACTS

Gao

Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito

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Icarian Cloud.

To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils

Chapter Two.

The longer the silence stretched on, the more that Dante realized how absolutely awful Ren was at lying.

Oh my stars. This was so awkward. This was awful.

Something deep, covered in the tar and oil of his repressive mindset bubbled to its surface. Absolutely unadulterated schadenfreude glee at another’s suffering. The feeling of cute aggression, the need to tear something apart.

“I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“I doubt anything you say right now will.” That one sounded like it came deep from Dante’s soul, something new flickered behind his eyes as if slightly taken aback by that own admission. The mirrored lake of calm sureness rippled, the resurfacing of a human taking his first breath after a lifetime of drowning.

Huh. That was new.

“I know a lot of incredible dishes”

Meanwhile Ren was still fishing for any kind of relief from the approaching cliff of social disaster. Dante watched him circle slowly, pace for any kind of idea on how to get out of his own lies.

“You wouldn’t know any of them.”

Petulance met with serene calmness, still ineffective in alleviating the situation, watching the spin out in slow motion. A train collision. The spectacular sparkle of an implosion.

“They are truly… pulchritudinous”

Arm wrapped around his shoulders, look towards the sunset and see the vast future of pulchritudinhood. Ren would feel Dante’s heart rate pick up, his posture stiffen and a shiver go down his spine. He ducked out and made a show of flicking the lingering hand off of his shoulder. No touchy. Not in public at least.

He had no fucking clue what pulchritudinous was, but he had a feeling that neither did Ren.

“So Buttons”

“Buttons now.” Dante said, lips pulling back into something that was a little less calculated than the crooked grin from before.

“That appease you?”

His eyes flickered over to where Gallin stood, another colleague he’d rubbed elbows with before. An old friend but a person from the press. And the press will speak on anything that they see, kinda their whole job now wasn’t it. He let Ren see him look as well.

Let him put together the pieces on why he was about to become more reticent all of the sudden.

“You should try harder.” Dante said, his face drawing into a more “serious” expression and the slightest chin tilt upwards, perhaps a bit more squared in the shoulders than before. Bros. Yes. They were super bros. Look at them having a very serious discussion about very serious things. Heterosexually. “I want to see what happens.”

A familiar trick, all of the warmth and teasing emotion packed into the voice with nary a single expression change to support it.

“A couple of rules, though. To make things interesting.” Because playing a game of chicken in public was dangerous and could lead to… his head began to feel pressure in his skull and he aborted that thought process.

“Try to keep it on the downlow. I don’t want… rumors flying.” Not that anyone in Sirocco would particularly mind him picking up a stray, but images of blood seeping into his knees where he knelt over the body kept bursting forth in his mind unbidden. His head tilted again, a soft innocent blue hue taking over the gray. “Does that sound good to you? Or are those terms…”

His eyes fluttered down at Ren’s lips, then made direct eye contact, lips pulling back into the crooked smile. “Unfavorable, doeeyes.”

Because Ren couldn't get the wrong idea about why he was laying that ground work, his eyes darted once more over in the direction of the journalist.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[q r o w]

mood

Startled

location

Aboard the Leviathan

outfit

This, with the veil covering her face

tags

Wyll

Valerie

Oh how I wish to hide.

Tldr; Valerie and Anon talking, catching up. Being sickeningly cute. Idk what to write for tldr anymore. They talking? Val fumbling her defenses?


"Naev lass, yer too damn stubborn to die," No. She's too cursed to die. Or perhaps too foolish. Perhaps she should have gone that night, along with the rest of the Society. Perhaps she survived as the fates thought it to be her punishment. A fitting punishment for someone who desperately ensured her own survival, but did nothing to save her family. Valerie bit her tongue. She knew better than to say her thoughts out loud. Why would she risk ruining his view of her? She rather be know as stubborn than one bearing some curse.

"And nae, not all friends get treated this way....................only the special ones, me wee lamb." He was, no. He had to be joking right? Surely. This implied she was something special. Someone special. She knew she was far from that. Wee lamb? Was he implying she was innocent? No. He was just being kind. He was always kind...... It was his nature, as it was her nature to gage his words skeptically. Valerie recalled how much he had helped her following the fire. She had fled from the Sands and toward Zenith. A stowaway on a boat, quickest she could find. She arrived to Zenith still partially covered in ash, a half patched neck-wound, and starving. All she had as a pouch of coin, her father's sword, her cane, a pistol, pouch of coin, and what few records she could take. Valerie had stumbled into the first blacksmith she found. It happened to be Anon's shop.

She had insisted he just complete an order for her. Repairing her father's sword and making a sheath.....but he had other plans. He took her in and patched her up. Provided her a place to stay. 2 months. She had stayed two months, before deciding she needed to move. Valerie hadn't wanted her curse to befall Anon. He had been her first friend, and someone who helped get her back on her feet. So, Valerie had left that town. No warning. Just the letter. She didn't stop back and she feared any letter she sent wouldn't reach him. Nor did she really have the funds to pay to have a letter sent. Plus, a part of her had figured he would forget her......as many had done so.

Valerie flailed as Anon moved, her gaze frantically moving from the sea and back to Anon. Her arms quickly found their way to his shoulders. Nearly wrapping around his neck. She wasn't fond of being in the air like this. She would rather have solid ground beneath her feet. She was only allowing this as she trusted Anon enough to ........hopefully....not drop her. Oh how she pleaded with the fates he didn't drop her. She already could feel the stares at her back......and she could imagine how much worse they get if she failed. Slipping aboard unnoticed? Consider that a failed plan.

She felt his body shake with laughter as he adjusted his hold on her. Lowering her just so slightly. Her arms tightened, feet swung so slightly trying to even put a tip-toe on the ground. Shame on this man and his height....and strength....surely I must be heavy. "I can put you down but you need to answer me one tottie question..." A question? Valerie tensed. She didn't like that. She didn't like how he paused either, nor how he looked at her mischievously. Anxiety crept it's way into her mind. What could he possibly ask her? What did he want to know? Did he find out who she was-

"Did ye miss me, lass?" Her thoughts halted. "Ye-o" A mixture of yes and no left her lips in a confusing tangle. She couldn't even make out what she had said. Indeed she had missed him, perhaps not how he had her. However, so used to pushing away people along her travels....she ha'd almost instantly said no. Like it was some...automatic response. What had come out was a mixture of the truth and a lie. Her head slumped. As if trying to hide away in his shoulder. As if hiding could take away her embarrassment. In doing so, it pushed back her hat and veil a bit.

Her embarrassment had left the air between them quiet. An awkwardness settled in her as she let a small sigh escape. Valerie searched her mind for a way to make what she said make sense. If there was any way to make the situation better. Valerie defaulted to what she knew best. Poetry. "Sometimes, I forget I am safe with you. That I don't have to question your intentions or feelings toward me." It was part of a poem she recalled reading. It was the best way she could put her guilt into words. The guilt of secrets he did not know. THe guilt of having doubted his words toward her. Having been warry of his intentions when he mentioned a question.

"To give you a simple answer, yes. I did. " Valerie's words were hardly a whisper. She was close enough to him. She knew he could hear. As if the two were not surrounded by other passengers a bit of space away. As if the words were only meant for him and her to hear. A longer answer would be yes, I did. I thought of you occasionally......and when I couldn't find my way, your words provided me guidance. She didn't dare bring herself to say that out loud. She couldn't. "I thought of you when I looked at my cane. I kept it and the sword in good condition. Just like how you taught me." Ah right. The cane she had dropped. That wasn't a good look for her after saying she kept it in good condition. Surely he wouldn't be think to much on that. It was his fault for startling her after all.

nine lives

 

[Wyll]

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

The Anvil

Anon
Keep

Anon enjoyed how her face contorted through a series of emotions - none of which he could actually read or discern. Anon was not great with facial expressions other than sadness and joy. Everything else blended into a mix of expressions that looked just assimilar enough that he knew they wmeant different things, but also similar enough that he struggled telling them apart.

However, her response had caught him particularly off guard. He had prepared himself mentally for either a yes or a no. He hadn't prepared for a 'Ye-o". Somehow, the uncertainty that that represented was even more disheartening than a straight up no. He was fine with a straight up no. He'd heard it several times before. Without his knowledge, a part of him had come to expect it. However, the sliver of a 'yes' at the start of her reply had got him unfairly excited, especially given that the next syllable would cut so deep.

To him, it sounded as though she had changed a 'yes' to a 'no'. What made her change? Did she realise the yes was a lie?

"Ah, I see." One-sided? Again? Even with her? His smile changed. He never stopped smiling but, suddenly, his teeth weren't showing anymore; his eyes were more somber. It was a sad smile, one that hurt to keep on but one that he knew better than to let fall. After all, a sad smile was better than no smile at all.

His hold around her waist loosened and he gently set her down as the awkwardness stewed between the two. He was typically a good conversationalist, a great one. But even he didn't know how to navigate the transition from being excited to be back with his symbol of home, to being alienated as little more than a stranger. Thankfully, she slumped her head and it rested on his shoulder so he had the chance to put on a slightly more compelling act that whatever was on his face right now. At least she wasn't trying to get away.

"Sometimes, I forget I am safe with you. That I don't have to question your intentions or feelings toward me."

His smile stretched a little bit. There was more emotion in it however one couldn't tell if it had gotten sadder or if it was morphing itself into a genuine smile. In truth, her words now did little to heal the pain - pain that he wasn't allowed to show lest he make her feel bad for being honest with him. After all, it wasn't her fault that his company wasn't as desirable to her as he'd hoped. Even as she completed her answer, the smile didn't change. Was she pitying him?

He let out a sigh and forced an ever-so-slightly more believable smile. He didn't dare lift the veil, but - using it - he placed a tender hand on her cheek. "That's good to hear, at least. Next time, do me a favor though...forget less." He'd managed to play it off as a tease, even throwing a wink in there for good measure, all to make her pity him less or perhaps not feel bad when she had simply been honest. However, it was also an unspoken plea - all he ever wanted was for people to feel safe, welcomed by his presence. It was one thing for people not to know: that, he could make his peace with. However, for some reason, someone who should have known that better than any other, saying that they forgot, only twisted the blade that was already in his heart.

He stroked her cheek bone with his thumb a couple times, remembering the ash he had wiped from it what now felt like a lifetime ago. Perhaps she really had grown from the nigh helpless girl he had met. Steeling his heart, he let out a sharp breath.

Be unmovable. You can't let anything shake you, not even her.

He turned and picked up the cane when she mentioned it, making sure to be gentle with it as a father would be to their own child. As he bent to pick it up, the wooden carving that he had tucked away threatened to fall out but he managed to catch it just before it hit the deck. He stood up with both of them, tucking the butterfly carving back into his shirt and paying it no mind. However, he spun the cane in his hands, examining every inch of it.

"You've loved her better than most people care to do with things I make them; better than most people love their spouses. This, at l-" He caught himself and cleared his throat. "This makes me happy. Thank you for being lithe with her." He walked up to her and handed the cane back.

He nodded with his head, vaguely gesturing at the rest of the ship. "On we get lass, " he started, as he turned toward the ship and motioned for her to follow me. "I've been waiting to show off what I did with this ship to somebody. Would you humor a tour? It'll be fun. The rest of the ship is particularly...pulchritudinous."

Mentions: Valerie ( q r o w )

 

[qunqun]

THE BUTCHER.

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Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FUCK YOU.

OUTFIT

EDGE

LOCATION

Deck

MENTIONS

Vas, Junshi

INTERACTS

morcetyx

Psychosocial — Slipknot

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The Tertiary Sin.

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

Chapter Two.

When words failed, action was required. Therefore, punch.

As the blow sank into the flesh of his stomach, he identified the fact that Vas was using some rings to give his blows a little more heft. Aurelian could not be happier at the idea of being given an even playing field. A challenge was even more exciting.

Ultimately, Vas wouldn’t have the wingspan that Aurelian did. Nor probably the skill. So Aurelian was pretty decided on that it'd be kinda pathetic to lose against him at this. Vas was going to swing again and this time he was going to force space for his longer arm reach to do its thing by pushkicking him back.

Alas! Someone intervened before Aurelian could start kicking, grabbing at the blond.

Head tilted to the side, he stared at Junshi with a kind of harshness that came from mom ruining his fun. A growl started at the back of his throat and he was about to unleash some more rage before stopping short.

It wasn't over. Over was when one of them were bleeding on the ground fading in and out of consciousness and the other stood victorious over the loser. This was an intervention-

But even tempers and flat words did more to halt the oncoming rise, this was the way it was even if Aurelian was pissed off about it. His hands dropped and he stopped bouncing. Shook out his hands and started putting the jewelry back on.

He wanted to kick a chair, but was instead asked if this could be solved by words.

“Go fuck yourself.” Aurelian immediately spat at Vas upon being given permission to speak. He did not acknowledge or answer the question, but he assumed that would be sufficient in getting his point across. His eyes shifted back to Junshi for a second. A small gracious nod of acknowledgment, because his aggression was laser focused onto his opponent and not any kind of referee.

And then he spat at Vas. Actually. It landed at their feet and he wiped his mouth when he began to walk away from the entire endeavor. “Tell him to stop fucking staring at me like he knows who I am and then we can fucking talk.”

Fighting, in its own way, was a conversation in itself. He was fairly certain that had gotten its point across.

♡coded by uxie♡