Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

qunqun · Oct 28, 2024

THE CHIMERA.

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Dante

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Drowned rat

OUTFIT

Fancy drowned rat

LOCATION

Bar

MENTIONS

Antarin

INTERACTS

Mypilot

Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito

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Icarian Cloud.

To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils

Chapter Two.

Dante officially hated boats. He’d ran into quite a few people he’d pissed off in some way or another at this point, and honestly he was fed up-

~~Treats you right, stop complaining~~.

-he couldn’t quit now, though. He had to just take a deep breath, and let the tension melt from his body.

Being stuck in his cabin and waiting to die, though, was not a particularly fun experience as he imagined the sea water filling his lungs. How the dark void would open up and he could so easily free fall into its loving embrace where everything will be finally still.

Until then, nicotine smoke would have to do.

Thrown about and rattled, he climbed out of the cabin with a newfound appreciation of life and its disgusting ability to keep crawling on despite his best efforts.

At least the room that he was given was moderately alright, even if a not insignificant part of him felt like this reprieve was the equivalent of the afterlife’s boring waiting room rather than an actual proper place.

Feeling mildly like a rattled baby, he’d never been one for feeling comfortable stewing in the silence of his own thoughts, so he fixed his hair as best he could. The curls didn't feel like laying flat today after all of that, he would have to live with the physical imperfection of wild locks today.

He sat down with a drink and took a sidelong glance at the guy across the table where he’d sat.

Antarin.

Interesting.

The sullen sulking of a halfdrowned kitten wiped away, the rich heir was back with a charming crookedly perfect smile and a twinkle in his eye that suddenly made him seem all 20 something green years of his age, rather than the slimy 30 something he usually was able to pull off.

“Hey. I don’t think we’ve met. Dante Fiocchi. It’s a pleasure.” A warm extended hand to shake with practiced perfection. Well, cold because he hadn’t managed to fully warm his fingers on the fire quite yet, but warm in the familiar sense. “Did the torrential downpour rattle you as well?”

The slightest dry hyperbole in his voice as he tinged his approach with all sorts of charm.

And not a single fucking mention of contractual language! Look at him go!

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Pepsionne · Oct 31, 2024

THE HUNTSMAN.

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MAGNUS

MOOD

AGGRAVATED

OUTFIT

Black obvs

LOCATION

THE HAVEN INN

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

Gao Ren

BLACK WIDOW — MARTIN PHIPPS.

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DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR

"Live," he says,
"I am coming."

CHAPTER TWO.

“Fuck you,” Ren’s words spit out like acid, intending to burn through whatever fabric of civility had laid carefully between them.

Magnus remained unflinching to the insult and fear fueled apology that soon followed it. His skin was thick to cut, hardened by years worth of vile phrases hurled at him when it became clear he had no intention of delivering mercy.

The bounty hunter’s expression curled into a sneer. Like a dog recoiling to bite, Magnus dodged the gleaming projectile with ease. He growled as he lunged for Ren, blade slicing through thick, quilted fabric instead of flesh and tendons.

He caught the man halfway through a desperate lunge of gangly limbs for the door. They stepped together once, twice, legs carrying them in tandem until the wall met with Magnus’ irritated force. With Ren now pinned against the wall, Magnus leaned forward, teeth bared to warn off further thoughts of escape.

Steel kissed the vulnerable skin of Ren’s throat. A bloom of red sprouted against his tan flesh where the pressure of Magnus’ grip began to lean in with the bite of a kill.

Closer than ever, standing eye to eye with the man--something strange washed over Magnus. What was this feeling? Hesitance? But for what? It wasn’t attraction, it wasn’t empathy. His fingers grew sweaty with the promise of death that clung to them.

Grey fire burned into the bottomless liquid of Ren’s gaze. For some reason, he was searching for something there. An echo, a gasp of air. Maybe it was the storm that had thrown him off balance. He never went this long between kills.

“I’ll allow you a last word,” Magnus growled.

This close up, he could feel the heat radiating from Ren. A reminder of the life he was about to take poured from the man in waves, washing over Magnus’ senses until nausea began to bloom.

The rise and fall of breath and the dark strands of hair it stirred in its wake. The subtle sound of Ren swallowing. A deep cut of shadow emerged from furrowed brows. This bounty was taking too long.

♡coded by uxie♡

roxybirdie · Oct 31, 2024

THE MAESTRO.

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鸿參宿

"ALTALUNE"

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

I hate storms...

OUTFIT

BLUE LACE

LOCATION

INN ROOM

MENTIONS

DESERT ROSE, TIBERIUS, NPC

INTERACTS

N/A

TAGS

q r o w ,

Nifty

DIAMOND — SPG COVER.

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MOONCHILD,

If you are the moon, it's not the sun that reminds you of the light; it's the darkness that makes you shine.

CHAPTER 3.

Their husband wanted them dead.

The polished dagger gleamed under the flickering candlelight. Their nails were like sharp talons and dug into the arm holding the dagger like a raptor seizing its prey. A thin line of blood seeped down their neck. Their iron grip was the only thing holding the dagger back.

Their ~~darling~~ husband put a hit on their head and hired a bounty hunter to kill them. In retrospect, they should have seen it coming. Viren Goldwyn was an extremely arrogant and pretentious man. After they tarnished his precious vanity, he was out for blood.

Fear threatened to cloud their judgement. Despite their trembling grip, their obsidian eyes sparked with unyielding determination. "Let's make a deal," they announced. They pointedly ignored the sharp blade digging into their neck, threatening to slash their throat open. "I can double the amount of what my husband is paying you. If coin won't sway you, I can offer information on him." Their nails dug deeper.

"You seem like a woman who values intel above gold. If you listen to what I have to say, I'll make it worth your time."

Deep down, a part of them – foolishly naïve and desperate for their happily ever after – hoped their husband would forget about them. Unfortunately, the Archduke was on a warpath. If he hired a bounty hunter to kill them, he will not rest until they were six feet under.

Slim fingers applied the peachy rouge delicately on their cupid bow lips. "If you refuse to back down..." They raised their ornate hand mirror and tilted their head, studying the soft glossy shade. "I'll play your wicked game of cat and mouse, Viren. However..." Altalune brushed their thumb across their cheekbone. One month passed since they boarded the Leviathan. A few days ago, the mottled bruise on their cheek vanished. Additionally, the bruises on their wrists and ankles disappeared. Unfortunately, their ribs remained tender; the bruises haven't healed completely.

"This time, you'll be the mouse. I will hunt you down until you're six feet under," Altalune murmured. They dipped their fingers in a different compact jar of rouge – the delicate rosy shade complemented their silvery white hair – and applied the cosmetic on their cheekbones. "I'm not the same naïve performer you met in Sirocco. I'll make you pay for what you did to me and my family." They shifted their head from left to right, inspecting the rouge. The delicate color breathed life into their fawny beige skin. "Even if it means making a deal with the devil. At least she listened to me..."

Altalune lowered their hand mirror and placed it on their nightstand. "I hope you rot in the darkest pits of hell, darling husband of mine," they whispered. They ignored the stinging in their eyes. They refused to let the tears fall. "I hate how you made me resort to this. Hiring a bounty hunter makes me no better than you..." They breathed in deeply and exhaled through their nostrils. "This is your price for freedom, Aryon. You said you're willing to do anything to be free. There's no going back now." They carded their fingers through their hair. Braiding their hair calmed them. After a horrific squall left the Leviathan stranded on a mysterious remote island, their nerves were undoubtedly frayed.

"All you can do is move forward," Altalune declared.

A few hours passed since the unscheduled detour. Despite their misfortune, the island wasn't completely empty. For instance, it hosted a massive inn large enough to house the entirety of the Leviathan. Altalune never encountered an establishment capable of housing over fifty guests; every person on the Leviathan was assigned their own room.

In hindsight, it sounded impossible and downright suspicious. Unfortunately, the grueling trip from the ship to the inn – darling Tiberius was kind enough to carry their bags to their room, bless his bleeding heart – left them utterly exhausted.

It was night time. Their paranoia could wait until morning.

Altalune gazed at the window overlooking the sea. "At least I have an ocean view," they muttered. They weaved their fingers through their silvery hair, forming an elegant and intricate waterfall braid. While the heavy thunderstorm subsided, it continued to rain outside. With their back facing the door, Altalune failed to notice a shadow slithering inside their room like a serpent waiting to strike.

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picklemouse · Nov 4, 2024

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The Bride

Cassandra
Flores

mood

Sitting alone at the tavern

outfit

White shirt with full length sleeves; Brown bodice and skirt; Simple black shoes

location

The Haven Inn

interactions/Mentions

Interactions are OPEN; Mentions: Lori, Adrius, Ilya

TAGS

ComplexDragon

DEAR MARIA, COUNT ME IN — ALL TIME LOW.

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A PRINCESS

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART ONE.

Madelina had to sink her teeth into her lip to prevent herself from making a noise as the woman before her showered her with undeserved forgiveness. Her voice was soothing, and it reminded her of the noble ladies that would greet her when she would do her round through ballrooms and society functions. Not that she’d ever responded back outside of a nod. It was one of the rules of a mere decoy—be seen, not heard. Your voice can betray you.

At the mention of being decent, Madelina nearly sobbed. Truly, how was she so careless to nearly walk in on such a lovely woman changing? While theoretically, that wouldn’t be terrible—she had grown up with maids seeing any and everything—it would be bad if she’d opened the door wide enough for anyone else to see. ~~And sharing a view such as that would be the greatest shame of all. Who said that.~~

Something was wrong with her. Besides the panic, her thoughts were going haywire. Madelina couldn’t possibly keep up with all of these trains of thought. Pretty lady… I’M SO RUDE… she’s so nice… so pretty… I’m the worst…

“You are too kind, miss,” Madelina murmured, dipping into an awkward half-curtsy, which was the best she could manage under these circumstances. There wasn’t much room for a deeper curtsy, but she also feared that it would look too perfect if she performed one. Though she had a feeling some on the ship suspected an affiliation to at least the capital, she couldn’t let on that she was raised as if she was noble, despite being nothing more than an object in the crown’s employ. “Truly, I am very sorry to have inconvenienced you like this.”

Before she could stop the words, she blurted, “But if I may, those clothes suit you very well.” Now where had that come from? The flush was rampaging across Madelina’s face now. If she had hoped to stop her embarrassment in its tracks, now she was a spectacular failure in that sense.

She searched the room for some other way to move the conversation along and ignore that she might have—gasp—engaged in some form of flirting??? (If terribly executed.) But as her eyes took in the room and the familiar fabrics of her few clothes and the bags she had dropped in this room, she realized. This was her room. She hadn’t interrupted the pretty lady at all, at least not in the sense that she had first thought.

Strange. So what was this woman doing in here in the first place?

Eyebrows knitting together in confusion, Madelina slowly lifted her gaze to the other woman’s, the cogs turning as if greased with molasses. A question was forming on her lips, though it took many forms. Why are you here? What is your business in my room?

Do you know of my affiliation with the princess?

A different sort of panic seized her this time, and Madelina feared the rogue waves of the storm would not be able to wash away the truth should it be pulled out of the wreckage of her lies.

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AnimeGenork · Nov 4, 2024

MILO STAFFORD.

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Milo

Farmboy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Eepy

OUTFIT

Suspender My Heart

LOCATION

Kuku's Room

MENTIONS

The Old Crew

INTERACTS

Kuku

TAGS

morcetyx

DIRT — FLORIDA GEORGIA LINE.

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IT IS ONLY

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART ONE.

Kuku was alright. That was great. A relieved smile spread across Milo’s face as his eyelids drooped, drooped, drooped… Mm, wouldn’t it be so great to fall asleep right now, right in this moment. Yes, that sounded so good. So… so… good…

Milo did not register the fact that he was laying down, nor that Kuku was the source of the movement. He had never been one of the physics of things, and even if he had been awake, he would not be able to explain how a slip of a thing like Kuku had managed to get his farmhand self to collapse. Then again, his exhaustion was such that a feather landing on his shoulder would catch him off balance.

“Mm… chicken…” Yeah, he was out of it. All he could see was the farm and his family, and unless he was mistaken, he was also seeing his old crew. Ah, Bruno and company never failed to make him smile. And, more importantly, seeing them always made him sink into dreams easier.

Though he would not be able to recall such actions later, Milo’s arms snaked around Kuku’s body, holding her close as his dreams overtook his body. He rolled, not crushing his companion, but rather wrapping himself around her in a bear hug. Like a teddy bear, Milo had somehow begun cuddling his friend in his sleep. Not that he was aware of it. In his dreams, he was hugging Gabe and Abby and Bruno and Arata, and they were all laughing and having a great time. He let out a happy sigh in his sleep, his body shifting to more comfortably cuddle what he was convinced was a cow.

Milo’s chin naturally rested atop Kuku’s head, his breath stirring any loose or wild strands while his arms cocooned her in warmth. He had no way of knowing if his physical warmth was like the emotional warmth he was feeling his dreams. Either way, he spoke the words he had frequently said in his sleep over the last twenty years, which he would likely repeat for the next twenty and the next twenty after that:

“Don’t go.”

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Nifty · Nov 4, 2024

THE SCOURGE.

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Dolores

THORNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Sir, Respectfully. What the fuck?

OUTFIT

Boatswain Slay

LOCATION

Haven Inn, Common Room

MENTIONS

Lexis & Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Leviathan — Dirt Poor Robins

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Bronze Beauty,

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

Chapter Three, Part I.

The low rumble of his pharynx indicated to Dolores that the man in front of her was displaying a nervous habit. A habit she found highly discouraging. While it is comforting to hold the knowledge that someone shares a similar outlook towards the world along its deepest cliffs of pandemonium. It was not within her reason to make the captain uncomfortable with her bold opinions and create an awkward chasm between them.

“Reservations are good.” A murmured consolation escaped her lips. Reassuring him that it is acceptable to have doubts is the minimal effort she could produce at that moment. She doubts her ability to comfort after a certain man left her with nothing but the scent of smoke and amber.

She shook the thought of Funai Ren away, and like the soft summer breeze brushing past the delicate seeds of a dandelion, the murky image of his obsidian locks floated away at the back of her mind. If she could attain the same skill of brushing her anxieties away, she would do so in a heartbeat.

From mundane subjects such as their beloved schedule to the intricacies of their anxieties, Dolores values the conversation Lexis provides. From her experience, most boys would laugh and oppose a man whose authority was unquestionably high and yet would let a mere woman ‘speak her mind.’ The inappropriate misogyny she has endured under the thumbs of disappointing men makes Lexis Graves seem like a rare jewel among the bags of coal that are men.

Her branded wrist felt a chill crawl upon a naked piece of her skin. A well-preserved instinct immediately took action and tucked her glove higher. Despite being within the comforts of the four walls surrounding her figure, the icy air of natural elements and perhaps even the cruel breeze of distrust still managed to penetrate through the building with what she could only assume was a terrible ventilation system. As her neck cranes above the ceiling tiles above her, Lexis once again caught her attention with his very... astute observation.

“Your current shoe placement is respectful. Appropriate distance and stance is present.”

.

..

…

She was frozen with pure astonishment. Four consecutive blinks passed before the sentence was adequately processed snugly within the comforts of her mind. Even the greatest depths of a great philosopher’s mind would have difficulty deciphering Lexis’ peculiarly opaque mind.

What… What is this man about?

A confused expression mired with concern soon appeared on her face. She let her brows furrow and scrunch to convey her cluelessness, her lips slightly agape and her eyes searching for an answer. For once, Dolores Thorne let her icy facade slip and free the ever so articulate ‘what-the-fuck-you-on-about-ness’ upon her face.

“Pardon me? I don’t quite follow, sir.” She inquired with all the esteem she could muster at that very moment.

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Gao · Nov 4, 2024

small cw for violence aka magnus being mean i suppose ):<

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

GETTING HUMBLED.

OUTFIT

SNEEKI SLEEKI

LOCATION

HAVEN INN BEDROOM

MENTIONS

NADA.

INTERACTS

Pepsionne

RUN BOY RUN — WOODKID.

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HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER THREE.

Over two decades of running is not enough to cull the fledgling arrogance that he can escape anything if he moves fast enough. Ren hadn’t tried to expend much afterthought to what would happen if he failed, but the collision of limbs narrows the scope of his focus to only this.

Breath wrest from rib-locked lungs and fear blunting the sharp edges of survival instinct into the crude defence of riotous struggling, it sends his hands abandoning the lunge for the door to instead grapple with the momentum of black fabrics. The wooden continent of the wall orbits to meet shoulders, and Ren can only level the brunt of the impact with the bones of his back.

Feels the shallow slice like a mishandled map, but this is no paper cut. A blade with all its scalpel tenderness, so sharp it's almost anaesthetising, has Ren finally turning still. If not for the bead of blood warm against the cold silver plane, he’d not have realised the weapon had broken skin. But time is not well-kept with a knife to your throat, sometimes animals play dead and perhaps this is not much different.

The pulse in his ribs has travelled outside of its designated area, and he thinks to ask with shaking hands and frightened eyes if there is any possible way to be left alone. But as he counts the beats of each exhale, trades them for tempest sulks through the nostrils, he realises that is exactly the type of sick play that someone of this occupation would enjoy.

Finds enough grounding in that spite to glare instead of cower. He wants to be angry for some kind of injustice, but given it is only the byproduct of his own mistake, can only be painfully taught that this is the price of squandering a life and expecting no consequences— many years too late.

He observes that hesitation is strange on Magnus, and there is something warm to the ice-cold blade at his neck, not the blood but something nostalgic. Intercepts their sightline with something searching of his own to meet them halfway, oil spill to arctic ash.

Ren does not like whatever that is.

“I’ll allow you a last word,”

Yo mama.

No. Lets not be greedy, that would be two words. It is time to forfeit the audacity, Ren knows the man has little patience. If a dog comes inside and sits itself by the fire, it is not a pet— still a wolf. A pause to offer the generosity of a final word means nothing.

“Warden.” He braces for it all the same, squeezing eyes shut in hopes it will reduce his mind into a silent, equanimous sea. Awaits that undignified death of an indelicate push and pull of the knife through the oesophagus.

The stage is quiet with anticipation, and what brief veneer of victory to be allowed to live seconds longer falls away to the urgency to hold onto this throwaway thread akin to a lifeline.

“The Blood Warden.” It’s a disjointed topic, would not make sense to many. The note of desperation pervades his tone, a flurry of birds purged from the mouth. With no knife to cleave his throat open he has the bravery to continue.

“See, my friend,” Ren gently unlatches his nails from where they’d been instinctively balled in the man’s coat lapels, gingerly patting the fabric back into place. “I know lots about many things, and I know all about the Blood Warden. I can help you.”

The art of a liar's pedantics, he knows about the Blood Warden, fails to specify exactly what he knows.

“All Ren wants in return, is a bit more time. That sounds good, yeah? So, just– lower your knife.” His voice is gentle, like trying to calm the man away from a cliff. Keeps his hands raised to show he isn’t about to do anything impulsive or stupid.

“I can see it now, you with that bounty money." He smiles, all boyish teeth. "I was once a fortune-teller, you know.” He played Blackjack sometimes.

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Mypilot · Nov 5, 2024

Interact: Dante

qunqun

The passengers that collected in the main room made for a meager sight, everyone looking rung out and salt-raw. The seawater had done marvelous things to peoples appearances, and Antarin knew he looked no better. His cascade of hair was clumpy in places, salt clinging to salt in every strand. He purposely avoiding making direct eye contact, not wanting to catch anyone in a moment where they just wanted to be miserable in their own damp solitude.

This was why, perhaps, he neglected to notice when a fellow sat at his table until the other was drawing his attention. Antarin drew his gaze up, brow furrowing slightly as he was drawn from his thoughts. The man looked marginally more put together than the others did, or at least had a better time of pretending this was the case, and Antarin felt a little impressed with the fact.

Charm and smiles oozed out of the man who introduced himself as Dante, a surprisingly bright attitude given the nature of their situation. Never one to leave a hand waiting, however, Antarin extended his own and gave a hearty shake.

“Antarin Estor,” he replied back, speaking his family name how his father had, letting the ‘s’ linger just a bare moment in the mouth before sliding into the crisp ‘t’ sound. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met, it is indeed a pleasure. Yes, I’m just taking a moment to sit and eat before cleaning up. Had a feeling I would fall into a bed if one was placed near enough to me.” Antarin smiled as he spoke, even as his mind flicked through all he knew of the name Dante Fiocchi. It was, of course, one he’d heard before. High society truly only ever paid attention to its own retinue, and even if Antarin didn’t necessarily align himself as a friend with that group, his responsibilities often played well when he knew relevant names.

Trade, wealth, intense parentage. Antarin felt, perhaps, that Dante was the most approachable of the group if memory served, even if he had not met any of the Fiocchi's until this day. Reputation, however, is everything and he trusted his flickering remnants of learning names and history to retain such a fact. Patriarchs of families were seldom enjoyable company in Antarin's experience, and he remembered Dante being a second son.

Antarin’s gaze flicked over the others visible body, the once over efficient and routine. “I’m glad to see you, along with everyone else aboard, made it through relatively unscathed.” The sentiment seemed genuine, even if Antarin spoke with a voice that bellied professional decency rather than personal affection. “Were you traveling alone?” He tried to recall if he had seen Dante aboard, and when, and who he had been traveling with. Had he been around any faces Antarin had been keeping an eye on? Frustration flickered inside his chest over his fuzzy memory, as if the seawater had swirled a little in his head and scrubbed some common sense out. Perhaps he just needed sleep and a moment to himself.

the ambassador

ANTARIN.

filler tab!
hello

goodbye

hello

goodbye

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Gao · Nov 7, 2024

IN-CHARACTER

HAVEN INN PART II

ROGUE WAVES

OFFBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

SEASON FINALE

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

People are nothing but a shell of ringing desires and the promise of endless horizons. There will be no outstripping something that is built into your very being.

An hour till the sun is ripe for burning, they need only wait till dawn, but recall that Haven Inn can keep you as long as you need. There’s a flavour of invitation to that phrase that should not sit comfortably with the crew, there’s plenty of this location that should not sit comfortably with anyone.

But it's not like the innkeeper could turn into a blood-curdling beast, right, Dolores? And paranoia could wait until morning, right, Altalune?

See, past a certain point in waiting, you stop being able to estimate the drip of time. You cannot quite recall how she came to be, settled nearby and watching with hands folded neatly on her lap. Perhaps she knocked and allowed herself into your room, perhaps you dozed off in the library or at the bar. Memory is an unforgiving thing, but her presence is a lone one, and communicates the fact that everyone else must have retired elsewhere.

“I did not mean to disturb,” it softens the edges of suspicion, and the grays of her fabric seem to ripple like smoky water. “I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

Predictably tight-lipped, one should expect nothing else from the strange receptionist but this commonly vague, conversational nature. That easy countenance remains, a signifier of something sequestered away that begs to be coaxed out like a pearl or bad lie. She smiles, jewels catch persimmon lamplight like liquid gold, and the reflection of Forsythia yellow in her irises mimics the gentle orbit of tea she stirs with a dainty ornate spoon.

She asks a question. You are compelled to answer, or at least, compelled to think about it.

For her, that is enough.

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍.

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓 𝐀:

“𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃? 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄?"

She— they— it— whatever the receptionist may be because it is certainly nothing human, takes your wounds and reflects them right back at you. A kind of undoing where she pares open what can cut into the breadth of your composure, measuring each pain with a precise sweep of her stare. She finds exactly what you fear from the ravines of your mind and distils it into the room around you with haunting realism. Like scrubbing at an ink stain only to have its dark circular arc twist and bleed to life.

She is like a shift of cold temperature gliding to your side, teacup in hand. She gently offers it to you with the promise she could make it all go away, so long as you drink.

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓 𝐁:

“𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃? 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄?"

She— they— it— whatever the receptionist may be because it is certainly not human, takes your desires and reflects them right back at you. Like another world, you imagine this. Unmarred by grief or sorrow, a marionette in another life— everything and everyone you could ever want. She finds exactly what you want most from the ravines of your mind and distils it into the room around you with dreamy realism. The distance between what you are and what you could be, what you have and what you could have, speaks volumes; the enticement of rushing headlong into the potential double-stitching of that gap.

She is like a shift of warm temperature gliding to your side, teacup in hand. She gently offers it to you with the promise she could give you everything you ever wanted, so long as you drink.

𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐁𝐘 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

[ ] 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀.

[ ] 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀.

[ ] 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊.

The arrival of part iii will allocate implications for some of these decisions.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

qunqun · Nov 7, 2024

The Physician.

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Ilya

Jovanović

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Bush time

OUTFIT

No mask, unfortunately

LOCATION

Bush time

MENTIONS

Grog

INTERACTS

N/A

Artificial Paradise — Vlad Holiday.

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Humanist's Folly.

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

Chapter Two.

This was probably the worst idea that Ilya had ever had in his life.

The barrel tossed and turned throughout the night. At some point it tipped over and now he was just rolling around with the carrots, his stomach churning with sick as he regretted ever leaving his small little hamlet with his comforts of home.

Sorry, that was the wrong deathly ill boat experience.

Instead he was in the med bay with the smell of alcohol throwing up in a bucket as the ship tossed and turned upon waves that battered the walls of his new home.

At some point, someone had come in injured. He assumed Grog took care of them, because surely he couldn’t.

Both of them walked out with rattled skulls and faraway stares like people who had come from war.

Immediately, they’d retired to the rooms provided by the crew to have an early night and stop the world from rocking back and forth.

It was a dark room and Ilya was laying upon the floor with the white sad mop upon his chest, declaring his spot king amongst the skeleton beneath him.

A cup of tea was placed upon the bedside table, roused from his slumber, the good doctor awoke to desolate winter winds, biting with their howl as they warped around him.

The familiar shacks and makeshift houses had fallen into ruin, bodies crouched over small children frozen in their place with faces of complete horror.

“I brought some tea.” The last human in Fishington spoke to him. “Drink.”

Ilya rubbed his face as he found his animal gone, scattered somewhere. He felt some deep lead in his chest as he stared at the waste. Tea was the last thing on his mind as a lifetime of memories flashed through his mind and were grieved. “What?”
She simply gestured to the cup upon the pristine table.

Pristine.

The cup.

She was.

They should both have frozen like his parents, like his brothers, his sisters, his cousins.

Ilya backed away from… whatever this was, seeing the tundra behind him where he could disappear, disappear from this grief and this pain and this strange strange monster that had taken over his town.

There was a crack as he ran back first into something.

Glass cut his shoulders as he free fell out the window of the inn, his arms scratched and torn as the face of Grog staring out the window after him was the last thing he saw before he was completely swallowed by a bush and on the ground.

♡coded by uxie♡

AnimeGenork · Nov 7, 2024

content warning for implied sexual assault attempt, all vaguely described & sexual abuse mention

ROSALINE TOUCHARD.

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ROSA

Enamored

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Insomnia

OUTFIT

Pure & Sexy

LOCATION

Her Room

MENTIONS

N/A

INTERACTS

Helga

TAGS

N/A

PUT YOUR RECORDS ON — RITT MOMNEY.

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THINKING OF YOU

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART TWO.

She did not remember stumbling back to her room, the alcohol fusing with her bloodstream so that she was half-intoxication. The faces of beautiful women were swimming in front of her eyes, so lovely that for once, her thoughts were very, very far away from the captain’s visage. In fact, she had quite forgotten about him for the night. Her adoration of women was stronger this night, but of course it would be on a night like tonight. Little did she know.

Rosaline was well aware that sleep would be a struggle with so much rumbling through her head. She decided to take a bath, relax, try to sober up before attempting slumber. Two of those three goals were met, but stubbornly, her brain was very much drunk. She supposed that was the price she was to pay after drinking so damn much. The liver could only handle so much before it abandoned its host and left the body to fend for itself. Well, she was used to fending for herself.

Some hours passed after she donned her nightgown, tossing and turning and willing sleep to take her over. Her eyes felt heavy, and though her eyelids drooped, they refused to shutter with the finality of sleep. Sitting up was a hassle, no matter how alluring she must have looked, but as she rubbed her eyes, she realized the strange innkeeper was in her room, pouring a cup of tea.

A frown marred her beloved face. This was odd, to say the least. Why was she here? Hadn’t she locked the door…? But then, the innkeeper would have another key, wouldn’t she? Still, why use it on one’s guest while they’re attempting sleep?

“I did not mean to disturb. I brought a spot of tea.”

Ah, well. That would explain it, somewhat. Perhaps she had made some sort of noise that indicated she needed tea. Rosaline hoped it was chamomile. Throwing back the covers, she draped her legs over the side of the bed, intent on standing to greet the woman properly.

But of course, that is when it happens. That is when her composure, so carefully crafted for the outside world, is completely shattered in its tracks.

“What do you fear most in this world? More than anything else?”

The larger voice in Rosaline’s head immediately wants to say nothing, but that would be a lie. Her smaller voice, the voice of a self she has long buried and yet still managed to represent, takes center stage, and she struggles to regain control. Autonomy is lost as she blinks and is suddenly engulfed in the nightmare, the one that haunts her whenever she does not manage to find someone to share her bed. Warm bodies stave off the cold, after all—but not now. She feels like a prepubescent child again, even though she had been halfway through puberty when this fear first took root.

Rosaline’s thighs press together, her throat markedly dry as she stares up at the shape before her, lips wobbling at the sudden realization that this is happening, at this goddamn inn of all places. Because of course it is, of course she was never safe, she is still living in a world where this is a given outcome for having a body such as hers. It would be easier to stomach if this was bloodlust she was facing down, or perhaps a cannibal well aware that hers is the most delectable flesh. No, instead, this is something much, much worse.

Her wrists are grabbed by the shape which shows no conceivable form, and she screams, but that scream is muffled instantly.

A beacon shines through this darkness that is overtaking her, and she realizes the innkeeper, sick and twisted as she may be, is watching. Rosaline would be furious if it weren’t for the salvation pouring through her lips at present:

“I can make it all go away, if you drink the tea.”

A smarter woman would refuse. An educated woman would perhaps find fault in this logic. A tougher woman would simply fight every being in this room until blood was spattered on the walls. But Rosaline Touchard has never been smart, or educated, or tough. In her own selfish words, she has only ever been a woman. A woman whose only true worth in this world has been her body, a fact which she has perpetuated and despised for the last ten years.

She does not notice the way the shape abates, her restraints gone, her mouth uncovered. All she knows is that she scrambles across the floor, shaking off the shadowy tendrils of her nightmare as she snatches at the teacup. The liquid inside nearly spills, and her eyes widen as her hand just barely manages to right it. With a sigh of relief, Rosaline forgets all manners and decorum as she gulps down the tea as if it is water from the fountain of youth.

It is most notably not chamomile.

♡coded by uxie♡

qunqun · Nov 8, 2024

THE BUTCHER.

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Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FUCK YOU.

OUTFIT

EDGE

LOCATION

Inn

MENTIONS

INTERACTS

Psychosocial — Slipknot

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The Tertiary Sin.

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

Chapter Three.

Food restocked? Check.

Dishes that had been broken in the storm replaced? Check

Dishes infected with seawater cleaned? Check

After a long day of hard work, Aurelian was ready to fall into a bed. A proper bed. On the ground. That didn't shift with the waves.

He disrobed as he fell face first into the mattress, unwilling to move a single muscle until the day broke.

Click.

The sound of the lock turning, the door creaking op-

THERE WAS SOMEONE IN THE FUCKING ROOM

Heart pounding in his ears, adrenaline spiked in his veins as he suddenly shot up at a ninety degree angle, every muscle tense as he prepared to claw at his assaulter with his fingernails-

A woman stood at the foot of the bed. Older.

It didn't make him feel any more comfortable.

Amber eyes watched her slowly set down a cup of tea and sit down in a chair. He would be forced to get up and meet her halfway to drink it.

Something in his throat was constricting, and it took a moment to swallow it down so that his voice was as steely as ever. “... What do you want.”

She changed before him into something…

… something warm, that he didn't know had been empty inside of him his entire life but he suddenly felt so deeply, so intrinsic, so secure that he thought he might die without it. Some sort of paradigm shift as he stared at the woman.

Something deeply belonging that he hadn't felt ever before.

“... mom?” His voice cracked at the end. There was a huge swell of something he couldn't place because maybe it was unresolved trauma, maybe it was a drowning man being given oxygen, but tears were beginning to sting his eyes and she spoke:

“I tried everything to get to you, I'm so sorry-”

So…rry…?

Something..

Was

Snapping.

“I WAS FUCKING ABANDONED IN A GODDAMN DUMPSTER BY YOU AND YOU HAVE THE FUCKING AUDACITY TO HAVE ABANDONER’S REMORSE?! FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. I NEEDED YOU, I NEVER EVEN LEFT FUCKING SIROCCO AND IT TOOK YOU THIS FUCKING LONG TO FIGURE OUT WHERE I WAS?! HOW DARE YOU. HOW FUCKING DARE- TAKE YOUR FUCKING TEA-”

Aurelian flew towards the tea cup, and hurled it at the doppleganger’s head before his mind fully caught up to the deep outpour of rage and pain and tears that were swallowing him whole.

♡coded by uxie♡

Wyll · Nov 8, 2024

THE GEMINI.

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Gallin

~~Luc Cardin~~

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

...who am I...what is life...

OUTFIT

In bed...DND

LOCATION

HAVEN INN BEDROOM

MENTIONS

DAHLIA, ROSALINE, MALTKE, DEVANA.

INTERACTS

N/A

EVERLASTING — TAYLOR DAVIS.

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SEE THE WORLD

"Never feel bad for a blind man," he said finally; "for you see the world as it is, while I see it for what it could be."

CHAPTER THREE.

His body ached. Every muscle in his body throbbed, pulsing to a song of agony as he lay in bed, hoping to - by some miracle - sleep the pain away. A delirium-induced fallacy, to be sure. The pain denied him the ability to stay still, leaving him to toss and turn every which way in hopes of finding a spot that ached the least. However, no such solace presented itself to him.

He wondered what would happen if he simply told Devana that he was no longer interested in the training. Would she respect his decision and leave him alone to be plagued by the magnitude of his own weakness? Or would his cowardice only serve to fuel the fire burning in her sadistic heart? However, perhaps a more important question to ask was to himself: Do I want to stay this weak? This helpless?

He let the thoughts swim in his mind, only interrupted by suddenly being aware of a presence in the room with him. Instinct caused him to jump off the bed - adrenaline silencing the screaming pain in his body - and face whoever it was that had invaded his space. Devana? Magnus? The...innkeeper? The innkeeper? A look of confusion played across his face as he watched her pour the tea, relaxing out of the fighting stance that he had reflexively taken; evidence that his time with Devana was proving useful, even if he didn't appreciate it yet.

Tea would definitely have been useful in helping him deal with the pain he felt and he gave a smile of gratitude as he began making his way around the bed and toward the tea. Halfway through the motions of picking up the teacup when she asked her question. What do I fear the most? A little bit odd for a conversation starter. But perhaps it is normal here; I would hate to undermine another's culture. While he didn't want to disrespect what he figured was the norm around here, he also had no obligation to speak the truth.

"Fear?" He chuckled, the laugh flowing naturally and almost condescendingly. "I oppose some of the most powerful people in Solas in my papers. I've had to venture into conflict, into chaos, into the unknown, just for a few paragraphs. Fear lost its meaning to me a lo...a long...fear lost its..."

What's happening?

The space around him morphed to resemble the streets of Zenith, but it was clear that he wasn't actually in Zenith. If he was, then people would not be able to walk right through him like they were doing now. A vision? A vision indeed, but one that played with space and time like it was a yo-yo.

He was taken to the spot where he was buried, the only evidence he needed to know that, in this vision, he was dead. However, that was not the harrowing part. His eyes scanned the other tombstones. Beloved father, one read. A life well lived, came another. You will be missed, never forgotten. That one really stuck with him. However, his own tombstone was different from the rest.

Here lies Gallin Forestson

That was it. That was all it said. As if there hadn't been a single life touched by his living or his passing. More than that, every other tombstone was well manicured and decorated with flowers, candles and incense. His, however, was decorated with overgrown vines, reeds and spiderwebs; signs of a tombstone that had not been touched since it was placed there. The scene changed again.

This time, it showed his parents. His mother rejoiced as she carried a baby boy in her arms. "Welcome to the world, Luc," she began, but this was no flashback. "I know you will wear the name better than your murderous monster of a brother." He had been replaced. And there wasn't even the faintest shadow of remorse or sorrow on their faces. It was as though that had completely decided to forget his existence.

The scene changed again...and kept changing. One by one, scene by scene, it showed him everybody he had thought himself to be connected to, every life that had touched his. From the Countess, to Dahlia, to Rosaline, to Maltke, to people he considered friends, even to those that knew his secret. Each and everyone of them was living as though he had never existed, as if their interactions were nothing more than a detailed dream of his and his alone. Not only had he died, but he had died as Gallin Forestson, never getting to wear his own name again. And the world moved on as though he had never existed to anyone.

Tears streamed down his face as the scenes began replaying themselves, caught in an endless, inescapable, merciless loop.

The innkeeper appears again and he figures her to be yet another figment of this painful imagination. He looks down at the cup, considering her offer to make it all go away. His attention returns to the vision he is caught in, tempted by the offer to make the pain all go away. But no. He can't. He shakes his head - the throbbing headache he had been suffering from the crying intensifying with the motion. "No. No, this is my punishment for my crimes." He drops to his knees...lost, vulnerable broken.

"I deserve this".

♡coded by uxie♡

escapist · Nov 8, 2024

THE OLD-TIMER

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Maltke

Cycek

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Mumpish, apathetic, bitter

OUTFIT

Clean pants and a crisp, white shirt...did someone change his clothes?

LOCATION

Inn, in a cozy bedroom he thinks so

MENTIONS

Captain Lexus

INTERACTS

Innkeeper

Zeit by Rammstein maybe?
Idk, I'm bad at this

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Halleluiah by Mary Oliver (fragment)

"Halleluiah, I’m sixty now, and even a little more,
and some days I feel I have wings."

Chapter Three.

“I did not mean to disturb,” it softens the edges of suspicion, and the grays of her fabric seem to ripple like smoky water. “I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

In fact she disturbed Maltke. She had bothered him since their group had arrived to the Inn which felt too perfect for them to spend the night at, a warm shelter for the storm-torn, wind-molded crew. The Innkeeper with her flawless features, flowing hair and enchanting voice had disturbed Maltke as much as too gorgeous women disturbed his peace in usual, the gave him enough reason to think with his brain instead of any other organs. When they had been checking in, Maltke even had poured some salt in his palm and had thrown it behind himself in order to prevent harmful spirits and such from machinating.
The salt had landed on the Captain's stern face out of all, maybe that's why it hadn't worked...

Now as he was laying in a warm and uncomfortable bed, his body was clad in clothes that felt too fresh and clean to be his, Maltke could sense a distant warning coursing through his dull mind. The room around him - his room - was dimly lit, shadows were leaning and stretching along the wooden floor and walls even though the candles' flame stayed motionless in the silence. "What? Oh...I hate tea..." He murmured, words slided through his lips slowly, his mouth was filled with the tastes of the well-deserved sleep. "Ye can leave, Inkeeper..." He took a deep, heavy breath and was about to turn to his left side, towards the wall to continue what he had started in that dream which felt distant and unfathomable, a ridiculous adventure on a ship, called 'The Leviathan'...

“𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃? 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄?"

Strange situation to express curiosity... Thought Maltke but he wasn't the kind of man who could refuse someone's company. "Well..." He cleared his throat and stayed laying on his back. "When I speak about sea monsters before sleeping I always d-dream ab-abo-about t-th-them, ye s-see..."

His lips were trembling in the cold wind that suddenly rushed through him, biting in his exposed flesh. The cold remained and the wind kept blowing, making his head dizzy enough not to notice either when he had stood up or when his clothes - barriers between his body and the cruel nature - disappeared. He tried to curse but his voice died slowly, the wind boomed, tearing strands of tired hair out of his head cruelly, his lips were twitching hysterically and his throat felt dry, choking on the mere attempt of speaking.

The room has ceased to exist. As much his lone eye could see, Maltke stood on an endless, icy clearing, small snowflakes flew in the dark air, moking the old man who wasn't able to move, let alone fly like they. Above him, the sky was pitch black and pressed on the landscape with quiet power. The mute Maltke tried to blink once, twice, the darkness fell closer and closer to him until he only saw the black nothing. The panic, caused by his blindness did little to make his weak, wiry body move. In painful exertion something snapped in him. Then again. Blood vessels, tendons and muscles were torn, his bones were cracking. A mad musician used his aged, fragile body, playing on his strongs at a last, brutal concert that had no guests.

His heart beated last, the time arrived. The old pirate was about to die. The wind deafened him, his blind eyes were bulging out of his skull as he was suffering silently. All alone in the middle of a desolate landscape which shared only one similarity with his birthplace, Umra - its coldness.

He was about to die and whatever they say what a person thinks about in their last seconds, Maltke Cycek could only form one coherent, simple thought. Even if he couldn't see or hear a single thing, even if he was unable to speak, he was repeating the same line to himself, hoping that if it echoed enough in his empty head, his trembling lips and toothless mouth would be able to form the words:

Someone...please...someone...be here...with me...please...someone...

He felt he was begging endlessly as his last moment slowly arrived, when a soothing voice addressed him, his ears worked again. A small ring slided on his index finger, the cup felt warm against his skin, sweet tendrils of the tea's steam caressed his wrinkled face.

"Just drink and all the pain will go away..." The feminine voice purred close to his ear. Someone was there with him; Maltke Cycek felt himself the luckiest person now he had waited with dying enough to have some company. A toothy, idiotic grin appeared on his face as the illusion's canvas was damaged by the simplicity of the line the old pirate returned to life with. "Oi, I want to die happily...give me somethin' stronger than tea!"

[ ] MALTKE 𝐃𝐎ES 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀.

♡coded by uxie♡

Gao · Nov 8, 2024

CW: Lotsa tomato juice here. Aka blood. Ty.

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

WHAT THE FUCK

OUTFIT

GRANNY VEST

LOCATION

HAVEN INN

MENTIONS

ZAIRA

INTERACTS

HELGA

FOR THE DEPARTED — S. JAMES.

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YOUR JOURNEY IS

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

CHAPTER THREE PART II.

At some point he’d retired from speaking with Zaira and made his way back towards his own room. The hallways are silent naught but the padding of his shoes, and he spares a brief glance into the common room to find it equally as vacant.

Asleep is the basic conclusion he can draw from this peaceful quietude. Time must have slipped through his fingers when conversing with Zaira, but it's curiously intimate to turn only to find the innkeeper standing right in front of him, seemingly materialised from nowhere.

Tea, again. Rat does not say anything. She asks a question.

What do you fear most?

He sustains only a second of suspicious silence, weird thing to ask, but even that is enough to thaw the walls of what was once considered a fathomless mind.

Frost flowers across the mahogany like a bleeding white sea, a pale grave enclosing in only to unravel out in all directions. It freezes the red fluttering beneath Rat’s skin faster than any clotting congealment, and when a weight settles his shoulders he turns his head to realise he’d been silvered with layers of heavy ivory fabric, a matching hue to the skin stretched over skeletal fingers. He looks to the woman in front of him and finds her missing, remembers that horror and holiness coexist, and can feel the wrong kind of tension twist inside of him at the location unfolding before him.

There is every conceivable objection to finding himself in a place like this, held by quartz walls and matching robes like bleached stardust. He’d have to be beyond death to not recognise the mythos-making architecture of the Cascades, the devout glow that coats and calcifies the high ceilings canopied above— thankfully Rat wrote off the possibility of an afterlife long ago and knows this is no purgatory.

A circular room, pale as per Cascadian tradition. He’d spent enough time hiding away in quiet places to recognise it as one of the levels of the cathedral. It is only the familiar, yet eerie quiet that stays him from recoiling, an animal calculation to not make any sharp movements, makes it possible to heed the sense that this is not where he was, this is not where he should be. Reason affords him a careful step backwards like a glide across a frozen surface before his heel hits something solid.

The whole of his being is something that hurts, and a judgemental nose follows the bruising ankle to register the latest offender. Of all the problems haunting him, the lack of a grand piano on the ship had not been at the forefront of his mind. It is coated white as canine teeth, glossy as sleet, and Rat trades caution for a temporary cessation, a barely-there restraint to slide a hand over its cold body.

Beneath the theatrics of all that he did, rested the carcass of a dying child who could only watch others his age with envious loneliness. One encompassed with patience for divine judgement, believing there is nothing to wait for but an end. Everything he did he excelled, but for some reason the gods never wanted him.

There is a divergence of then and now, one eager to die and the other only eager for a slaughterhouse of their own creation. A heretic heir of the moon banished to walk the liminality of both sides, years spent trying to find a reason for this deficiency:

Maybe prayers were whispered wrong, hymns off-key, tenets of faith disobeyed, but the affliction does not end with pleading or confession, retching sickness all the same. Continues and continues till one day he finds himself completely hollow of that faith and full of that illness and sees that nothing changes. Myths can’t save you, every version of the lamb ends with a kill.

A scowl flickers his face, accompanied with familiar distaste for this place. How simply unfulfilling to wait around to die. It is this same malevolence that nurtures his infatuation with impudence. The heart is tricky, after all, must be owned or be owned in return, allowed Zaira to borrow it before he learned being a nameless pest can almost be on par with an unnoticed death. It is easier that way, heartbreak is always affiliated with loving things made of fragile flesh and blood.

He presses a finger down on a single ivory key, and welcomes the warm sound for what it serves: a small distraction in the ascetic white of the Cascades. Returns him to the odd reality of the situation; this is not real, but he can admire the nostalgic simplicity of whatever this is. It’s in this lapse of careful consideration when he first notices the razor-sharp flutter like a flickering light.

It feels wrong, that muted, traitorous tick. A break in the rhythms from somewhere in the cage of his ribs. Only a gentle knock of a missed pulse, but in his ears it is akin to a killing shot. Barely subsuming the want to curl in on himself before he reaches to the kindling of his aching chest, pressing fingers into the flat slated bones as if to knead the beating organ back into dormancy.

Like a pick to ice it spiders, the first crack to spill into something more. Feels the apocalypse, shaking fractures that are white-hot, a flash flood that spatters a cough of red, surging the mouth with copper aged to cellar perfection. Hurt starts violently in the base of his chest and radiates out. A silhouette of things to come flecks across the instrument’s angled lid where his trembling hand leans to keep upright.

A tightened jaw and slow exhale with the hope this will pass like it always does, the grey sickness that coats him like a pallid lacquer, the rearranging of meat and bones where each breath is raked through a violent broth. If this is not real, it does not account for the visceral mutilation of his insides. Two tracks of cardinal dash from nose to chin, and he roughly drags a snowy sleeve to wipe it away, watches as it blots into the material like ink. Muscles yearn for rest but it is only a distraction from the larger wound, from the mixture of what tastes like warm seawater and creeping chill slating across skin.

A vermillion surge pervades every cavity of his skull, a sour metallic pressing into ears, nose and eyes like sanguine ichor. An apprehensive stillness now shattered with his shaking, stumbling from the piano when he feels red bubbling at corneas and running to the jaw.

He can only swallow so much of the ruby foam before it makes him sick— sicker. Coughing up the red and the bile and feeling it boil in the interception of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut with both hands and keels to the floor on his knees, staunching the tantalus pit teeming to spill red teeth over the floor.

The thing about drowning is that there is no choice, lungs crave a surface to blossom with oxygen and the body forces them open to push you out. A crushing burst to invite water in, closing airways while taffy pink tissues dissolve into the red around it. Tidal waves continue to crash despite the throat failing to swallow, and what carmine swells now threatens to shatter through barriers of bone and dilute shards through artery and vein.

The room rushes back in when the shift in the air occurs, a presence sensed even with a blinking vision of thick red. She is seated at the piano bench with the teacup, silent as per prior arrival, but now having dissected and knows every bone of him by name.

“Listen,” her voice affects sangfroid, unperturbed, and he affects silence as best he can when crying blood onto his lap. He struggles for purchase towards her voice, palms sliding against the ruby wet of the marble floor. Unheard pleas for mercy remind him of the reality of religion but he clings to it all the same because there is nothing else; for the first time in a long time he is scared. Only when he manages to curl fingers into the edge of the innkeeper’s gray fabrics does the cacophony of his body fall still.

All that incessant noise tapering to a point of concentration of what is approaching outside the room. Listen, she’d told him, but he does not want to admit he can recognise the footfalls of his own brother.

A knock at the door and all of Rat’s reasoning of impossibility falters. It is not real, he knows this— he hopes this.

And if it is not? Is he willing to gamble that? He can be selfish as he is clever, but to overlook the possibility because of his arrogance is to chance Oskar witnessing the forfeit of his life.

He fears canines, a slow death, but this is a new terror unearthed from the deep. He has had to turn himself inside out, skinned and apathetic and dull to no longer feel it, but when he thinks of his younger sibling, even thinks of meeting Oskar’s troubled features, he knows it is not true at all.

Can feel himself change at the threat of being seen at his worst, incompetent and pitiful. Feels how he tries to desperately shapeshift into something else for them, self-harvesting. Blind grasping and trying to grate the blood from his face with fabric till his skin burns like a hive. There is no way to hide it, she knows this too, and the slope of the tea cup is nudged against the back of his hand.

His first thought was that the drink could be poisoned.

His second thought was that he always walks towards the horizon but never drowns.

The third thought and what he hopes will be his last for a long time, is that he won’t let Oskar see this.

He has never had faith in anything, perhaps not even himself.

He reaches for the cup.

[ 𝐗 ] 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀.

♡coded by uxie♡

AnimeGenork · Nov 9, 2024

MILO STAFFORD.

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Milo

Farmboy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

At Peace

OUTFIT

Suspender My Heart

LOCATION

Kuku's Room

MENTIONS

Kuku

INTERACTS

Helga, Strawhats

TAGS

N/A

DIRT — FLORIDA GEORGIA LINE.

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IT IS ONLY

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART TWO.

Although he would remember where he was and who he had been with moments later, Milo awoke quite disoriented and unsure of where exactly he was. His dreams had a way of dissociating him from reality, and since he tended to dream of the same things over and over again, it was always a minute or two before he could get his bearings. Let’s see… he’d been on the Leviathan… big storm… ah! He had it now. He was in the Haven Inn, and he’d been checking up on Kuku.

Who was… not here.

That didn’t seem right.

Milo peered around in the dark, trying to discern where his friend was. He’s distracted by the clink of dinnerware, and he’s embarrassed to realize the innkeeper is there. A flush skitters across his face as he wipes at the drool at the corner of his mouth, hoping it’s far too dark for her to realize he is anything but a peaceful sleeper, even with the happiness of his dreams.

“I did not mean to disturb. I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

He’s never really been a tea drinker, they didn’t have much of the stuff in Freymoor. What little he’d had had never compared to a fresh glass of milk. But his mother had long taught him never to turn down hospitality, and so he smiles graciously and inclines his head. “Thank you very much, ma’am.”

In a swift movement, he stands, stretching his arms above his head. The fatigue is less than it was, thanks to the sleep, but he knows that after this conversation, he will have to sleep again. As soon as he figures out where Kuku scurried off to, that is. Why was the innkeeper unconcerned about the wrong person being in this room? Then again, maybe she wasn’t aware of who exactly was in each, and she’d just heard him talking in his sleep… yeah… that was probably it. He had a tendency to mumble all sorts of nonsense while in dreamland.

Just as he was about to accept the cup of tea, he paused. The innkeeper’s mouth had opened again, with a strange question floating in the air between them:

“What do you want most in the world? More than anything else?”

The answer is easy: to be a pirate. That is the response he’s always supposed to give in situations such as this. No one wants to hear the tragedy of a boy who lost his friends twenty years ago, the boy who grew into a lonely man trying to save his family’s farm. Even in Freymoor, he had stopped talking about it, since everyone there knew what he really wished for. Being the lone survivor was a weight upon his heart. He knew what he wanted more than anything, but he knew it was impossible.

Yet the room shifts around him, and sunlight breaks upon the fields before him. He is back in Freymoor, his home, his village, and his eyes widen at the sight before him.

A boy with dark, curly hair and the widest grin imaginable. He wears a straw hat and almost vibrates with the enthusiasm in his veins. Bruno, the captain of the Strawhat Pirates. But rather than six years old, he’s now twenty-six as well, stuffing his face full of the picnic in front of him. Even as an adult, he’s a bottomless pit, and Milo chuckles at the sight before him, at the crumbs on his face and stains on his shirt.

Sleepy as ever, Arata stands with his hands in his pockets, nodding off like a horse. It warms Milo’s heart that nothing seems to have changed about him, although he catches the first mate muttering something about rum. How he manages to remain so still is a mystery, but Milo knows that he would burst into action the moment he’s needed.

Abby is drawing on Arata’s face, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she crafts a handlebar mustache with her pen. Though she’s shorter than the rest of the crew, her personality might just be the largest, with a heart as wide as the vast oceans themselves. Strands of her hair catch the sunlight, lighting her up like the angel she was as a child.

Reclined on the picnic blanket, Gabe is laughing at everything going on around him. Lazier than even Arata, but loyal to the core, his eyes twinkle as he meets Milo’s gaze and winks. His arms are folded behind his head, ever the picture of leisure. The fields almost seem jealous of his liveliness, the grass constantly reaching for him as it stirs in the wind.

Milo could cry right then and there. Of course, he’s dreamed of growing up with his friends, and their ghosts had always seemed to age with him whenever he visited their graves. But to see it before his eyes, to be able to poke Arata’s cheek, wrap an arm around Abby’s shoulder, nudge Gabe’s ribs, and pat Bruno’s back… this is more than a dream. It’s the reality he’s always wanted. And as he sits on the picnic blanket surrounded by the best friends he’s ever had, his heart grows and swells and fills with more love than he ever thought possible.

It starts with Gabe, elbowing his side before throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Our main man Milo!”

Bruno slips under Milo’s left arm, always content with seeming small (to throw enemy crews off, naturally) but probably just loving the affection. “What a great crewmate!”

“Hear hear,” mumbles Arata, leaning back into Milo’s chest, presumably for a nap.

“We love you, Milo,” Abby says, her arms appearing around his neck as she leans her head against his.

“You four are the best,” Milo replies, letting a singular tear fall down his cheek as he somehow manages to balance the embraces of his four grown-up friends.

“I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted, if you drink.”

The innkeeper. Ah. Yes. So that’s what this is. Milo’s smile turns sad as the vision, or whatever this is, turns a bit dimmer for him. Because of course he can’t have them back, not when he saw them die. Not when he buried them alongside their families and accepted condolences for the past twenty years. That’s far too much time for a miracle like resurrection. Which was why he’d resigned himself to not seeing them until he, too, passed on.

Shaking his head, Milo eyes the innkeeper over his shoulder. “That wouldn’t be fair to them. They’re at peace, and they visit me in my dreams. I don’t need to ruin that for them.”

And thus does the farmboy decline the tea.

♡coded by uxie♡

CrimsonInk · Monday at 2:14 AM

THE RAVEN.

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LUCREZIA

CAMBRIDGE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

HURT, UPSET

OUTFIT

I MUST MATCH THE INTERIOR

LOCATION

HAVEN INN ROOM

INTERACTIONS

HELGA

TAGS

MENTIONS EVE @floral

LULLABY — JAVIER NAVARRETE.

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IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN

Eve showed more courage than Adam when the serpent offered the forbidden fruit. She knew that there was something better than paradise.

CHAPTER THREE.

Lucrezia was unsure when she had dozed off in her chair. Her eyes fought to open to the dim light of her Inn room. The mix of burgundy and yellow made her hazy, her body feeling weak and grotesque from sleeping at such an angle. It was unkind to sleep in this position. Not purposefully, but while she was speaking to a guest. Rising slowly the frightened and timid bird who was sleeping on her bed appeared no more. Her leaving was not the strangest part. Something felt off. Her Dolores senses were tingling.

The click of her door caught her by surprise and the woman whipped her head back, clutching tightly to the arm of her chair. How did she not notice her door opening, let alone the overly kind Innkeeper coming in with a cart of tea. The wrinkles of her face were as elegant and poise as her smile.

“I did not mean to disturb,” she said, “I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

Taking in a deep breath to calm her nerves she gave the woman a smile back, nodding in agreement to the sight of tea.

“Why, you’re too kind madam. Tea does sound wonderful,” Lucrezia said, though weary of the woman as she still felt unsettled by her presence, “did you happen to see another woman leave my room by any chance? In any duress?”

No answer.

Nothing.

It was as if her question was never asked.

Instead, the woman's lips curled into a smile that even Lucrezia was not aware of the sinister guise behind it.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃? 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄?

Lucrezia felt a certain light-headedness that was starting to become too comfortable to her liking. The room moved, departing from its burgundy color to a more lavender gray color. The lighting dimmed more ominously, in a way that it felt reminiscent of her own home in Zenith. A small whimper echoed to her right and turning her head, her heart practically fell out of her ribcage. A bassinet. A lovely and beautiful bassinet. The cot was a dark walnut color with ornate vine designs all around it, engraved so well detailed and intricate at the base. The headboard engraved with a cursive letter “C” for Cambridge and around it were what she could guess to be ravens. The rich colored purple canopy draped over it was the perfect touch to something so small. To her it was everything she selfishly desired.

Another whimper and soft cry echoed from the cot and Lucrezia did not hesitate to stand, stumbling over her own feet weakly. It was then how deep in disbelief she was that there truly was something laying in here. Something she never thought to see the day. A baby. Except, it was not just any baby. It was her baby. Her brows furrowed at the thought. Her hand reached down hesitantly lifting the drapes to show their face. Rose colored cheeks, fair skin, blue eyes – it was nothing, but a healthy baby. Only her heart was breaking from the sight. She should feel serendipity, joy, but no. Nothing close to those emotions came to be. While her desire for one remained strong, Lucrezia knew better.

Gently her own hand rested on the child's cheek. The sight of their little hand holding her thumb tightly brought tears to her eyes. Her tears fell down her cheeks with air restricting themselves to breath in that baby scent. Her lips quivered trying to gather herself back to reality, whichever reality it may be. Deep in her heart she knew it was not this child's fault. Real or not, it was not their fault.

The sound of liquid pouring into a cup helped her come back from her thoughts. That subtle swish of the spoon clattering against the dainty porcelain made her cringe.

“You can have everything you ever desire, just drink,” the wrinkled woman said.

Words that sound so promising and hopeful were laced with disappointment and lies. The reality was that Lucrezia Cambridge could not have borne a child of her own. No matter how much she begged the Gods, the Oracles, the reaper himself, it was not meant to be. Despair riddled in her expressions letting out a shaky breath.

“This is a cruel joke you are making, madam,” Lucrezia rasped, looking back with disdain, “you have no right, no right at all! You reek of misfortune, and I will not allow you to use the life of an innocent to deceive me. I refuse your offer. Now, why did you really come here?”

Taking the cup, she poured it to the floor with the cup falling from her hand. This time she never allowing her eyes to leave the other woman's. Instead, she was searching for that darkness within her.

[X] LUCREZIA DOES NOT DRINK THE TEA

♡coded by uxie♡

qunqun · Monday at 6:59 PM

THE CHIMERA.

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Dante

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Drowned rat

OUTFIT

Fancy drowned rat

LOCATION

Bar

MENTIONS

INTERACTS

Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito

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Icarian Cloud.

To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils

Chapter Three.

Once Dante retired to his room, he decided to stay up reading, going into a short reverie of studying. From the periphery, he heard a soft knock, which he opened for an innkeeper.

“I brought a spot of tea,” she said, and Dante let her in.

They were in his living room, his father was in the middle of a book. His brothers were eating dinner still, there was a meal on his lap. Auntie Helga was knitting in the corner. It was warm. He was loved.

A steaming tea cup was next to him.

“How are your studies?” His father asked.
“Good.” He… felt strangely exasperated by the question.
“You know we always have a place at the company for you if you ever want to pursue law again.”
“I know.”
“It’s a stable career, stable income-”
“I know” The classic annoyed response to someone being questioned about pursuing a career in the arts.

The silence was easy.

“I heard that you’ve been talking to the Beatrice girl, you like her?” His mother said.
“She’s good for the family.”
“But do YOU like her” His mother emphasized with this undercurrent of worry that made him feel bad for his initial flippancy.
He paused, he felt safe to respond honestly. “... No not really. I have a boyfriend.”
“YOU DO?! Why haven’t we met him?!” His mother shouted in a much more characteristic manner
“I didn’t know that you were interested.” He felt amused, rather than shrinking back like he usually did though.
“Do you hear him?! Of course we’re interested in who you’re dating how long have you been-”
“Four years?” The response, though, was sheepish when faced with a mother’s wrath
“And you haven’t put a ring on it? Idiot. I’ll start planning the wedding-”
“No you don’t need to do that”
“I’ll have to meet him.” His father interjected with this grave absolutism.
“Stars-” Dante rolled his eyes at the inquisition.
“He’s only acting protective because he cares, Danny.” Auntie said from her corner knitting, and so the matter was dropped.

The room lapsed into a silence that would’ve been unnatural if not for the casual care that made up the room.

“I love you, Danny.” His father said.
“What?” Dante blinked as he took in the scene.
“It’s good to say it every now and then. I hope you know that I love you and that I’m proud of you.”
Dante just stared at his food. “Yeah. Yeah. I love you too. Thanks.”

“Your tea is beginning to get cold, you should drink it.” His mother said.

Dante’s hand paused over the tea as he picked up the cup, no fear of retribution for picking it up improperly. No cares in the world. “What’s the type?”

His father just smiled in return. They were smiling. At him. His heart was hammering in his chest with the biggest rush of endorphins he’d ever had in his life.

“Everything you ever wanted” Something whispered in his ear.

Want-?

Did he want this?

He didn’t…?

Aunt Helga looked genuinely annoyed with his incredible display of indecision.

“Don’t you want this?”

Did he want? What did he want? Wasn’t this the way-

His parents were just too busy for him. They loved him. They did. This was-

“Stars, Dante just drink the fucking tea-” His dad(?) said, and Dante grabbed the tea and immediately downed the entire thing in one gulp under order.

♡coded by uxie♡

AnimeGenork · Monday at 9:02 PM

MADELINA VOLKOVA.

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Maddie

Decoy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Raging Against the Dying of the Light

OUTFIT

Dainty But Not Royal

LOCATION

Her Room

MENTIONS

Tallulah, Penelope

INTERACTS

Helga

TAGS

N/A

DEAR MARIA, COUNT ME IN — ALL TIME LOW.

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A PRINCESS

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART TWO.

Madelina barely had the mental fortitude to sleep, much less to get into her nightgown. She’d been pacing for the past few hours, replaying her interaction with the thief over and over again. Now why was it that she kept running into people, only to just as soon ruin any chance at a friendship with them? How was she going to make it through this voyage if she could barely talk to anyone without them running away?

Then again, wasn’t it pointless, trying to make friends? She would eventually have to go back to the palace and play the part of princess anyway, forever locked up in an ivory tower until the day the king or the princess herself decided she had fulfilled her duty to Solas. Not that Maddie had ever had a choice about this, about any of it. Doomed to be a pawn, especially in the game of life. Sigh.

There was a knock at her door, and she jumped. Oh no, had she kept someone up with all her pacing? “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to cause such a noise—” she began as she opened the door.

The innkeeper merely smiled, brushing past her through the doorway and setting a teapot on a small table. “I did not mean to disturb. I brought a spot of tea.”

Oh, how kind of her! Madelina let out a relieved breath that she hadn’t been too noisy with all her pacing and panicking. “That’s very kind of you, thank you.” She wrung her hands, wanting to offer her assistance in getting the tea ready, but the innkeeper seemed to have it well in hand. So she stood there, just waiting.

That is, until the woman spoke again: “What do you want most in this world? More than anything else?”

Her response clogged her throat. I’m not allowed to want anything. I don’t deserve it. She cast her eyes down, not sure how to say those words aloud to a stranger. But she didn’t need to.

“Hey. Look at me.”

A finger nudged under her chin, tilting it up until her eyes had no choice but to follow the direction she was being led.

Wait. “How…?”

The guard smiled, his gray eyes twinkling even in the dim lighting. “I could hear you pacing. What’s the matter? Couldn’t sleep?”

“You’re… you’re here…” Madelina felt her heart swell with a happiness she wasn’t used to. Her heart almost ached from the joy she felt seeing him again. The only person she’d ever truly befriended in her twenty-three years of living. Not to mention, the first person she’d ever loved. “I’m so sorry.”

“None of that. I’m here now. Sorry it took me so long.” His hands cupped her face, and his forehead lightly touched hers. “We’re free now.”

Free. Madelina lips timidly curved into a smile at the idea. How anyone could love a girl like her, with no personality or identity of her own? Yet he had found a way, looking past the princess façade and seeing her for more than that. Maybe even for who she really was, whoever that may be.

“You can have all that you desire, if you drink the tea.”

The innkeeper’s voice rattled her, and she stared at the still-smiling guard before her. Her mouth twisted in a grimace. So that’s what this was. A ploy. A trick. Some sort of means to take her away. Just like the day the Kingsmen came into her home and took her away to the palace. This was the decoy role all over again.

Something in Madelina snapped. She was sick and tired of being treated like a doll, a puppet, nothing more than a plaything.

SMACK! She slapped the guard in the face, barely noticing as the vision disappeared. Madelina was not used to anger, and so she wasn’t quite sure how to control it. Her vision went fuzzy, but apparently she made her way to the innkeeper. She would not remember any of this later, that much she knew for sure. “I am NOT your toy!” she shouted, and she dove at the old lady.

Very demure. Very proper. All animal.

♡coded by uxie♡
The Cat
(Affectionately named "Parrat.")

If Parrat was able to speak the human language, he would be able to tell all the hoomans around him that they were being foolish. Why were they frozen in wake of the weird-smelling lady? Was she giving them catnip? He could go for some catnip. That storm had been really scary, and this place was really odd and smelled funny. What was going on here?

Then, before he knew it, the strange lady was crouching before him, reaching out to pet him. He cowered back, ears flattening to his head. His singular front paw scrabbled a bit, trying to balance him, and the woman simply smiled and set a bowl before him. Though he didn’t quite understand the sounds coming out of her mouth, he implicitly understood that he was welcome to the bowl’s contents.

Sniffing warily, Parrat approached the bowl, eyes widening at the sight of the catnip within. Purrs erupted from his throat as he dipped his head toward it and took a leaf into his mouth. It was mere minutes before all of the catnip was gone, and Parrat let out a meow that was a deeper pitch than usual.

“Good kitty,” the old woman said, and Parrat’s eyelids drooped as he stumbled off.

Why wasn’t he on the ocean, again…?

Dedicated to that joke Nifty made.

Coding by AnimeGenork

Gao · Monday at 10:51 PM

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

IS THIS THERAPY.
I DON'T WANT IT.

OUTFIT

SNEEKY SLEEKY

LOCATION

HAVEN INN BEDROOM

MENTIONS

MAGNUS, DOLORES.

INTERACTS

OL' HELGA!

RUN BOY RUN — WOODKID.

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HERETIC BOY,

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

CHAPTER THREE PART II.

A consolation prize to his narrow escape, he’d been rubbing a thumb against the declaratory trenches rented through his palms as if to knead them out of view. There isn’t much he can do now, the grated skin aggravated like red clay, but there are not plentiful distractions to soften the sting of mortification that he almost just died. He drags the back of his restless hand against his neck to dismiss the beads of blood roosting.

He’d waited till Magnus had withdrawn like a waning moon, till footsteps had faded into the distance. Waited till he was sure the hunter would not return before he allowed his back to slide down the wall. Like a wilted thing, seated on the ground with the marvel of gravity is where he can evaluate his options without the nauseous gradients of weak knees.

A mild inconvenience of his pact with Magnus: he does not know anything about the Blood Warden.

Another mild inconvenience of his situation: he does not know why that lady is sitting there—

THAT LADY IS SITTING THERE.

He is defined only by a flinch when he sees the innkeeper nestled smugly on a chair as if she had no need to be anywhere else. Fingers prop a steaming porcelain cup of tea, and her eyebrows raise a fraction in casual greeting.

Are you kidding me.

Is hello outdated? Did nobody in this fucking inn know how to be normal? Quite pointedly does his gaze affix the intruder, too alarmed to take a moment to question when she’d entered without him noticing. His limbs slowly unfold themselves from their defensive recoil. It seems the freaks are afoot, and if any others drift uninvited to his room he may consider leaving the inn to sleep outside.

But a single mother never rests.

“What do you want most in this world? More than anything else?”

“A nap.”

He is not afforded enough grace to even climb his way off the floor when he feels the warmth. Blurry shapes sharpen into the dappling of fawn pelt, and eyes are forced away from a bright scene mottled with sunlight. It hums soft and golden and what worries plagued him now feel slow like amber molasses. The kind of warmth that coats honey and settles into even the darkest corners, the stir of interest is waking from between ribs and his hands lower to gaze out over this new unfamiliarity.

The abruptness of the inn dissolving has ensnared his attention— he’s left standing in a small room at a kitchen counter, mid-slice into the soft anatomy of a floury loaf. Wide doors are left yawned open to a pavilion, a shoreline of emerald grass circled with trees and stippled with wildflowers is flayed with thawing spring frost. Thick is the smell of warming earth, and in this sea of viridescence is the isle of a mangy black dog, sleepily lazily with one paw twitching as it dreams. Nobody else wanted it, he knows the types he is drawn to, and must suppress a child's urge to go pat it awake.

For the swell of a moment he is elsewhere, the black basins of his eyes bitten with the same temptation of Eden's apple. In the wishing well of his chest he knows there are places he hasn’t been where he already belongs, and his heart has always been so offensive with its greedy demands. How is he meant to look away after he has seen this? After he has felt this? It reminds him of a home he has never had, and he has done nothing his whole life but chase this impossibility.

There is a bowl of clementines, the countertops are smooth wood, the golden crust beneath his hand cracks and splits open once the knife hits the soft pale core of the bread. Reality is exposed to a gentle boil, the enormity and greed of what he wants has always disgusted him.

The jury is still out on whether this dream should matter anymore, and he can feel how his throat closes with want at such an unfair offer. There is nothing more shameful than being witnessed in the act of wanting something you cannot have; perhaps that is the residue of Dolores, but how fitting he sees no particular right in deserving something like this— or her.

He can discern a hum of conversation from a nearby room, the pull of a chair as someone he cares for settles. He pauses to wonder— whose laughter hurts the most? The cold of it sinks his skin like a balm, and he thinks she might be here. She— with the sharp eyes and softer laugh, he can almost feel what it’s like to lean his head on her shoulder.

“Is she here?” It’s quieter than he expects. Helga is silent but her eyes have not left him. Scrounging something from the expanding cavity of his chest.

“No.” She answers eventually. The way she sits reminds him of his mother, elbows on table and something stern behind the jaw. “You do not want that.”

It strikes him like a blow and he must turn his face back to the window to temper the wince, a collision of relief and regret all at once. He’s ready to argue like a hiss of fragmented glass but something stops him. He has wanted Dolores from the moment he saw her, but the truth is he doesn’t want her to return that feeling. Not in Zenith, not on The Leviathan, not in this place where belonging is easy and the sun is kind, where he is whole enough to simply exist.

Dolores isn’t here because he has always known he doesn’t deserve her. He is not willing to sentence her to a life with him. He is not willing to sentence anyone to that.

More of a wound than a man, he did not ask to be like this, but one needs roots to establish an anchor in soil; needs a home; needs so much more to become someone else. More than anything, he’d like to shed what he is and become someone new, but the only way he can achieve a slither of this feeling is by disappearing and reappearing elsewhere.

His yearning dashes about aimlessly like the mania of a moth around candle flame, and that is all he has ever really been. Unwanted filth with an appetite for creating mistakes and running away when it gets too hard. It’s easier to drain the pond than see the aftermath when the silt settles, and this cowardly fear is what binds the meat and sinew of his bones together and travels through each league of land and sea that he flees across.

It might not be his fault, the sins of his blood or inferior status of his family name, but it is his insecurity that damns him nonetheless. Blossoms and eats, hammers to get in till self-animosity eclipses the care given by others and he can see no other option but to leave to benefit their lives. He knows he is not a good person, no home will amount to the fact there is no sanctuary under this skin. He has not earned a peaceful epilogue, still has something he can’t abandon waiting back at the inn, all that shattered land like a drawerful of bones.

That swollen stone in his chest, the hatred is enough to alienate him from his own desires.

What use is all of this if others are still burning? Lay the crimes of monarchy in a line and see they are all weapons scabbed with rust. Not enough space to showcase the skulls, burned townships, the slaughter and extortion; he doesn’t belong in spring, only the season of loathing. She has pulled what he wants like a dripping ribbon but overlooked the priority of his anger.

She offers the drink towards him, but there are things one can't learn over a cup of tea. Cannot learn how to exist without feeling like a burden, cannot learn how to stop trying to avoid abandonment by leaving first, cannot learn how to not be embarrassed that he is alive.

Ren backs away a step, then another, and allows the exile of the corner to bleed back into the edges of his features. He is not frightened, but he’s spun with an avoidance that habitually infects and consumes. He sees what he wants and must shy away because when given the opportunity to linger in paradise— with his mother, with Dolores, with this place —he’s sure he’ll bleed misfortune all over it. Track it in like mud or blood and ruin it just by existing. Mistakes are all he has ever been good for.

She stands from the table as if to beckon him back inside from a world tilting in dark sleep.

Slowly he slides down the wall and curls into himself to take up as little space as possible, emulating the nearness he craves without being a burden. The only indication he is still there is how the scene of burnt honey mirrors off planes of coal iris. He will not take this paradise, would rather hide away in the eaved shadows; maybe this is punishment, maybe this is the only place he can be, slathered to the corner like tar and smoke.

He does not want to ruin this place, too.

[ 𝐗 ] 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀.

♡coded by uxie♡

qunqun · Monday at 11:37 PM

The Persian

Grog.

A creature of abandonment, the first vestigial memories you have are of warm arms, soft cherubic eyes. He bangs against a door and thrusts you into the hands of HIM.

The despised.

Wet coats your fur of spit, you bite him in the leg when he tries to kick you.

He tastes of something disgusting and not prey but the howling fights makes you feel well.

One day he grabs you and throws you into something dark. The landing is rough and sudden upon stable ground.

You awaken to a firelit room and dark melancholic eyes.

Wide yellow eyes meet dark ones, the bed you now sleep in is warm, the pillows beneath you unhappy with a fourth addition to the overcrowded arrangement

But it is comfortable and pleasant without worrying about the monster spitting at you.

You spend your days in warm idle luxury upon cool stone table. Your new owner never lays a hand, and feeds you small scraps. When feeling particularly active, which is virtually never, you idle away your days chasing mice to play with.

This small and quiet slice of heaven must be nice, you think some days when the busy schedule of sleep and food are not haunting your movements.

It is nice.

This little serenity would never last. The world rolls and turns and creaks in the way that you never thought it could. Surely this is an earthquake tearing the world apart at its core, a catastrophe of the highest degree.

Your owner smells vile as he is bent on all fours over a wooden bucket.

A woman comes in, face twisted in a haughty sneer. You do not like her. As taught by your previous owner, if you were able to, you would spit upon her. Doesn't she know that the kind man is currently dying? The world is in perilous shattering danger and she is annoyed by a lack of care. Alas, as you have been taught, humans are inherently selfish creatures not to be trusted besides the currently ill man who you wish to rub against in comfort.

You kinda hope that she dies before you.

But death does not come for any four occupants, and your owner claws his way out of the vessel that has been your world for most of your life.

The world is, indeed, much bigger than you could've ever comprehended.

Held under the gentle owner’s arms, he carries you to a small room. The bed is softer, but he does not rest upon it. Instead he lays upon a rug.

You do not understand, but he is warm and he is safety, so you lay upon him. Humans, after all, are suitable pillows in lieu of heating pads.

The door clicks and you awaken, a small noise of surprise tearing itself from your throat as a woman looms over you. She is perhaps more wrinkle than human, the first elder of the species you've met and exceedingly ugly.

Perhaps the haughty woman from before was better after all. But the elder looks at you with her nose wrinkling in disdain. She creeps over to the bedside table and places a teacup down, rousing your human from his slumber with a small noise of confusion.

He is still, and his face somehow reflects the color of your fur as a horror beyond his comprehension unfolds. For the first time, you see fear and confusion and deep grief within him.

You decide that this hag is a hideous creature beyond the human realm of understanding. Your fur goes on end and you begin to hiss.

He is standing, throwing you to the ground with a disgraceful tumble. He is grasping. The way he's breathing is becoming faster. He is panicking in some fantastic way that does not make sense as he attempts to flee. You cannot move in your terror, at this incomprehensible horror that is unfolding. His shoulders slam into the glass behind him. There is a terrible awful cracking noise. His eyes widen in surprise.

This breaks you from your reverie as Warmth goes tumbling out the window, you race after him. The stubby legs you own insufficient to break his fall or be of much use.

Your protector is gone.

Every hair on end, your back arch, you hiss at this creature, this abomination, this eldritch monster. She strides forward, and you bite and claw at her ankle like it is the last thing you do, because perhaps it may be.

Coding by

AnimeGenork

Nifty · Thursday at 10:14 PM

THE PRODIGAL.

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Cadence

VALIENTE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

[Sus Slurping Noises]

OUTFIT

Purr

LOCATION

Haven Inn??

MENTIONS

Pookie Helga

INTERACTS

N/A

The Poodle — Kabaret Sybarit

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Orchid Pools

lit with excitement as you take your first step. One foot after the other, you dance between the fine line of liberty and bondage.

CHAPTER THREE, PART II.

“I did not mean to disturb.”

“No, not at all,” she squeaked a surprise gasp. After all, how could she refuse the very individual who provided the whole party with enough food and bed for the night? They must have enough money to accommodate them all, and who wouldn't want to be connected with a person of that sort of wealth? However, the grey dress they adorn themselves with could use a crumb of embroidering to liven up the overall ensemble. Jewellery wouldn’t hurt as well to alleviate the focus from those wrinkles.

With a finger covering her lips and judgemental eyes scrunching at the sight of their boring grey dress, she almost turned the poor creature away. Still, since they were kind enough to provide Cadence with a stable ground to prance upon, it would be bad etiquette to turn such a lovely individual away.

Honestly, she was getting rather tired of the overwhelming cons of travelling via sea; the unpredictable roll of the waves had made practising ballet rather tricky. The skittering of four-legged creatures along the timber skirting boards, with what she could only assume were rats, often left her feeling unsettled most nights. The seafaring life is no place for a lady; that much became clear for her, oh but the stunning men and the alluring women on board have almost made it possible for her to forget her position in society… Mmm, positions.

Anyways, before she could dive herself headfirst into a land of fantasy, she must first delight the grey servant before her with a conversation.

“Please, come in,” she welcomed her with an open smile, urging Smiley Mcgee to take a seat and make herself comfortable. “But I do hope you brought me something to compensate.” She lightheartedly jested, knowing too well that if she were to joke about a topic, it wouldn’t be about herself or her beloved gifts.

“I’ve brought a spot of tea.” With their iconic smile plastered, Cadence’s attention was swiftly shifted to the item they carried.

OH GOODIE! THEY DID! Cadence grinned in appreciation.

“𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃? 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄?”

“I-” A stutter escaped from her rosy lips—a rather intimate question for a mere stranger to ask. The type of question she would repeatedly refuse to divulge, even to her closest friend, her father. It didn’t take long for Cadence’s astonishment to transform into a pathetic excuse for deflection. “Pfft-” She abruptly burst into laughter; it was as if Helga had become Solas's funniest jester.

As the final remnants of her chortling dissolved in the chilling, silent air, she found herself plunged into complete darkness. What mystery does it hold, and why does it invoke nothing and everything simultaneously in the human mind? The monsters that lurk behind its nocturnal shades and the absence of all colour seep every emotion it holds into absolute numbness. Darkness is absolutely her most despised. So, when the reaper's cloak graciously visited her in her quarters, it became easier for her to sing an anthem built upon her dreamy mind.

“Okay! Alright! I’ll tell!” She desperately wailed. When nothing gave the lady an answer, the anthem her mind desperately sang to lull her indolence to bed began to cry out. “I've had this silly dream for a while. I often dream of performing to the masses, like my mother did. I hope to carry her legacy someday. There! Are you happy now?” Her confession felt like it all came from a single breath. It was as if desperation had dug its claws deep into her jaw, and a secondary force had decided to grip her voice and spout her deepest thoughts.

The floor beneath her began to rumble, and the sudden sensation made the heiress lose her footing and tumble backwards. When the pads of her fingers hit the rough texture of sand, she knew there and then where she was.

Home. Her heart ached for it.

“Sand?!” Her disbelief was shoved out of her throat. “No, no, no. NO! This isn't what I've asked for.” The heiress snapped. With brows furrowed enough to rival the innkeeper's own set of wrinkled smiles, she threw the clump of sand away in a feeble strive to break through the mirage. To perhaps shift it to her favour and enter into a mirage she thought she yearned for. The scent of roses thrown beneath her feet, blinding lights, and the echoes of merriment. That was what she wanted. Not darkness and sand.

A lone candle flicked into life. It illuminated a giant golden-framed mirror. Turquoise, amber and amethyst silks adorn its side. Curiosity won as she rose from her feet and slowly approached the intricate piece of glass. The mimic that stood before her was…

“Is that…” She swallowed her conviction.

Finely aged mauve orbs stared back at her with a grace and majesty she still had yet to achieve. It’s her. With perfectly ironed noble attire, hair healthily glistening under the flick of the amber light, and an expression hardened by age and experience, the mimic perched before her is what her heart deeply desires. With the facial structure she obtained from her mother’s genes and her father’s piercing indigo eyes, it is precisely the image she envisioned to grow up be. Enthralled by this picture of her, it took the heiress long before she realised an opening had revealed itself. The golden glow peeking behind the portière lured her like a moth lusting for the life and warmth it brings. What other goodies could this magical experience bring her?

Lifting the curtains and emerging from its shadowed cocoon, the sight itself took her breath away. It's the Colosseum she deeply treasured. Amethyst banners line its outer edge, and sanguine stains its magnificent sandstone platform. From its deepest foundations to the lilac fabrics that act as shades, every single individual from her bloodline had contributed something to building their legacy. The legacy that awarded the family with value, money, and authority. And Cadence is just like any other member of her family.

Through the lens of her heart’s desire, she possesses her family’s fountain of wealth, glossy, untainted reputation, and sheer influence. It is her true purpose. And it is the very thing she has been denying herself since boarding the Leviathan.

Upon her entrance, she was quickly drowned by the neverending echoes of applause and jubilation. An assortment of flowers soon decorated her feet. However, the heiress’ focus was far from those pretty blossoms. From the distance, she could see her parents applauding alongside those present and seated in the arena. Proud smiles decorated their lips. A pang began to let its existence known as lilac eyes basked upon her parent’s contentment.

It is a transference of power from the viscount to the new viscountess. This is her heart’s plea.

“This is my future, right?! This, whatever the price is, I'll pay it!” Hunger clawed itself out from her throat. An eager smile stretched across her lips. Cadence extended her arms, a motion typically seen before embracing a loved one. At that moment, it was as if she was embracing a new beginning (or end because Nifty is still suspicious ngl).

A single cup of tea then manifested before her. She knew what must be done to win her future.

The heiress’ limbs reached for the tea. Hands trembling, however, it wasn’t fear that shook her nerves. No, the excitement simply electrifies every particle that flows through her. Thrill and chance are her family’s trade after all.

With a pinky raised and fingers appropriately wrapped around its small handle, Cadence Valiente drinks the tea.

♡coded by uxie♡

WANT

I CHUG THAT MFER

♡coded by uxie♡

floralmoon · Thursday at 11:26 PM

.
.

XI.
the soothsayer

armağan "kader" kaplan.
mood
unnerved

location
The Haven Inn

interactions
Helga

tags
N/A
TW: parental death

Rustling noises come from across the room, causing Kader to stir in bed. They had turned in relatively early the previous night, trying to regain some energy for when it was time to return to the ship. The noises continued, as though whatever it was in the room wanted attention,

“I did not mean to disturb,”

A voice creeks out from the darkness, sending a slight panic through Kader as they sat up straight in bed, turning on the table lamp with a quickness. As the light flooded the room, an elderly woman appeared. It was the inn's receptionist, though the two had not spoken previously, they had recognized the long grey hair from when the crew checked in.

“I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

What time was it? It must have been either very early, or late based on the fact that the sun was still laid at rest behind the horizon. Kader gave the woman a slight nod, accepting the tea from the stranger as to not seem rude. The woman continued to silently sit in the chair, only the sound of the spoon tapping the sides of the cup could be heard in the room. While this wasn't the most odd interaction Kader had experienced, it was definitely high on the list.

"Such hospitality to personally bring your guests some tea, but what is the reason?" Suspicions arise, ringing alarm bells in their head as the drowsiness begins to wear off. The elderly woman had not moved, remaining in absolute silence, so much for getting answers.

“What do you fear most in this world? More than anything else?”

Silence continued to fill the room as Kader processed the question, the two had never spoken before, yet here she was in their room unannounced, asking questions that you wouldn't think someone would ask a stranger. "Well," They took a brief pause before settling on whether or not they should answer the question. "I think it would be awfully terrible if my parents passed from unnatural causes..."

Before the words finished coming out, it seemed as though the woman already knew the answer, the room shifts into Kader's childhood home, revealing their parents relaxing in the living room. It brought warmth to their heart, seeing them in such a peaceful state, but it didn't last long, a loud bang on the door interrupts the quietness. Kader's father opens the door, revealing members of the Covenant, asking for details on Kader.

He refuses to acknowledge that they ever had a child, even with them far away, he was still protecting them. This didn't end well though, multiple people filed into the house and began tearing it apart. Ripping books off the shelves, and photographs from the walls, soon revealing the secret doorway into the basement where Kader spent majority of their time. This upset the strangers even further. How dare someone keep a child who should've shared their powers with the Oracles and Covenant.

Kader's father tries his hardest to defend himself, defend his family, their name, but no matter what words he threw at the people, nothing managed to stick. They were determined to take out their rage and disappointment on him. They attack him, throwing him to the ground, this causes his wife to fly into action, trying to protect him, but she received the same treatment. At some point, the two are left incapacitated as the group exits the home, burning it to the ground with them inside.

It all felt so real, the panic, the yelling, even the heat of the flames as Kader sat helpless, watching every thing unfold in front of them. When all of a sudden they felt a cool breeze,

"Drink and it will all go away.'

Wrapping their hand around the cup, they lift it up to their lips, but do not let any seep into their mouth as there were still suspicions about the strange woman. They tried to stay optimistic and hoped that their fake sip was satisfactory.

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ

Wyll · Friday at 6:24 PM

THE ANVIL

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ANON

KEEP

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Angry, Protective

OUTFIT

Who needs a shirt?

LOCATION

HAVEN INN ROOM

INTERACTIONS

HELGA

TAGS

Now We Are Free— Taylor Davis

scroll

FILL THE UNFORGIVING MINUTE

with sixty seconds' worth of distance run, yours is the Earth and all that's in it. And - which is more - you'll be a man, my son.

CHAPTER THREE.

Carpenter, shipwright, smithy, whatever else you wanted to call him, one thing was true: it made semse for Anon to be worried about the fate of The Leviathan. Here he was, safe and dry and relaxinf in a hotel, sheltered from the intense storm, meanwhile he had to trust that The Leviathan was safe out in the storm. Now, Anon's blood and sweat ran through ever piece of wood and metal that was on that ship, so he was confident in its ability to take damage and come out fine. However, he worried all the same - to do so is only human, after all.

And as much as he was grateful to the Captain for providing him a room within the inn, part of him was left - for wont of a better word - annoyed. Having a room to himself now left him without an excuse to spend nights in Val's. On the ship, not only had she offered, but it could also have been played off as a matter of convenience, where he needed a bed and she just so happened not to mind sharing hers. There was no such convenience here.

And so, now, as he lay in said bed, he was left worried for The Leviathan with no warming presence of Val to help ease his anxiety. What little sanity he had access to was working to convince him that going back to The Leviathan - whether by boat or, lacking one, by swimming - was not an idea worth investing in. And the opening of his door provided enough of a distraction for sanity to win over anxiety, if only for this moment.

Anon sat up and smiled. The smile came so naturally and felt so warm that it would simply be impossible to believe that there had even been a trace of malcontent on it seconds before. Right now, there was a guest in his room and his job, regardless of who they were, was to make them feel welcome. At least, so he believed.

"Ah, milady of the house. A right pleasure it is to see you this eenin'," accent thick and coating his words like honey on a spoon. "Now, you dinnae have to do all that, but many thanks all the same." When asked about what he wanted more than anything in the world, he could but chuckle, knowing that was not information he could freely give away. "Yer a sly fox of a woman, aren't ya?" He teased - if only he knew the truth behind those words, it is possible he may not have uttered them. "Looking for a wee bit of gossip today? Fair enough, I'll bite. Aye, there is something I want more than anything else: a woman; a bonnie lass, a true butterfly, she is. But that's all you're getting out of me tonight."

He picked up the teacup to take a sip of it when, all of a sudden, there was a pressure on his thighs. He was certain that he was looking at the inkeeper and that nobody else had entered the room, yet it felt like there was a person sitting there. Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head and found Val. Had she snuck into the room without him noticing?

A quick look at her outfit revealed that that should be the least of his concerns. Her clothing barely clung to her frame and left little to his already active imagination. The sight caused something primal to stir within him and he felt a leaping in his chest where his heart should be. His breathing quickly became rough and uneven - his mind overwhelmed and bombarded with more thoughts than he could sort through - as Val moved closer to him. The fibers of her clothes tickled his skin until their torsos touched.

At this point, Anon's hands held the bedsheets in a death grip, afraid of what his hands would do should he give them free reign. "V-Val...me darling...the innkeeper." Speaking of the innkeeper, Anon briefly turned his attention towards the older lady, who seemed to be saying something.

Everything I ever wanted so long as I drink? What? Speak sense, wo-

His thoughts fell silent as realization dawned: this wasn't real. This wasn't Val. All of a sudden, a depth of him that he was certain he had lost access to was unlocked. A wild, feral, unbriddled rage. His desire had been soured by the dishonesty of the vision provided, so much so that no part of the scene remained enticing to him. Everything about the moment was like the bitters from a tree in his mouth. And that someone would do that to Val's honor. It was unthinkable, unforgivable.

"...how dare you?" The words came out of his mouth with a snarl: deep, guttural and needing no answers - no words could mend such a terrible trespass anyway. Would she have tried to provide one, she would have learned that it suddenly became very difficult to speak. In his fury, Anon had swung his legs over the bed and crossed the distance between himself and the inkeeper. A single, large, calloused hand wrapped around her throat, picking her up and choking her against the wall, leaving her feet to dangle.

"Aye, listen here and listen well. Do not dare use Valerie as your play thing. You have no right." The emphasis on the word 'dare' came with a merciless tightening of his already iron-clawed grip. "Now, answer me good while you still have use of yer words. Where is she and what have you done with her?"

♡coded by uxie♡

Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

Give me your herbs, worm.

oi oi

𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐢 😸

It's that me, Antonio

The Duck Overlord

The Duck Overlord

ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

[sad jester jingle noises]

Crow Person

[sad jester jingle noises]

Give me your herbs, worm.

The Duck Overlord

Give me your herbs, worm.

Senior Member

New Member

[sad jester jingle noises]

The Duck Overlord

Nyx

Give me your herbs, worm.

The Duck Overlord

[sad jester jingle noises]

Give me your herbs, worm.

ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

pushing the gay agenda

Senior Member

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