Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

Pepsionne · Nov 15, 2024

THE ACROBAT.

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PERCY

GRIFFIN

MOOD

WISTFUL

OUTFIT

Velvet King

LOCATION

THE HAVEN INN

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

TAGS!!

CUT — SWEET PILL.

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WHO AM I WHEN I FEEL?

What dies in me when I am me?

CHAPTER TWO.

There was a lot Percy missed about the traveling troupe. Not that he’d admit it, of course, but his rocky adjustment to life outside his home spelled truths he went lengths to hide. One of them being the near constant rumble of conversation, laughter and foolery. The troupe was a lively place--even the thinnest of silences unable to find enough traction to stick.

Lying here, in the inn, the silence pressed down on Percy’s chest with the reminder of his isolation. Pushed aside after his injury, the acrobat had been burdened with so much loneliness that he was beginning not to know what to do with it. Aching fingers begged for relief from the hidden rage he carried, yet they were unwilling to let go. So instead he broiled in silence, like a dying star crying out in the vacant cradle of space.

The room had a wine induced spin. He squeezed his eyes tightly but relief escaped him still. His mind swayed with the pulling waves of his inebriation.

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

Incoordination plagued the movement of Percy’s limbs in the attempt to haul himself upright. He stopped until he merely propped himself on his elbows, eyes unfocused and bleary. Grey fabric shifted in a nonexistent wind.

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

“I--” The words stalled in Percy’s throat. What did he want? What didn’t he want? Wealth, fame, admiration and respect. Luxury goods he had only observed in the shop windows of Sirocco.

The oddity of the figure appearing in his room with such a request was lost on him. Whether it was reason smothered under the haze of alcohol or his desires leaping before his judgment, the panic of a sudden intruder had bypassed him.

Before the man could answer the figure with the wave of desires that swarmed up within him, the fabric of the room began to shift and change. Glassy eyes widened from the disorientation of the new space. He must be hallucinating, surely. What was in that wine? Had he been drugged?

Softly, almost as if building upon itself so as not to scare him with its intensity, the ambient hum of a chant filled the room. Cheers, cries and loving exclamations of a name--his name. “Percy! Percy! Percy!”

The small yet homely room he had stumbled into earlier in the night was no more. Instead, an arena dimmed in shadow. He could make out the forms of faceless bodies, merely heaps of wavering shadow and noise. Only one spot of light existed beneath the grand tent he now found himself in. And that light shone on only one person. Percy.

If not for the shock that paralyzed the young acrobat, Percy would’ve started crying. This was--home. Everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of. The troupe did need him. The stands were packed with devoted fans to him alone. He was a star.

A nudging presence at his elbow, the figure having appeared at his side. They stretched arms with a soundless, nearly otherworldly movement. The tea hovered in Percy’s direct line of sight.

Percy drinks the tea.

♡coded by uxie♡

ComplexDragon · Saturday at 9:30 PM

THE MAGPIE.

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Azzara

TALLULAH

ㅎㅎ

mood

Distressed, Angry, Disoriented

OUTFIT

Typical Tallulah

LOCATION

HER ROOM (SORT OF)

MENTIONS

NONE

INTERACTS

That bitch Helga

THIEVES - Sammy Rae

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CHILD OF THIEVES

oh drunken gods of slaughter
you know I've always been
your
favorite daughter

CHAPTER THREE. PART TWO

Tallulah was familiar with the feeling of floating - of being suspended between two separate worlds. Somehow both in her body and outside of it all at once. She could not recall her first experience, but she was sure she was young, and it had happened so far in the past that it might as well not have happened at all. For all she could recall, it had always been this way.

This time, she was staring at the ceiling, tracing the stucco and letting her mind waver in and out of consciousness. Like a tide surging upon the shore before being ripped back into the endless ocean.

There was suddenly a disturbance—a ruffling, the clinking of china, and the scent of warm, chamomile tea. Not just any. It triggered something deep in her subconscious—a longing, paired with the acrid taste of regret. Of all the things she shoved in a chest and locked far away. Buried and dead, but suddenly screaming back to life in violent color.

She sat up straight, digging her fingers into the rough worn blanket beneath her. “What the hell-”

Tallulah was sure she’d locked the door. So how had this woman managed to get inside?

“I did not mean to disturb. I brought a spot of tea.” Despite the friendly lilt of her voice, something about how she observed Tallulah with sharp, yellow eyes set her nerves on edge. The younger woman slid off the bed and reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh.

She unsheathed it with swift accuracy. “Get out of my room.” She spoke the words with as much force as she could. Covering herself in the blanket of her stories. But still, the older woman sat, stirring her tea. And with each clink of spoon on china, the little Magpie’s resolve began to splinter. Like a nail fracturing once unbreakable glass.

“Tallulah Giovanella Azzara. What is it you fear most?”

Her veins turned to ice. The world spun on its axis. How did this woman know her name? Not just her name, but her full name. The name no one but her mother used so many lifetimes ago. But before she could say anything the room began to morph and shift. Shattering and restitching itself together. Tallulah staggered backward, chest tightening and breath coming in short bursts.

Had she already been poisoned? What was happening?

Suddenly, she was standing in the staggering luminescence of the sun. She squinted her eyes and tried to shield them with her hands but something kept them bound behind her back. The ground beneath her bare feet was solid wood. A stage perhaps. As her eyes adjusted to the onslaught of light, she found herself in front of a crowd.

There were easily a hundred or more. And they all looked murderous. She couldn’t name any, but for some reason, they looked familiar. As if she had met them in another time or another place.

Was this a performance? Maybe they were furious because their performer was not performing. She tried to move her hands again, but they would not budge. There was no music, just a distant rumble and the sinking feeling that this was some sort of waking nightmare. She looked behind her back for the source of the restriction when her heart lept into her throat.

Her wrists and hands were bound by shackles and chains, and somehow her feet were rooted to the ground where she stood. She started to tremble, whipping her head around for some sign. What is this?

But she’d put on a great show in worse circumstances, so now was the time to rely on all that hard-won training.

She opened her mouth to sing but no melodies poured forth. Only aching, acrid silence. Her stomach dropped to her feet.

No.

Suddenly there was the loud bang of a gavel. And a man in long, flowing robes stared down at her from a large podium with ire in his eyes. The rest of his face remained hidden behind a sheet of black.

Her clothes had transformed into rags. As if they had been pieced together with scraps of old dresses. And they smelled of chamomile, beer, smoke, and poor decisions - burning her eyes, nose, and throat with hundreds of memories.

“Thus begins the trial of Tallulah Azzara. Will the first accuser step forward?”

A trial. A trial. A trial. The word echoed in her mind like a drum harkening the end times. The one word she’d prayed she’d never hear. She would not go back in a cage. She couldn’t. She’d worked too hard to go back now. She wanted to run, hide, close herself off, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything but stand there like some useless prey animal frozen in front of the face of certain death.

The stage shook and creaked as a woman dressed in a revealing outfit climbed the stairs slowly. Curly auburn hair framed her gaunt face. Despite the lifetimes of distance, Tallulah would never be able to scrub the memories away. Her throat tightened. Was this a reckoning? Had her mother come to rescue her after all these years? “Mother? Please you have to help me.”

Seraphine’s eyes locked on Tallulah and she pointed a shaky finger at her. “That rat ruined my life! She couldn’t do one little thing I asked of her. She was a useless wretch the day she came into this world, and she’ll continue to be until you purge this scourge from the earth.”

The crowd rumbled in protest.

“No. Stop. Please.” Tallulah tried to shut her eyes or turn away, but she’d lost control of her faculties. She could do nothing but stand and watch and listen. She had been bound, body, mind, and soul. And everything screamed in her to be released. She hadn’t meant to hurt her. It wasn’t on purpose.

“Guilty!” The judge shouted.

“What? No!” Tallulah screamed as the shackles around her wrists tightened. “No. No. Stop.”

The crowd raged and pelted objects at her from all sides - the kind of punishment befitting a criminal such as herself. When the crowd finally lowered their arms and quieted, the judge spoke again. “Thus begins the trial of The Starling. Will the first accuser step forward?”

What? There was the familiar jangle of cheap bells and bangles. She dropped her gaze to the fabric draped over her hips, thighs, and legs. It was a multitude of fabrics and colors. The skirt Gwendolyn had gotten her when she was twice as small. Her head was wrapped in a distinct yellow scarf.

Her stomach roiled; her heart thundered in her ears.

Suddenly, a mass of fifteen people stood before her. Her entire troupe. All in their regalia, just as the last time she had seen them - Gwendolyn at the helm.

Hope sprung up in her chest. They had saved her once before. Perhaps they had come to rescue her. To take her back into their fold and nurse her back to health. Get her away from this hellscape. “Please. Please, Gwendolyn. Marius. Someone. Tell them the truth!”

She’d only stolen to get by. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, but it was for the most part. Those people didn’t need all their things. They could never miss them.
“The truth, Starling, you deserved to get arrested and we left you because you became a liability.” Gwendolyn stared her down, fire raging underneath her cool exterior. “You are a thief, a deceiver, and a liar. You put us all in jeopardy for what? A little extra cash? A little extra glory?”

Tallulah shook her head, desperation clawing at her insides. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s not enough, foolish girl!” Gwendolyn spat at her. “You were not worth saving.”

The crowd raged, and Tallulah’s heart shattered into a million pieces. The world as she knew it was falling apart in front of her. Gwendolyn and the troupe swarmed her, pulling at her clothes until they fell to the floor in a ruined pile of scraps. The only remainder of her life with them. The judge screeched. “Guilty!”

Ruffle of cloth, finger pointing, crowd raging. “Lavinia Montgomery - Guilty!”

Ruffle of cloth, finger pointing, crowd raging. “Madeline Lamont - Guilty!”

Ruffle of cloth, finger pointing, crowd raging. “Raisha Salam - Guilty!”

Ruffle of cloth, finger pointing, crowd raging. “Kathleena Barley - Guilty!”

On and on the crowd came forward, one after another, revealing themselves to be her victims. The people she wronged over the years. Each one of her identities and stories was ripped from her chest and set out in front of everyone, raw, rotted, and bleeding. Until there was nothing but a sad little shell.

And perhaps whatever magic held her up finally released, or the pain was too great because she dropped to her knees and clawed at her hair, nails digging into her scalp. “Make it stop. Make it stop. Please.”

“Oh little Magpie, I do hate to see you this way.” Silky soft voice grazed over her ears, sending a jolt of energy up her spine. It was familiar, comforting, alluring. A finger gently lifted her face skyward. “I can make it all go away. I just need you to drink this and the pain will stop. You can come back to me. Back to where it’s safe.”

Wait. Her eyelids fluttered open and she was face to face with icy blue eyes and sandy blond hair. Carrow Brollot held a cup in front of her face. He smiled with that same charismatic charm he used on her before. And while all she wanted was to fall back into his arms - into the arms of the one person who really cared, reason came screaming back to life. Blood pounded in her ears, and she glanced down at the china.

The same one from the room.

Realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. It was a trick. A trap. None of this was real. Or if it were, the tea would not be her way out.

She would not be caged again.

So she did what she didn’t do before. And she lunged for it - him.

[X] She attacks

♡coded by uxie♡

Pepsionne · Sunday at 11:32 AM

THE HUNTSMAN.

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MAGNUS

MOOD

BROODING

OUTFIT

Black obvs

LOCATION

THE HAVEN INN

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

SIMPLE HARP VARIATION NO. 1 — MARTIN PHIPPS.

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DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR

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

CHAPTER TWO.

There was a pointed crack to every meeting of his heel against the inn flooring. As if he could drill his way through to the room beneath him. His anger sat heavy across broad shoulders. It pushed his steps heavier and heavier until the floor began to tremble in anticipation for each step that was to come next.

The Blood Warden. A whispered bounty among hunters. It was almost too good to be true given the sheer zeroes that followed its mighty number. But Magnus knew it was no fairytale. He had seen faint markings of the Blood Warden’s trail. Whether it be a town shocked into a cold stasis, a missing bounty hunter who had previously been thought to strike something large. The clues were there. All he had to do was entrust that Ren wasn’t bluffing in the face of death.

No matter. The man let out a deep sigh and allowed himself to sit on the edge of the inn bed. His back was rigid, posture set in stone and muscles coiled in a trained inability to become anything other than ready to pounce. If Magnus caught Ren in a lie, it was easy enough to claim the original bounty he had set his eyes on. Grey eyes became an onyx vortex, intensity snaking through them. How pretty it would be indeed, to see dark crimson paint the canvas of Ren’s tanned throat.

Magnus’ expression twitched momentarily. Following his failure to collect tonight--he would not let the sticky sense of familiarity to slow his judgment again. Ren was a bounty, simple as that. And Magnus would do what he did best. Collect.

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

A tiger coiled to pounce on unsuspecting prey, Magnus had sprung from his position on the bed before his mind could process the threat that had appeared in the corner of the room. Grey fabric kissed the edge of his outstretched blade in an invisible breeze.

Who was this stranger? How had they gotten in here without him noticing? The door was firmly locked, window closed and curtains tightly drawn. Though given the otherworldly nature of his new guest, Magnus allowed his mind to release its grip on the how and instead focus on the what. What did this figure want? What did they want with him, specifically?

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

His features furrowed into a sour disdain. Him? Afraid? Nonsense. Fear had been evicted from its tenant within his nervous system long ago. Even fear of death found it tricky to angle itself properly. Magnus welcomed death--most fear wrapped tangled strings to that singular concept.

“I don’t fear anything,” He stated. Magnus’ voice was cold. A grit lined the timbre of it, causing the words to nearly growl from the depths of his throat.

The figure didn’t respond. They sat unresponsive in their same position, uncaring to the knife Magnus angled at what he could only assume was their throat. They balanced a cup of tea in their hands with a steadiness that hinted at not only a lack of fear towards death, but a complete unfamiliarity with the concept itself.

A sharp heel clacked against polished stone. The sound bounced against the walls of his tiny room, mounting upon itself until there were a thousand instances of it, all playing one after the other.

Magnus tore his eyes from a focus on the figure. His inn room was--no more. Instead, the room had become damp and dark. Shadow dripped into the room with a liquid viscosity, drenching everything except the dull flicker of a torch hovering at the seam of the door.

He turned just as the door opened, grey eyes like bleached moons.

“I’ve missed you, my pet,” A voice purred.

Without hesitation, Magnus attacks.

♡coded by uxie♡

Gao · Sunday at 10:22 PM

THE CAPTAIN.

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LEXIS

THE CAPTAIN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

RA TA TA (SCARED)

OUTFIT

THE ZESTY VESTY

LOCATION

HAVEN INN COMMONROOM

MENTIONS

DOLORES, HELGA.

INTERACTS

N/A

FUNERAL — TIGERCUB.

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WHEN GOD TOOK

the rib out of man
he left him missing one bar
a deliberate half-closure

CHAPTER THREE PART II.

Eyebrows scrunched and mouth agape, the contortion of baffled features is what surges a directionless panic in the Captain. Although her confusion is silent, it rings through Lexis like a gunshot, jolting the man with a regular woe that his language is always so insufficient.

All those sterile words and still he cannot convey what he means; grievous is the reminder that his life is an orbital repetition of this problem.

“Pardon me? I don’t quite follow, sir.”

He should eat glass.

He has angered her. She will hurt him. She must be mad that he lacks the ability to be clear in what he wishes to say. How frightening. If he plays possum and does not move she may forget he is there.

His mind is temporarily elsewhere on that paranoid tangent, but outwardly his unmoving straight line mouth and bored eyes are observing the delights of the window pane.

He ponders how many ways this woman knows how to quarter a human being. There’s something to be admired in that gory machinery, how efficient to be able to process someone like meat. There’s something less to be admired when beneath the burning cedar of that same machinist’s stare.

“The placement of your feet.” Lexis clarifies after the customary four-second pause while making a small motion towards the floor. “... There is no sign of overstepping on your part.”

But oh, this nervous thing, he must always overthink the complexities of human nature. He may have just committed a wretched violation by commenting on how she stands. What an invasive thing to do.

“I acknowledge and extend an apology. My comments about your stance were unwarranted and I will redirect my focus.” Knocks the topic from his palate because amidst all this uncertainty and disquiet, it is the urgency of the situation (not her footing) that guides him back to calm rationality like a north star.

He’d lingered at the window for so long that he wondered if he could walk outside blindfolded back to the ship. Logically it would be too dark to navigate without the guidance of a light source, and furthermore Lexis doesn’t like to miss a thing, needs to see everything that happens, cannot leave the crew and guests to weather this strange location alone.

There’s no comfort in the polished panels beneath his boots, nor in the sound of the ocean shore which sounds uncomfortably vague. Too quiet, too far, too foreign from his wooden home idling in that darkness.

He turns to speak to Dolores once more and finds her gone. Instead finds the pale shock of hair and round eyes watching from a nearby chair. Lexis feels his body almost turn inside out from the silent arrival; the innkeeper is sitting, stirring tea, and there is something expectant to how she waits.

During some point in his thinking, the room must have emptied for all but Helga. He must have lingered long enough that his existence had gone ignored, or else he’s become incredibly stealthy for a man of his stature.

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

His nerves are always rendered thin enough to consider anyone a threat, so he does not approach, only turns his body to face her fully. Favours the space between him and the seated woman.

“Tea does not align with my current needs, thank you.” Lexis does not like to lie, but the politesse is empty gratitude. See, the entire night had felt off for quite some time now, and something stirring in him knows it is only a matter of time till she lowers the cards from her chest and splays them for everyone to see across the table.

The foggy collision of waves outside makes him wonder how long until they turn deadly, he has always dreaded the idea of waiting rather than the clarity of action. Finds himself grinding the warm white stones of his teeth in a mirror of how the tide draws in and out, then in mirror of the scraped spoon she stirs through the porcelain concoction.

She keeps the same curve of lips as she did when she first greeted them all, like a cut of shrapnel soon to sting.

“That is not your gun.” She does not elaborate further– there is no need to; several heartbeats go amiss and it’s enough to temporarily freeze him. “What do you fear most in this world? More than anything else?”

His skin prickles like a hive, danger, and that warning surges him with the immediacy to level the rifle at the woman only for vision to burn into a purgatory white.

His breath plumes fragile clouds and fingers crease themselves red and raw into the hard body of the weapon. Dressed too light for the arctic, the amorphous silhouette of pine trees are crusted with drift and the icy ground amplifies every gust of northern cold. He moves a cautious arc in the blindness of seething winter until his shoe presses into something slippery, eyelashes feathered with snow dropping to see the filmy peel unzipped across the snow.

He has been here before, stood on gossamer husks of skin: only this time he knows what is out there. Like the past crystallising into his mouth to be crunched beneath slaughter, truth settles and secures his closing throat like a silver garrote.

Just like when he was here before— the sound. A ragged inhale like a broken hull moving its sharp edges across shaking, soft insides. His eyes flash one way then another, catch, double back, find only vague shapes flickering in the edges of his vision. He is a revenant, a fossil of people now gone, but out here he is rendered down to the prey simplicity of a bag of blood.

There is terror to be processed, but when has his need for control ever not been something to take and hold onto with frost-burned knuckles? This is not his gun, there’s initials carved into the stock obscured beneath his arm, some loss he failed to prevent, and he steadies the weapon as best he can with skin festering like glass.

He was young when taught how to shoot– arm steady, outstretched. The interval between maim and mortality is a shot for the throat. The neck is where things break, where they fold in on themselves, where the skin splits and sheds the easiest like a cocoon.

A crunched footfall in the endless white, not one of his own. Deliberate, slow, quadrupedal. Eyes scour the direction but find only an empty void, the wind pauses and lungs are suspended in liminality as he strains to listen. Something shifts in the corner of his eye and Lexis can feel all his bones sink. A gaunt shape, humanoid but wrong, and that breathing, wet and hoarse as it looks at him.

He glimpses long limbs of sun-bleached skin then his vision tunnels and the gun fires as he hears it run directly for him.

[ 𝐗 ] 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊.

♡coded by uxie♡

floralmoon · Sunday at 10:44 PM

C

limbing into bed, Calanthe's head gently rests onto the pillow, she had spent majority of the night shooting the shit with the other passengers of the ship, and was finally ready to sleep. Though there was no way that she would have known her beauty rest would be interrupted shortly after dozing off.

A creek echoes through the bedroom, waking Calanthe up. She sits straight up in the bed and shouts at the noise, "I'm trying to sleep. You're being awfully rude." Her head slams back into the pillow as she flips her back towards the noise. Once more, another sound comes again, this time it was someone clearing their throat.

"Fine. I'm awake, what in the ever loving hell could you want?" Calanthe grumps out at the darkness, but soon resorts to turning on the lamp to see who the intruder was. Golden light floods the room, revealing Helga, the inn keeper, sitting at the edge of the bed, holding a cup of tea. “I did not mean to disturb, I've brought a spot of tea.

Calanthe shoves her hands out, reaching for the cup impatiently, if Helga was going to interrupt her sleep, the least she could do was not tease her with a warm beverage. She wasn't going to hand it over so easy though, her voice breaks the silence once more, “What do you want most in this world? More than anything else?”

With the shake of her head, Cal sits there in the silence, why in the world would someone come into her room, wake her up for tea, and then ask some off the wall question? "A rich husband and noble status, duh." Helga seemed to have nodded her head a split second before the room starts swirling.

The two were now in a large estate, it somewhat resembled the one she grew up in, but different. Few things here and there that Calanthe recognized, but it all belonged to her. A young lady in a maid's outfit appears through one of the corridors, "Your majesty, King Dacre is waiting for you in the dining hall." A grin immediately appeared on Calanthe's face as she realized that must mean she was the Queen.

With a pep in her step, she makes her way through the castle, almost like second nature, straight to the dining hall where her new husband awaited. He greeted her, and motioned for her to take a seat, "My love, I have an inquiry. How would you feel about possibly expanding your closet? There are extra funds that need to be used, and what a better way to do so than to treat my beautiful wife."

Calanthe's smile couldn't get any wider, she quickly nods her head yes, covering her mouth as she lets out a giggle, but not a moment after, Helga had reappeared. The facade of the life she wanted began to fade away, causing her to grasp at the things that were in front of her, hoping to keep a grip on her ideal life. "Drink this, and all you wish for will be yours."

A saucer was placed in her hands, without a second thought, Calanthe picks up the cup and drinks the tea as quickly as possible, hoping that the daydream would come back.

"everything i ever wanted, right within reach..."

calanthe de braose

location:

The Haven Inn

outfit:

interactions:

Helga

CrimsonInk · Sunday at 10:56 PM

THE DESCENDANT.

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DAHLIA

BLACKWATER

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

AHHHHHH!!!!

OUTFIT

These will do!

LOCATION

The Library

MENTIONS

LORA @peachpuff
MALTKE @escapist
ROSALINE

AnimeGenork GALLIN!?

Wyll

INTERACTS

WTF HELGA >:[

DAVY JONES (COVER) — RAFSCRAP.

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ANGER IS A POTENT SPICE

A pinch wakes you up; too much dulls your senses.

CHAPTER THREE.

In all her years living on a ship, going through treacherous storms and beating the hunger of the sea she had never met a more pitiful group of people. A man with raven hair and dark eyes had the nerve, the audacity, the gull to really use her, among others, as a way to shield himself from the storm. A man she had the unfortunate memory to tie a name to – Ren. First it was that book man, Gallin, and now another, Ren. Ren and Gallin, Gallin and Ren. Hell, Maltke was the only man aboard that bloody ship who was the only one tolerable. He seemed busy with his other affairs to which she respected. Hopefully he got through the storm, him and Noelle, or should she say Rosaline?

Everything was becoming too confusing and overwhelming lately. How she went from hiding from people to getting to know some has become rather eventful. Too eventful. This kind of luck always comes with a heavy price at the end. The storm was just the catalyst of the inevitable. It had to be. Things don’t come easy or well like this, Dahlia knew better.

Having spent only thirty minutes in her designated room made her feel uneasy. Twenty of it was spent taking a nap. A nap that felt the most realest kind of sleep she had in a long time. Twenty minutes of serene bliss. Dahlia felt antsy being in such a nice and comfortable space. It was a place for those fortunate enough to have it. She was an imposter to be in this space. A cockroach. The woman had decided to find something to keep her mind occupied for the time. Noe-er, Rosaline came to her thoughts.

It was a fresh relief to see her grow up to be this outstanding woman. She believed in her to survive Antares, but to be this desirable icon throughout Solas….the thought felt too dark to think about how trauma can turn into that. But she survived. That was what mattered most.

Though one thing was for certain. Dahlia was getting tired of looking at the color burgundy. It was becoming a sight for sore eyes. Surely there was more than one color they can obsess over, but whatever the Innkeeper had this infatuation about the color was mental. Maybe it was her judgment about their hospitality and their color obsession that made Dahlia uneasy. Then again, everything outside under the Baron’s shadow made her uneasy. Her eyes darted, looking around the halls and decor disinterested by its value. Nothing she can really take or steal with ease, even if she played off as one of the members of the ship. Down at the end of the hall were a pair of double doors that made her curious. All the others were single doors, but not this one.

Extending her hand to twist the handles she pushed the door forward and was taken aback by the room itself. The room was filled with mountains of shelves filled with books. Her eyes lit up with the stale smell engulfing her nostrils, and ears perking up to the quiet atmosphere; it was like a kid walking into a store filled with candy for the first time. Dahlia never knew there could be so many books in one place. What would they even call a place like this? A book room? Book room it was.

Walking further in she could hear the mutters of a woman close by. The light curses and irritable squabble was familiar. An etch of an accent she knew well enough to be someone from Antares familiar. Keeping her feet light against the wood floors she took a glance hiding behind one of the bookshelves. Messy hairs of ember dancing over slim shoulders, fair freckled skin kissed with patches from the sun, and dashing radiant blue eyes that were darting all over the pictures she had laid about on the table. Only they weren’t just any normal pictures. They were maps. Maps people looked at if they were trying to navigate somewhere, and she knew only one navigator in her lifetime.

“Acaramelada? Apple?” she said, her tone remaining monotonous despite the warmness of the words spoken, “Lora…? Is that you?”

The woman rummaging between the scrapes of maps comparing them to her sketchbook took a moment to look up, her eyes flowing up and down the person in front of her. The person being another familiar face from Antares. Amelia Porter.

“Well, well, If it isn't sour apple. It's me, the one and only,” she said, walking around the table smoothly – bump!

Okay, maybe not so smoothly. Her hip hit the corner of the table and Dahlia couldn’t help, but hold back a laugh. Maybe a laugh. It came out as a snort. A loud snort.

“Ow! Curse this wooden furniture! I swear mine stars I’ll ring the neck off the maker!” She cursed, hand over hip breathing in and out the sharp pain.

“You’ve never changed…” Dahlia reminisced.

The Antares woman took the lead in meeting Lora at the halfway mark. A hand raised patting her gently on the shoulder, the other pulling her in for a hug. Another warm body that she shared her heart with. Lora was another she would call family.

“Aye, but do ye a favor. Call me Louise around other people. Had to lie about my name to get the job. Rather be fish food than be hauled off to a prison in some town,” she asked, her tone lowering with caution for hidden ears.

“You have my word. Though I suppose I should ask you the same. Amelia is a ghost. I go by Dahlia now….”

The history behind the two was similar to what she had with Noe-Rosaline, but it was just as different from the other. Lora was a true child of the sea. Never did she meet someone like Lora that would rather sleep on a boat than on land. Any time Dahlia had made her way to the docks for a job, she would run into Lora who would tell her all her adventures at sea. As a child she had looked up to the woman considering being a pirate like her. The way she could read a map was beyond Dahlia’s comprehension. To be gifted with such eyes and a mind seemed to be a blessing from Poseidon himself to Lora. She was truly amazing. Yet, she considered her to be an equal.

The conversation between them seemed so little. Catching up years between Dahlia’s unfortunate departure from the brothel and trying to wrap her head around what Lora has been doing, somehow in between she had fallen asleep. Eyes resting with her head laying on her arms in the safety of another was reckless and dangerous. At that time, Dahlia didn’t even remember how she became so tired. Stirring in her slumber she started to wake from the feeling of sensing a presence nearby. The book room’s light was dimmer, quieter, and the air heavier for some reason.

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

Dahlia groaned, waking up from the voice. It was a frail and gentle voice. Her first sight was hazy, blurring out the elderly woman’s salt and pepper sidepony. Her wrinkles softening in their deep edges, her smile growing in her sharp cheeks, and warm yellow eyes bathing her with – wait. Her eyes shouldn’t be yellow.

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

Low hisses coiled around Dahlia, her body stiffening with each sound, eyes wide and locked on the movement across the table. Her head turned slowly from her position on the chair with goosebumps kissing her pale skin. A small, serpentine head rose into view, its yellow eyes fixed on her. She held her breath, her skin prickling as she froze, every muscle locked in place. Her mind screamed for her to run, but her body could now allow it. Another hiss—a sharp, slithering sound—came from beneath her chair.
Her heart thudded in her chest. A chill rattled her bones. She could practically feel the coils tightening around her, the cold breath of their movements against her legs. She dared not look down, but the urge was too strong. Her gaze snapped to the floor beneath the table, and the sight of dozens of scaled bodies twisting and writhing sent her crashing off her chair.

A high-pitched scream ripped through her throat, her hands flailing for anything—books, anything—to shield her. But the snakes kept coming, slithering up to meet her, their sharp hisses like whispers of death. The air began to become thick with salt, brine, and the unmistakable scent of the sea.

Water poured from the ceiling now, flooding the room in a slow, rising tide, slick and heavy as it swallowed her feet. Panic surged, and when she reached again for a book, her hand collided with something cold, slick. Scales. She jerked back with a scream, realizing too late she had grabbed one of them—one that wrapped its slimy body around her wrist, its fangs bared and poised to strike. The woman instantly threw her hand down, grabbing it with her free hand to throw it across the room.

“Lora! Lora!” she screamed out at the top of her lungs, “h-help! Matlke! Lora! Someone! Fuck!”

Heads of snakes were beginning to poke out through the books taunting her with their sounds. Dahlia kept backing away until she hit the door, and started to kick and bang on it with her hand. The room began to sink herfurther into madness. The water was rising fast, and the snakes, relentless, pushed closer. She backed toward the door, clawing at the wood, banging her fists against it.

“Let me out! Someone! Lora! Maltke! G-Gallin!” she screamed, “Rosaline! Please! ROSIE! MAMA! HELP ME!”

“Now, now, why are you trying to leave….”

Her heart stopped.

That voice so close and ominous made everything worse. A voice so deep, threatening and yet so welcoming was what made her turn slowly watching the figure emerge from the shadows, his onyx hair cascading down in curls, and an observant brown eye gleaming with a cold amusement. He stood, as always, in that dreadful burgundy jacket, his presence swallowing the room. Her breath hitched. Tears welled up, pink lips quivering, choking her throat. She could feel herself breaking, collapsing under the weight of it all.

“No….no I left….I made sure….” Dahlia tried to breath, her eyes darting between all the chaos around her. Her heart practically ready to burst from the fear she felt in her chest.

The room was slowly filling with water, it was filled with snakes, and he was here. There was no way this was real. It had to be a dream. By the stars, please just let it be a bad dream.

“My dear, if you drink this, it will go away. Even him, I promise.”

Dahlia turned her attention towards the woman holding an expensive cup. Delicately porcelain with roses all around it. The cup could have been something Rosaline would have drunk out of. Roses seemed to be her calling after all. In desperation for all this to go away, she reached for the cup drinking the liquid contents. It was something she never had before. It was sweet like fruit, slightly bitter, but so warm and pleasant.

[X] DAHLIA DOES DRINK THE TEA

♡coded by uxie♡

CrimsonInk · Monday at 12:13 AM

THE OPHIDIAN.

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YASMINE

LAVIGNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Oh, so you wan't to play granny?

OUTFIT

Don't Gaze Too Long

LOCATION

HAVEN INN

MENTIONS

CASSANDRA, HELGA'S B*SH A**

TAGS

picklemouse

TOXIC LOVE (COVER) — RAFSCRAP.

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POWER IS POWER

The gods have no mercy, that’s why they’re gods.

CHAPTER THREE.

Even in Yasmine’s semi-drunken state, she felt a shift happen in the room. The air was still and not a sound was made. No whispers, no doors opening, and certainly not her friend, Cassandra, by her side either. She wasn’t sure what it was just yet, but she knew not to let herself get distracted so easily now. It was her alone, and Yasmine Lavigne alone is dangerous to be with. She turned back looking around the room. Her chair swinging from the edge, a foot ready on the floor, sword back in its sheath, she began to amble through the tables of the bar area. Entering the main lobby area it seemed she had come across the Innkeeper pushing a tray of tea with porcelain cups. Somehow, Yasmine wasn’t the person off guard but the Innkeeper.

A smirk.

“Auntie Helga, what a pleasure to run into you.”

“Oh, you see….I didn’t mean to disturb, but I brought a spot of tea.”

Yasmine looked down at the tray practically disgusted by the sight of the luxurious porcelain. Nothing beats the beer and shots she kicked back, and if the tea was not green she doesn’t want it.

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

The sound of a crowd applauding and roaring her name sent her looking back with eyes narrowing. Crowds of people adoring white colored clothing, throwing flowers, rice, and coins her way. There before her was a burgundy colored sheet laid across the stone floor towards an altar. The King stood with a smile, holding the crown in his hands ready to place it on the top of her head. Cassandra just close by looking as radiant as ever. Only there was something that bothered this picture of hers.

Power.

He was simply handing her power.

Yasmine took in a deep breath, chuckling darkly under her breath. Such illusions of her goal being mocked straight in her face was interesting. It was certainly frustrating.

“Tell me….what kind of woman do you take me for, Auntie?”

Yasmine kicked the tray of tea over spilling its contents on the ground. Her hand gripping the handle and unsheathing her blade, the edge ready to pierce into that wrinkly date of the woman before her.

“Lest you forget, I can take your bloody head and end this foreplay right here. Best send your regards to the Crown.”

[X] YASMINE ATTACKS

♡coded by uxie♡

Nifty · Monday at 12:21 AM

THE SCOURGE.

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Dolores

THORNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Murderous & Seething

OUTFIT

Boatswain Slay

LOCATION

Haven Inn??

MENTIONS

Lulu, Lexis & Helga

INTERACTS

N/A.

Brutus — The Buttress

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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 II.

TW. Themes of sexual assault are heavily implied.

A polite “Oh” escaped past her lips as the realisation dawned on her. That evening, Dolores learned how Lexis is a man of literal speech. In this situation, do people typically laugh? Swoon? Or something completely different? Social cues are way above her understanding. Bothering herself to study every aspect to be a better conversationalist seems like a heavy burden to bear. So perhaps a simple one-word will suffice for now.

“Yes, please do.” She told languidly. Although the man did nothing to offend her, the boatswain would greatly appreciate a moment of silence between them. Perhaps then, they would feel more at ease with each other’s company.

Perhaps it had been minutes or even hours of staring at the evening stars before she noticed the empty room. It’s an exhausting endeavour to plead with the fates to cease their meddling with Dolores Thorne’s already dilapidated life. And yet, they seem to be ever so fixated on providing the branded maiden with enough traumatic material that will only accelerate her journey towards an early grave. After all, stress is always an unwanted concept when it comes to simply living. Nobody likes being played with, and none better portrays that example than the executioner herself.

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

The gentle cooing from the voice behind her has already managed to stiffen Dolores’ posture and unveil the simmering agitation within her. “Fuck off.” She snapped instinctively. She could feel the hairs at the back of her neck prickle in apprehension. Her delivery came out as a guttural snarl. A sound a feline creates when cornered or trapped.

A minute more of Helga’s perplexing presence would most likely lead Dolores into the depths of her waning patience. A virtue she’s rather graciously bestowing these days, and she has grown tiresome because of it.

When the sound of Helga leaving didn’t greet her ears, only then did Dolores turn to face the innkeeper. Challenging their wrinkled grin with a set of her own seething umber gaze. Silence wafted between them before Dolores lifted a single finger, the middle, the most prominent of them all. After that satisfying action that eased most of her anxiety, the innkeeper's voice echoed throughout the room.

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

Spoken like a true devil. If her gaze alone could hold the incredible power of staring people to death, the creature before her would’ve dropped unconscious already. Sealed lips, crossed arms, and stoic glare were all Dolores was willing to give at that moment. If they were expecting the King’s employed torturer to cough up information about her personal torture preferences nonetheless, then Helga would be sorely mistaken. That is something only for her and the evening night terrors to perceive. And besides, she’d rather not live through it while conversing with a stranger.

Oh, how wrong she was. A second ago, she had a clear glimpse of Helga’s ominous smile widen about a smidgen. Now, as quick as the mere flutter of her eyelashes, the setting before her morphed into something else; it was as if she was simply transported into a different room by a single blink. However, it wasn’t just any random room; she came face to face with an all-too-realistic portrayal of that nightmarish room—a room where she would prefer to remain in the abyssal pits of her past. Her posture stiffened thrice upon that realisation—more so than with Helga’s presence.

With mouth dry as the sunbaked sands of Siroc, heart growing restless within her ribcage, and hands trembling in absolute fear, Dolores Thorne drowned herself in a multitude of emotions.

Gold medals framed by a rich mahogany frame and trophies gleaming with triumph adorned its majestic pearl walls. Its marbled flooring was cold, and the warmth was beginning to seep from her feet. Perhaps that was why her legs began to tremble, and the urge to flop her whole weight on its perfectly polished flooring became overwhelmingly inconvenient. Deep within her core, she knew fear was slowly taking its hold on her, like a deathly disease reaping her identity. The once cold and apathetic woman diminished herself into the submissive, helpless little girl she once was.

Her head remained focused on the floor, dreading that if she lifted her head slightly to her left, miserable and sickening memories might flood and resurface again.

Every rationality that made the effort to travel throughout her body was shot down by the nauseating memory of being in this very room. The more her presence lingers in the room, the claws of reality have almost dug themselves deep into her shoulders. If her memory proves to be correct, it’ll only be a matter of seconds before her body is dragged to the bed on her left.

At that moment, all she wanted was Lucrezia’s warm, reassuring words. Lucrezia Cambridge. One of the rare few who had managed to crack open her emotionless exterior and witnessed a broken piece of her. A piece that she holds close and refuses to let out in the sunlight. But with The Raven Mother’s gentle hands holding her own, easing her to heal, an ache began to rise, and soon after, alarm bells rang abruptly upon a single realisation. She’s on board along with the guests. To fail her in a dangerous time is something she could never afford. Not her. Never her.

The branded maiden gathered the remnants of her courage, slightly caressing the texture of the lumpy area of her wrist, successfully easing her to reason. Reminding herself that this is nothing but a mirage created by a single woman. Ergo, eliminate her, and the nightmare will cease. Dolores could only hope that the others were doing well on their part.

It’s terrible, really, to portray your mistrust so openly.

“I can make it all go away, only if you drink this.” The soft purr of Helga’s voice almost made Dolores throw up.

There you are, she thought as she swiftly reached inside her coat and drew a silver blade out in the open. A crazed fervour took over her as sharp as the blades she wielded. The satisfying silver gleam of her dagger flickered for a moment as it flew straight between the brows of the woman who caused her to hallucinate about her horrid past.

♡coded by uxie♡

FEAR

I ATTACK

♡coded by uxie♡

Gao · Monday at 12:40 AM

IN-CHARACTER

HAVEN INN PART III

ROGUE WAVES

OFFBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

SEASON FINALE

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈.

The name Algol derives from Arabic رأس الغول raʾs al-ghūl : head (raʾs) of the ogre (al-ghūl) ("ghoul"); linked with pain and intoxication.

It is known throughout Solas to avoid the waters of the gray region, as submerging into the wet static is enough to dissolve both memory and probable chance of survival. But see, oxygen and petrichor annexed the lungs the moment you stepped onto the shores of Algol. The recent rain still saturates the air, coating lungs in salt and mirage.

Stir from your slumber on the cold sands and find that your footsteps from the dingy leave only a short trail before collapsing on the beach. Others are littered around you, wet with sand and moving from the ordeals of their own trial.

There is no Haven inn, never was, but the glow of yellow lights once mistaken for a township in the black distance, blink. Shifting clouds break a cut of moonlight, igniting the wet shoulders and hollowed features of the bodies along the shoreline.

They stand at the water’s edge, lined beside each other with limbs dangling like idle weights. Gray fabrics no longer, but deep gray skin that is stretched over tall, thin frames like city asphalt. Alienesque, naked but only featuring seamless skin, unblinking. Each of their glowing yellow eyes watch with a wide interest that cannot be mistaken for anything but fixation.

Their chests rise and fall in eerie unison, as if tethered to a single, silent breath. They make no motion to cross the thin barrier of sand between them and the waking crew only just out of reach, yet their patience has weight—a predator’s waiting claim. One or two lean forward, just slightly, and water drips from their wrists and fingertips, blotting dark spots on the sand like stains.

Here in this desolate place, of crew plagued with tea-stricken minds and of crew turning their weapons and fists onto each other, is a rationale that has gone extinct. The only certainty beyond the sound of a skull splitting on ore and the haemorrhaging blood flowering from the woman’s temple, is that the water is not safe.

The things on the shore remain still, eyes fixed upon those on the sand and indifferent to a life just claimed. They wait for their own opportunity.

Keep away from the shore till daybreak.

✮ 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐌𝐀𝐖𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 ✮

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖. 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

HAVEN

YOU DRINK THE TEA

♡coded by uxie♡

HAVEN

YOU DO NOT DRINK THE TEA

♡coded by uxie♡

HAVEN

YOU ATTACK

♡coded by uxie♡

picklemouse · Monday at 2:17 AM

(Imagine please, so kindly, that I posted earlier thnx)

THE BRIDE.

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Flora

CASSANDRA

FLORES

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Happy, a little drunk, a little spicy, and a lotta confused

OUTFIT

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

LOCATION

Ivan and Flora's room at The Haven Inn

MENTIONS

Yasmine, Adrius, Ilya, Arulien, Delores, Helga, and the worst special guest of all time

INTERACTS

CrimsonInk ; @M4R5 ;

qunqun ;

Nifty

Devil's Backbone (Slowed) - The Civil Wars.

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OH LORD, OH LORD

what have I done? I've fallen in love
with a man on the run. He's raised on the
Edge of the devil's backbone,
Don't take that sinner from me.

CHAPTER THREE PART TWO.

TW: Violence; Manipulation; Intent to SA with no descriptions

It was the best night she had in the most recent weeks.
Ever since she and her father left her home in Tortoise Rill.

Ever since she visited The Cascades for the first time.
Ever since she met the horrible Judge Quinlan.
Ever since she met Adrius, who had since touched the veil between this life and the next on two occasions.
Ever since they landed in Zenith off the good ship Sylvia
Ever since they boarded The Leviathan

For the first time since her journey began, Cassandra found a familiar face in her childhood friend Yasmine. The pair had spent their youth playing in the streams, and picking fruits, climbing trees and talking about their dreams. It had been so many years since they'd seen each other since Yasmine left on her own harrowing journey. Tonight their reunion in the tavern at The Haven Inn was joyous, familiar, truly a gift. Approaching normal, if Cassandra usually spent her nights drinking in taverns and wielding a sword with her bad ass girlfriends.

Cassandra approached the door of her room, unsure of what she would find on the other side. She wasn't sure where Adrius was this evening or how he had spent his day. She hoped he was okay, but knew he was strong and capable. His healing had finally taken a turn for the better and his health was most improved. Together, they took meals in the mess hall, very aware of the eyes on them from their fellow passengers. After only seeing Cassandra - Flora, she corrected herself - wandering around for weeks, the sudden appearance of Adrius - Ivan as the passengers knew him - caused a light stir.

To the passenger’s perception, they entered the mess hall together for the first time since boarding. Flora gently introduced Ivan to Arulian (the two surly souls make her giggle), and they carried thier plates to a table and ate quietly. As fellow passengers walked by, Flora pointed them out to connect them with the stories she would share with him each night, intangible details from her daily activities now made tangible. Much of their time was spent indoors since Ivan still seemed uneasy on the ship, though there were times Flora insisted they enjoy the sun and fresh air on deck.

The creaking of the door opening caught Adrius’ attention, who turned away from the window to greet her. “Hi,” he said. Simply. Softer than his usual brusque way.

A wonder crossed her mind.
What was he looking at beyond their window?

The wide smile stretching across her husband’s face replaced her wonder with appreciation for the rare joy she had started to see in him. Adrius’ condition started to improve once he finally allowed Doctor Ilya to fully examine and tend to the infection above his eye. In fact, things got quite bad for a moment where his fever refused to break, and Cassandra feared she might lose him.

“Hi,” she replied. Her smile matched his, fueled by a little too much wine and revelry from earlier. “I am so sorry I am so late to return. I ran into a friend from the ship downstairs.”

With how discreet they’ve had to be in order to sell their disguises, Cassandra decided against sharing that she had just spent the evening with her childhood best friend, revealing a lot of their secrets to Yasmine.
Then again, Yasmine had been disguising herself as Jade Roman on board, so the two had reached an agreement to work as allies for each other.

“That’s alright dear.” Smiles were exchanged as they held that moment with each other.

The fact of his healing started to cause her a bit of anxiety. Now that he was healed, would he continue to honor their bond? Their agreement to move forward together, to escape their dreadful fates in The Cascades in search of freedom and a new life. Would he consider her a burden once he didn’t need her to take care of him anymore?

Cassandra touched her forehead. “I think I might have had a little too much to drink.” It was hot and for some reason she was nervous. Their cabin on the ship wasn’t very big, but it wasn’t like their space in the Inn was much larger. The room felt small. Perhaps it was the way he was looking at her as he crossed the room towards her.

In their time together, she had grown fond of him. She savoured the hours before they would fall asleep, her in their bed and Adrius unseen on the floor. He entertained her inquiries, answering them in a low voice. Sometimes, he would tell her stories from his home, lulling her to sleep. Other nights, Cassandra would tell him stories of her home, describing great sights of tropical birds landing on the treetops, and otters playing in the rivers. The night of the storm, the very reason for their stop at The Haven Inn, they held each other. Both trying to be strong for the other; Both more afraid than they might have ever been for fear of the ship capsizing.

Adrius half grunted a laugh, as best as he had ever been known to laugh. “That’s alright too.” Standing this close to her, she paid particular notice to the scar above his eye. The physical manifestation of their relationship, bumpy and scared, but healing. The new skin was shiny, sometimes catching silver in the candle light. Instinctually, she reached up and touched the scar gently, losing herself a little as her fingertips touched the freshly shaven, smooth skin on his cheek.

“You shaved.” She added softly. He had gotten quite scruffy while healing. “And you got your haircut.” The sides were cleaned up again, as he was when she first saw him in Quinlan’s prison.

His head leaned towards her hand as her hand left his face. ”I did.” Adrius mirrored her touch on her blushing cheek, dropping his fingertips to her shoulder, gently pinching the fabric. ”Is your dress new?”

”Yes. From Lori.” The tight burning feeling in her chest was back. She had felt this feeling during the storm as she cradled his head in her lap, soothing his anxiety from the rough sailing.

With care, he traced down her arm over the white sleeve of her dress. ”You look lovely dear.” Responding to his touch, her hand rose to meet his and their fingers interlaced. Adrius pulled their hands to his broad chest, rising and falling with slow and steady breaths. Heat rose in her cheeks as she noticed his eyes switch focus to her lips, causing her to look at his. Light pressure under her chin tilted her gaze back up to him mere moments before their lips met.

At that moment, there was nothing.
Then, the world began and ended where their skin connected.
How many days had she wanted this?
Or was it weeks?

Her knees buckled slightly as she felt her body melt into his.
He held her close to him, his strong arms pulling her in tightly.

It was too tight.

The heat in her chest dropped and turned to ice, raising the hair on the back of her neck.

Suddenly, Adrius overpowered her. The hand under her chin pushed against her sternum, knocking her back against the wall, holding her. His other hand held hers low, pinned against her side.

”You made a good run for it, but you trust too easily my dear.” A sinister snarl punctuated the pet name he used for her. Against his strong grip she struggled to break free. She couldn’t do much with her arms, but her legs were still free enough to kick. A few wild kicks yielded a blow to his knee, hard enough for Adrius’ hold to falter long for Cassandra to wrench herself free, but only for a moment.

A sharp cry filled the room along with a snap of bones in her hand still in his grasp.

He picked her up and distanced her from the door, pushing her to the bed with her arms pinned to her side now. To prevent more kicking, Adrius stood with one foot on the ground and the other leg weighted over hers. His stoney blue eyes were soulless. His face clenched in serious determination.

“Is this what he used to make you do?” she spit up at him, struggling again against his weight. In their conversations about his life serving Quinlan, he spared her the details he could while still being honest. If he ever was honest with her.

His eyes crinkled menacingly. “A lot worse than this, my dear.” He continued, leaning in close, adding more of his weight on her. “It’s all been a game, and you played it so well.” The heat from his breath on her ear made her recoil, tears welling in her eyes.

There was a firm knock at the door.
Desperate for anyone to help, Cassandra cried out, quickly muffled by one of Adrius’ large hands, waves of pain emanating from her broken hand beside her.

The door opened and she thought her eyes were deceiving her for a moment as the unrecognizable figure entered the room, revealing himself to be High Judge Quinlan of The Cascades.

“My bride.” He smiled a sick smile at her, effectively holding her fearfully in place as Adrius stood straight to greet his master. ”Very good work Adrius. It seems you’ve won your freedom afterall.”

Freedom?
The pieces came together creating a clearer picture in her mind as Quinlan revealed his sinister plot.

”My dear Cassandra. You know how much I enjoy a good game, and I couldn’t marry you without breaking you down. You and your pesky resolve. You’re sharp words and taste for change in a land you have no right to control.” Dead eyes stared into hers as he spoke, showing his teeth. ”I had to prove I had absolute and total control over you. A win-win scenario for your dear companion, who played his part wonderfully.” Adrius stood at attention, stoic and cold. An entirely different man than the one she had just spent the last few months with. ”Isn’t it just delicious? You made sure this man lived so he may do this to you in return?” The repulsive man made soft clicks of disapproval behind his teeth. ”It’s just too bad that his injury delayed our little reunion, but it doesn't matter. That’s what makes the game more fun, isn’t it?”

How could she have trusted Adrius?
She shouldn’t have trusted anyone.

”You took the bait beautifully Cassandra.” A gnarled finger wiped away a stream of tears from her face. The finger belonged to an old woman seemingly unseen by the men in the room. ”You played the game so well, helping Adrius earn his freedom. It’s only right he enjoys his new prize in style.”

Her heart sank as she watched the darkness shift in Ivan - Adrius, she had to correct herself - and she realized the implications of Quinlan’s statement. Cassandra cradled her broken hand against her chest as she made herself smaller on the bed, frantically searching the room for a way out.

The old lady was directly in front of her.
A saucer was in her outstretched hand, laden with a bone white china cup filled with tea.
From her still mouth, she heard the old woman’s voice in her head, and she considered the tea.

“𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃?

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄?"

Would the tea heal her?
Would the tea kill her?
More than anything, in this moment, Cassandra was willing to risk the unknown in the face of the devil himself.

Without a second thought, she grabbed the cup and tilted the hot beverage into her mouth, and with a guttural scream from the deepest part of herself, she hurled the cup in Adrius’ direction, shattering the ceramic against the wall above his head.

[/B]

♡coded by uxie♡

qunqun · Monday at 2:42 AM

CONTENT WARNING: Suicide attempt. Delusions. Paranoia. Parental abuse. Grief.

THE CHIMERA.

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Dante

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

K thanks bye now

OUTFIT

Fancy drowned rat

LOCATION

Algol

MENTIONS

Tiberius

Nifty

INTERACTS

Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito

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Icarian Cloud.

To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils

Chapter Three.

Symptom: Honesty

Dante woke up, feeling vestiges of warmth and ice crackling its way through his insides, his hands reaching up to cover the ghost of gentle touch, only to wrap his fingers around his elbow.

Oh. It was a trick for her to get him to drink that weird tea. Of course-

-Of course they’d never love you

Shut up.

…

Did he say that out loud?

Why would anyone love you

Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?

Why do you think you deserve people’s kindness

A whisper off from his shoulder, Dante suddenly stood and drew his revolver from his belt and aimed it at… nothing.

Something had been there

You’re fucking insane.

Shut up.

Do you know the amount of crimes you’ve committed in the name of something you’ll never achieve?

His hands were shaking as he aimed it at- there were people here.

Dante’s eyes had gone wide and terrified, his hands were quivering as they held his pistol- no he was shaking. His entire body had gone into tremors. There was something attacking him?

There was something attacking them? Them?

There were people here.

Be normal. He’d said that one out loud as well, even as his breathing was starting to pick up.

You’re a failure.

Stop it- what was out loud, what wasn’t.

Stop losing your fucking mind over the truth that you FUCKING KNOW.

YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE A COMPLETELY UNLOVED CHILD, MANIPULATED INTO THINKING THAT IF YOU DO THE RIGHT THINGS AND SAY THE RIGHT THINGS AND ACT IN A PERFECT MANNER THAT MAYBE DADDY MIGHT LOVE YOU.

Are you being that right now Dante?

Dante’s physicality, his entire state of being was done in a way to project extreme normalcy and amiability to people, even if that wasn’t necessarily true.

Nobody would ever love him.

He was frail, horribly so, living on caffeine and nicotine, praying that if he did just one more all nighter, one more impossible task, sacrificed anything to just get his parents to show him kindness, maybe that would fix him. Maybe they'd let him eat with the rest of the family.

His parents didn’t care enough about him to fix his teeth as a kid. He knew they saw his smile as ugly. He changed the way he smiled.

His eyes darted back and forth, the ugly kaleidoscope effect spinning as the color, never pretty never good, hated, despised, flicked from grungy gray to gross brown to swamp green to gray to green to brown to-

They were feverishly bright as he was fully hyperventilating as he was collapsing to the ground, still holding the gun and beginning to pull at his hair.

THAT WAS THE GUN THAT KILLED OWEN. YOU CARRY AROUND YOUR PARTNER’S MURDER WEAPON YOU FUCKING FREAK.

Your life…

His life…

My life.

It is not one worth living-

You killed him.

With that gun.

It is so easy…. It would be so easy…

Maybe they’ll miss me?

They probably won’t.

Dante screamed as he started banging his head with a fist- GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET-

Public. He was in public he had to be compose-

Why are you even fucking trying anymore.

His father was standing behind him after backhanding him so hard he was sure he was bleeding somewhere, maybe, he was covered in blood. The world had gone four feet farther away. He was kneeling in a pool of Owen’s blood- that was Owen’s blood-

He was screaming.

He is screaming.

What difference would it make? Everyone knows you're fucking insane.

Dante moved to put the gun to his head, but didn't feel any of the pain as his wrist wrenched at it getting knocked away.

Tiberius had ripped the gun away and out of his hand.

His chest heaved as the voices continued to swirl around his head.

Dante broke down into complete hysterical sobs as he curled up into a ball.

♡coded by uxie♡

AnimeGenork · Monday at 7:06 PM

MADELINA VOLKOVA.

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Maddie

Decoy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Just What She Always Thought

OUTFIT

Dainty Murderess

LOCATION

Algol

MENTIONS

Penelope

INTERACTS

Graymaws & Genevieve

TAGS

N/A

WOLF — FIRST AID KIT.

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A PRINCESS

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

CHAPTER THREE, PART THREE.

When Madelina was four years old, she encountered death for the first time.

She had been playing with her friends along the cobbled streets of Zenith, laughing and giggling. Then she spotted it out of the corner of her eye. A butterfly. One of the wings was torn, and the other had lost the scales of pigment that help such a creature take flight. Maddie gently nestled the grounded bug and hurried it home, begging her parents to save it.

The butterfly strained to flap its wings, gaining no air, even with the sugar water provided in a small dish to provide it sustenance. Madelina watched the insect anxiously, wanting to see it fly off and join its friends in the meadows and fields beyond the city.

It was to no avail. The next morning, the butterfly’s wings were drooping in the water, the body drifting aimlessly. Madelina cried and cried for the poor creature, feeling terribly that she had failed to save its life. She would forget, in time, that this had happened. Being encased within a palace aided the erasure of the memory, a place where every day was spent isolated in a room or learning all manner of royal etiquette. Death did not touch her in the palace. She had no place within its grip.

Until now.

Having read stories of witches and all manner of magic, Madelina had simply assumed the vision of the guard, of the only person besides her parents who had found someone worthy of love in this empty husk of her body, was just that. A vision. She had only meant to push the innkeeper, perhaps get her to admit why she was being toyed with. For once in her life, she was standing up for herself. She hadn’t done so when the Kingsmen had come to rip her away from her parents, she hadn’t done so all the years in the palace, and she’d been absolutely spineless facing the princess as she was given the task of reporting on the Leviathan.

Tonight was the night she learned there was no point in gaining a backbone. For it only made her something ugly, despicable. Even more of a waste of space than she already was.

Madelina had in fact succeeded in shoving the innkeeper, her lips twisted into an animalistic snarl that was very unlike her. Or, very unlike the princess. She didn’t know herself, she was no one special. Just a shadow of a much grander figure. Even still, her face was not her own as she fought back against the cruel woman before her—

no, wait, that’s not

the innkeeper

who is that?

Crack.

An involuntary gasp leaves Madelina’s mouth at the sight before her. Noises try to claw their way out of her throat, but all she makes are strangled sounds as she realizes what has happened, what she has done. She had not pushed the innkeeper, she pushed this woman.

She killed the woman.

Barely registering the sight around her of a strange beach, of everyone else from the ship, she falls to her knees, her skin irritated from the coarse sand. She stares at the body before her, feeling a warmth lining her eyes while an eerie cold creeps through her veins. Madelina forgets to blink, blinks, blinks again, tries to rid her vision of the sight of the blood staining the water, oh god the water, oh god oh god OH GOD—

Long fingers wrap around the poor woman’s arm, lifting her away from the rock that pierced her. Madelina watches in horror as the creature—is this the thing that tricked her into doing this—claims the body for its own. Her voice is hoarse as she manages, “No, please, stop—” before all evidence of crime, save for the blood in the water and on the rock and on the sand, is gone.

“NO!”

She moves with—what purpose? To save the woman? Resuscitate her? Preserve the body to mourn over the death she herself has caused? The ominous yellow eyes of the creatures stop her, and she pauses, her hands buried in the bloodied sand. Finally, the sobs take over, wracking her body as she curls in on herself, her tears dropping onto the uncaring sand. Sand and blood and brine is all over her clothes. She is no longer Princess Penelope, or even the shadow of her, but simply Madelina Volkova. And she has killed someone.

Her first thought is of the girl, who must’ve been about her age. Unlike Madelina, with no life of her own, no dreams to call hers, this girl had her whole life ahead of her to explore Solas, experience the world, maybe even fall in love.

But then Madelina happened.

Then she thinks of the princess, the disappointed look sure to cross her face should she hear about this. She would be condemned to prison to rot, or perhaps they would burn her at the stake. Maybe they would find an even worse punishment. She is royalty after all—in the sense that she was the royal family’s pawn to do with as they please.

What will become of her parents? Surely they will pretend she never existed, maybe even have another child or adopt one. Who is Madelina? they’ll ask. We’ve never had a daughter by that name.

Lastly, the guard. If he’s still alive, he’ll be so relieved to hear that all record of her has vanished off this earth. She was lonely. It wasn’t like it meant anything. And that was what she deserved, to be scoffed at, scorned, forgotten as if she never existed.

“It should’ve been me,” she finally says in a choked whisper. “Please. Take me, too.” Lifting her head, she searches for mercy in the merciless eyes of the monsters that have broken the porcelain doll she once was. “Don’t let me hurt anyone else.”

You let anger consume you, and now she’s dead. These are the consequences of your actions. Monster. Murderer.

Worthless. Nothing.

In the span of a few minutes, it has all become true.

When once she wished for a personality, she now only wished to cease.

♡coded by uxie♡

Nifty · Monday at 10:18 PM

THE GLADIATOR.

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Tiberius

SANCTUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Survivor’s Guilt In It’s Finest

OUTFIT

Ragscore

LOCATION

Tiberius’ Inn Room??

MENTIONS

Where’s MY Son Bec?! Oh.. Hello Lady.

INTERACTS

N/A

PIN-EYE — Jhariah

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Sanguine Stains

your path like a carpet of carnage. Its bloody jaws snap shut on your limbs, forcing you to walk upon the heap of carcass you created.

CHAPTER THREE, PART II.

TW. Implied violence in the arena.

Grim expectations and a grimmer reality stain the world. Even the most authentic essence of truth cannot erase that mere fact. The only thing that can be done is simply to shed light and bestow kindness onto others, to Bec, who must’ve suffered enough to dwell among the people’s shadows to befriend them instead.

“Bec?!” He fretfully called out as his eyes surmised that the boy was nowhere near him.

Memories can become somewhat hazy after a mind-numbingly excellent nap. Did he fall asleep in the middle of his dinner? Or is it after he set his plate down clumsily on the floor? Were the two of them having a conversation? If so, guilt soon wriggled itself between the crevices of his conscience.

And so, it begins.

“I did not mean to disturb,” a voice suddenly emerged from his right. For a moment, he thought it was Bec; however, when he whipped his head in that direction, he was greeted by the sight of a smiling woman clad with grey fabrics and golden jewellery. “I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

The gladiator found himself completely awake at that moment. Despite the sobering reality the lady in grey brought, all he could utter at that moment was a simple, “Uhhhh.” After a few arduous blinks, he found himself properly inspecting the environment before him. It was still the same old room, except it lacked the presence of Bec. Only the lone woman, gently holding a delicate cup of tea. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you to do.” He politely stated.

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

The moment the sentence itself was processed, his mind immediately wandered to the dream he held close to his heart—the very escape he lulled his mind to before going to bed.

Viridescent eyes, full of life, greeted him. In an instant, Helga vanished along with the wind, and Tiberius was suddenly in a tavern overflowing with people. A healthy hearth roared its amber lights, illuminating the nearby individuals. Among a group of men, there he was—his childhood friend—laughing, grinning, drinking, and, most importantly, living. He’s reached adulthood.

Every bone of Tiberius’ body implored him to tackle his friend in a hug; however, another selfless voice urged him to remain where he was standing, for he did not deserve even an iota of his presence. Tiberius failed his friend; he was there when his olive green eyes dimmed into nothingness as the reaper reaped his soul. Tiberius doesn’t even deserve to look at what he has become. Or at least, what he could’ve been. His death was his fault. The behemoth deemed it to be the very first life he claimed after all.

The more his cerulean gaze floated around each face, the more his breath hitched upon a sudden realisation. A pregnant woman walked past him, and his eyes immediately launched on her neck—the very neck he snapped. Except the woman was smiling and lovingly caressing her round belly. A young man also caught his attention. He was cradling a rowdy young girl who kept hitting her older brother’s face with a wooden sword—the very face he pummeled. Next was a tall, muscular man showing the barmaiden his newly commissioned sword—the very sword he utilised to cut his head.

Before they were Tiberius’ opponents, these people were friends, mothers, fathers, parents, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons, and siblings. And he shattered those titles into nothing but bones and rotting flesh. Instead of being greeted at the sight of an army of gravestones, the crowd before him was alive and breathing, fulfilling the very roles they were meant to play in the game that is life.

Here, they were alive and thriving. It’s the cooling relief his guilt desperately needed. Perhaps this is the place where he was meant to be. After all, guilt is the very vehemence he could never run away from. But in this plane of existence, for once in his life, he could genuinely feel light without the burdensome weights of his sins.

Tiberius felt his knees grow weak.

A hand gently caressed his shoulder, and upon contact, he turned to see Helga. One arm brushing his naked skin, the other holding the same intricately designed tea cup. “This,” She waved her hand to the men and women before him. “It can be your reality if you drink this. Don’t you want them all to live again, Tiberius?” She whispered ever so delicately and deceptively; Tiberius felt his muscles moving on their own as if he were deep in a trance.

Grasping the handle of the delicate tea cup tight, the gladiator found his resolve slowly slipping away. Until. “No,” Tiberius uttered firmly. He could feel the timber floors beneath him rumble from the strength of his voice. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, but my answer is no. I won’t subject these people to this miserable world for the second time just to ease my guilt. And besides, he would hate me for being so clingy.” His lips stretched into a warm smile.

His eyes particularly took a glimpse at the boy with the emerald eyes. Azure eyes, brimming with yearning, drank every aspect of him. For this might be the final time he will see his dearest friend. Smiling ever so brightly as he swung his arm around a companion, in this fantasy of his, he certainly grew to be breathtakingly marvellous. Ale-scent mugs, intoxicated grins, and reddened cheeks bathed him with enough warmth to push through one courageous action.

Tiberius poured the tea on the floor, expecting this dream to cease the moment he did so. As the final droplets of the tea left its cup, the doleful gladiator chose not to drink the tea.

♡coded by uxie♡

WANT

I DO NOT DRINK

♡coded by uxie♡

Gao · Monday at 11:13 PM

THE KINGSLAYER.

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船井蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

I'M SORRY ):

OUTFIT

SNEEKY SLEEKY

LOCATION

ALGOL SHORE

MENTIONS

MAGNUS.

INTERACTS

Nifty

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 III.

It begins and ends with a dark conception, rooted next to the water.

When the sunny world he’d been hiding from splits open to this ashy shore, it is like paradise bleeding into madness, a quiet afternoon dissolving into frenzied morbidity.

He is still on the ground, hugging his knees close and watching over folded arms, but the shades melt and sculpt into the breaking tide and figures standing in the surf. He is minced with alarm, hears the sound of bone hitting rock and somebody screaming.

When he detaches enough from the tar of his vision to the turbulent surroundings, he uncoils his limbs and climbs to his feet to survey the destruction. Eyes snag on a woman, backtrack to recognise her curls even in this hazardous dark.

“Lori?” His voice is small and ribboned with apprehension, moving towards the only familiarity in this cold as though she is a good thing here and the only anchor needed to ground him in whatever was happening. But he has overlooked how half-feral and foregone she is in that make-believe wilderness of Haven Inn.

All he has ever known since he first met Dolores was that her hands are soaked in the blood of execution and he trusts them completely. It has never been an esoteric gray area to doubt or debate, but a fact that he has never been given a reason to think she’d want to hurt him; has known her affection and care long before the arc of her knife.

“Are you oka–”

It lacerates through his face and he staggers at the splitting skin, long black hair spilling forward as he presses a hand over the wet line of the wound. He is motionless for a moment, breathing unevenly as the reality of the attack settles.

The eye was intact, knife angled just enough to miss skewering vision from his skull, but a deep slice runs above his brow to his temple. His mouth burned back when the infernal iron of smoking shrapnel cleaved it open, and his head burns now with the echoing silver of a knife that has landed heavily on the sand behind him. It is not the fresh incision that hurts most, but the faith that he has never been in danger around Dolores being dashed against a cliff-face.

He feels the red blossom and run, the thick of it catching eyelashes and diluting through the inky veneer of his eye. Blinking half red from the cornea, it takes him a while to gather the courage to even dare look at the woman again.

For once his brain knows better than his heart, and for once in his entire life he looks at Dolores with something guarded, something distrustful. His shoes heed his mind, and with a cautious slide of sand he has taken a shaky step away. One person has already ventured too close with a blade tonight, and the residual paranoia of Magnus has him assuming this can’t be anything but intentional. Animosity would not be unwarranted given their history, and perhaps this was just an opportune time for her to reveal it.

"I'm sorry, I–" he should have never left. "I didn't–" he didn't want this to happen. There is no clip of anger to his voice, maybe he knows in some twisted way he deserves it, or maybe he is pleading she doesn't hurt him again.

Ren stumbled back another step, and the vein of truth can no longer be denied:

he is afraid of her.

♡coded by uxie♡

Gao · Tuesday at 8:24 PM

THE LAZARUS.

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RAT

THE

LAZARUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

HAM?! ?! OHOHO !!

OUTFIT

GRANNY VEST

LOCATION

SHORES OF ALGOL.

MENTIONS

ROSALINE.

INTERACTS

AnimeGenork

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.

All these delirious little idiots, running amok with not a grain of sense rattling inside their cavernous skulls. Just wait until they behold the unstoppable, intellectual prowess of Ratthew Marmalade.

And one may question, where is this unstoppable, intellectual king, Ratthew Marmalade?

He is asleep on the sand.

Boys will see this and think: hell yeah.

It could be said he is mustering the strength. His rat power. His muscles. Rat abs.

Calm down little pervert, let us pay attention.

In this noblesse stretch of sand that felt oh so soft around the angles of his bones, the dredged weight of the tea had Landon equivalent to sand fodder. A lumped carcass with little ambition outside of dying before ever leaving the grains of this location.

His body feels like pale fragments that have forgotten how to be pieced together, floating aimlessly like an opal ark of lost souls. Eyelids drift between day and night, the shadows and sounds of others coalescing to a mosaic of background noise. They are dull in his haze, almost sleep-soft.

It is not death Rat fears, but the slow pain of it. As he lays in this gentle catharsis that would be a pleasant spot to join Charon, he knows he could rest forever if he tried.

Today, however, is not that day.

“Ever seens a leg of ham stripped by noctivores?”

What.

Who the fuck is speaking to him.

Landon’s features scrunch and he tries to turn away from the obnoxious sound, managing only a weak twist of his face. The nasally voice sounds familiar yet foreign, and he cannot bring himself to care enough to identify it.

The more pressing concern is, why is it always ham?

“I do not like ham.” Comes a drowsy reply, feels his voice echo in his blood like humming wavelets as it rings out into the interval of silence between him and the stranger. There’s a small kernel of uncertainty to what prompted to share that opinion, being honest is an exotic trait, even in regards to the topic of cured meat.

Suppose it doesn't matter anymore, not when he’s content enough to break bread with death.

“I likes hamsies.”

By the stars. Let me die you obnoxious bitch.

“You do not.” It’s oddly intimate, declaring this of a stranger. Yet Landon feels he knows them well enough.

Eyes open as the recognition gathers momentum, you?— craning his neck up to ascertain the individual sat cross-legged on the sand next to him.

It takes a considerable amount of time for blurs to swim into focus, and as speculated, the stranger is himself. Or at least, the Rat caricature. Perched nonchalantly and biting boredly at nails as if this situation was not entirely deranged. Landon’s eyes squint in confusion, yet he doesn’t have the strength to do much other than a disoriented, “Okay”.

Yeah. That’s not normal. Many things are not normal. Accepting tea from strangers is not normal. Being named Rat is not normal. Talking to yourself who is sitting next to you is not normal.

Head back to the sand to be pleasantly embalmed, he has no intention of engaging with this lunacy.

“Sees over there, sleepy Sam? Harlot woman frolics for th’ waters, she do.”

It takes him a while to fathom the sentence because he does not know her name, only recognises the label from rumours and writings of others on the ship. A bed warmer from Antares; The Succubus. From the sideways showcase of his vision from the sand, the blurry horizon is dotted with the movement of vague shapes. He assumes one of them is the bed warmer.

“Why should I care?” How indomitable that even intoxicated out of his mind, he has enough wits to remain rude to… himself.

“‘Cause she’s gonna play with them long things.”

Landon’s face twists with disgust at the sound of that.

“I do not wish to see her occupation in action.”

“Steady now, Lusty Lando, she’s just the ham.”

WHY IS IT ALWAYS HAM.

To great ire he can feel that final odyssey slipping away with each word out of their— his mouth. Icing over, bound back to the ground with his spine that served as a mooring line. He is not dead nor is he dying, and that duty to living vividly has him begrudgingly moving to meet the present. Spine aching, he drags himself upright with a tempestuous huff.

“What are you nattering about?” Bleary blinks do their best to register the surroundings, but with kaleidoscope lights refracting shards off each surface, he’d have better luck establishing sense from the sightline of the ground.

“Ohhh,” it settles slow with some enthusiastic nods, “she is the ham.” The shapes in the distance become clearer: the gangly forms in the water, their waiting hungry and deliberate. Landon pieces it together—if Rosaline steps into the tide she will not return. An eaten ham. He mulled this like wine, lazily weighing whether this revelation demanded his involvement. Settles on a decisive clicked tongue and common sentiment: “not my problem.”

There is silence between him and… him. It feels disgustingly judgemental, as if Rat is expecting Landon to get up and do something. The smugness is palpable, their smile infuriating.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Landon mutters, side-eying the apparition. And ew, his hair looks bad from this angle. That is probably not important right now. Let us pay attention. Weary eyes turn back to watch as the figure of the woman draws closer to the tide and he can feel it. Itched by conscience— what a vile thing to have.

“I have had some thoughts about it.” He announces matter-of-factly in a way he believes sounds entirely sober and not slurred at all. An imperial head tilt of his leaden skull and an intellectual hand is raised to discuss this matter with himself. “It is somewhat my problem, but I do not see why nobody else cannot help, just observe—”

He goes to wave said hand over the copious pickings of crew available, others that would be far better suited to play hero. Falters seeing the mania unravelling across the shore in weapons and screaming and wow would you look at that, nobody is sane.

His hand drops heavily back to the sand, a defeated upturn of his sad mouth.

“Fine!” Petulant is his acquiescence, occupying dual roles of both savior and pest. “Gotta do everything my damn self around here.”

Behold, the unstoppable intellectual prowess of Ratthew Marmalade. With a stumbling start he had risen, barely upright as he struggled over the dark sand towards the target.

“You! Woman!” That sounds disrespectful. “Lady? Lady!” What is an appropriate way to scream at a female? Slay mamas? Free Britney? His teachings from the Covenant should have taught better than to skirt-chase.

Vacillates with the swerve of gravity and has to stop and blink the motion from his eyes. Thinks he stood on someone’s arm somewhere in the delusion of what he thinks was a dignified walk— or else it was a rather squishy stick.

Rosaline's silhouette cuts a stark charcoal shadow against the shimmering water, and before she can skip her way into hungry maws, he reaches and grabs her by the upper arm before she can wander any further.

“Nope. We are not doing that.” It’s a tug more forceful than intended, but Landon cannot spare much empathy when his focus is on the figures standing in the shallows.

Their tall, gaunt forms are outlined by the moonlight—skin the color of wet ash, elongated limbs ending in splayed, long fingers. Round yellow eyes glow, unblinking and unnerving. They stand perfectly still, as if waiting for something.

“Ew,” Landon mutters, squinting judgmentally through his haze. His voice is slathered with tea-laden honesty as he feels the need to add: “They’re like… really fuckin’ ugly.”

He’d almost forgotten the woman he had latched by the arm in his bony talons.

♡coded by uxie♡

Mypilot · Tuesday at 8:41 PM

the urchin—

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bec

the boy

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Filled with divine purpose

OUTFIT

Working those rags like he owns them

LOCATION

Algol shoreline

MENTIONS

None

INTERACTS

None

"godhead" — cloud boat

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BROKEN BIRD,

or just broken in?
that sickly skin
still torn and too thin

CHAPTER THREE.

Food was a language Bec liked to speak, devouring the delicious meal and hoping it satiated that constant, gnawing hunger that always seemed to coil ever so neatly in his gut. For a moment, while Bec ate, he could not be sure if Tiberius had been speaking to him. It was always best to take the food that was made available, to eat quickly lest it somehow get taken away. Bec was not one to squander an opportunity, even if he didn’t feel particularly comforted by the presence of another in the shared room.

In minutes, the plate was picked clean, right down to its shiny white ceramic. Bec pretended to admire the remnants of food left in the plate, swiping a lick of gravy onto his finger and popping it into his mouth. He could see Tiberius’ reflection in the plate, a wavy outline and a smear of colour. Opening his mouth to speak thanks, Bec looked back up only to find Tiberius was not there.

The confusion Bec felt melted neatly away, and instead he could only look at the woman who had taken Tiberius’ place. Strange, like ceramic that had a pretty little crack running right through its face. The food turned sour in Bec’s stomach, his heart picking up. He took the sight of her in, though he wished he did not.

She was such an interesting creature, there but not. Bec wondered what she was missing that made her seem so lacking in humanity, because in truth he could see how she played the part. Her presence was like a balm and a scrape against flesh all at once, and Bec shrunk into himself.

Where was Tiberius?

Despite himself, he felt a gnawing suspicion about the disappearance of the man, and unsettling discomfort of…concern? No, nothing so dear. More suspicion, a dawning sense of unease. Although Bec had been wary of Tiberius since their introduction, he now was made keenly aware of the contrast between the two people who had stood opposite him. This woman was not as softening as Tiberius, was as inviting as a knife point or something cold and wet on the back of the neck. Startling, unwelcome, dreadful.

”I did not mean to disturb,” this creature-woman spoke. ”I’ve brought a spot of tea.” She raised the saucer like an offering, all sweet smiles and vivid eyes. Bec was set to immediately recoil, unsure and frankly growing in fear.

The woman stepped forward, trapping him in her gaze like some siren thing. ”What do you want most in this world? More than anything else?”

The question should have came as strange to him, so sudden and pointed. Yet all it did was tear his chest open, lay him bare. The room seemed to shiver, to spin away, and he was stuck in that old room again. The same tired walls, the same tired soul.

Someone stepped behind him, and Bec did not feel that urge to flee (a feeling as familiar to him as breathing), and when arms enveloped him in a warm embrace he was comforted by the gesture. He was a boy again, a child in body and mind, and the woman behind him placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

Those same old walls, that same cold house, but suddenly it was oh so very warm. It did not need to change in appearance because Bec knew it had changed in heart. A hand brushed a strand of hair out of his face, cupped his cheek, and said something he couldn’t quite make out but the sentiment was still there: love. Unconditional and true.

Bec blinked, that small house with all its warmth fading away back to the strange room, the strange woman. Bec felt something warm slide down his cheeks, his vision cloudy with tears.

The saucer with its neat, tidy tea cup was in Bec’s hands. An offering. An invitation.

He took a sip.

-

The sands were hot underneath him, but Bec did not feel the heat.

Almost immediately upon waking, Bec felt fear seep into his bones. Teeth clenched, fingers trembling, he scrambled upright in the sands and looked about with wide eyes. There were people all around him, a scattering of bodies he hoped were simply sleeping because the alternative made his stomach roil.

Some sound came from behind him, something in the water, and Bec turned sharply as sand kicked around him. Yellow eyes stared back, like that of the innkeeper from before, and Bec could only stare into them. They were horrible to look at, grey sallow skin like gargoyles.

Bec’s head twitched and he gave it a shake, feeling dizzy and unsure. He stumbled, the movement bringing him closer to the water. His mouth gaped like a fish, the sea calling to him like- like-

Like a whisper.

Purpose flooded his veins. This was why he was called away from Kestyr, this was what he was made to do. The sea was a song, so sweet and tender, and Bec stumbled another step towards it.

The greymaws watched him.

♡coded by uxie♡

Mypilot · Tuesday at 8:51 PM

The Ambassador—

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ANTARIN

ESTOR

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Alarmed!

OUTFIT

Rags fashion show finalist

LOCATION

Algol shoreline

MENTIONS

Bec

INTERACTS

@ me

"Remembrance" by Balmorhea

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O, CROWN SWORN

Don't you know?
Night will sting me (and you)
—we were only ever born blue

CHAPTER THREE.

One by one, the others drifted away—to bed or elsewhere, it did not matter. Antarin stayed at the simple table with its flickering firelight, waiting for exhaustion to call him back to his own room, where he could rest and wake up to figure this mess out.

Footsteps sounded before him, so light as to be almost inaudible. “I did not mean to disturb, the receptionist said, approaching with slight fingers wrapped around a steaming cup. I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

Antarin’s tired features shifted into a soft smile, slipping into that familiar display of grace and gratitude. ”Thank you, that is very kind.” He reached out both hands to accept the drink, letting the warm porcelain to slide into his hand from hers. He briefly touched her skin and was shocked at the cold in her fingers, as if they had absorbed nothing of the warmth from what she’d carried.

”Are you heading to bed yourself?” Antarin asked, tilting his head at the woman. He found it hard to imagine she stayed awake all night, though he supposed someone had to watch over during the night.

The woman smiled, but did not answer. She slid into a chair opposite of him, resting her palms flat on the table to inspect him with her unsettling gaze. Antarin could not recall seeing someone with eyes like hers, as piercing as any blade.

”What do you fear most in this world? More than anything else?” Her voice was sugary sweet, like warmed honey, and they did nothing to soften the ominous question.

Antarin shifted in his seat, attempting to ignore his discomfort. ”That is an interesting question,” he said, speaking slowly in thought. ”A little personal, if I may say.”

The woman—although it was becoming increasingly difficult to attribute that word to her—continued to smile. The room had grown darker since her arrival, and at first Antarin thought the fire was going out, but now he felt the room was shrinking around him, turning darker and darker.

They were on the ship.

They were not at sea, the ship utterly still. Splintered wood lay around him in a heap, and Antarin saw that the front of the vessel was smashed hard into some cliffs. Blood mixed with rainwater, seeping into the wood and around Antarin’s boots. There was so much blood.

Antarin ran towards the wreckage, seeing if they were sinking, and he nearly stumbled by tripping over something. Catching his balance, he cast his gaze down and froze. How had he not seen them? Bodies everywhere, rotten and bloated with sea water. Bone as splintered as the ship, blood and viscera everywhere. It was a shipwreck, it was a battlefield, it was war war war.

Antarin gripped his head, eyes wide. He had done this. He had failed. He hadn’t protected them. They were all dead, and it was his doing for thinking he had any role worth playing in this godforsaken life and he should be ASHAMED. He should FEAR. He should know nothing but guilt.

His father would kill him and even if he didn’t the city would and even after they had done so he would rot and fester an eternity of shame, of guilt, of knowing he had done this and everything else that was wrong, he was a sham and a fraud and none of this should have happened because he should never have happened.

Anatarin shot backwards in his seat, surprised to find himself still sitting. Glass shattered around him, a piece cutting his cheek, and hot liquid spilled all over him but he did not feel it. “Get”—he choked, barely able to speak—“away from me.”

-

His words snapped the world in half, shattering the Haven Inn like a bad dream. Antarin startled awake onto a sandy beach, feeling for all the world like he’d been physically beaten half to death. Bones aching, muscles sore, and a headache that was beginning to riot behind his temples.

A swear was halfway to his tongue before he heard the sounds of fighting around him, and Antarin sat upright with adrenaline pulsing in his veins.

It was a mess.

The shoreline—wherever they were—was a scattering of disheveled people in a wide array of states. Some slept or were unable to get up, and others were already up but were attacking each other. Why? Antarin forced himself to stand, already at half a mind to put a stop to the nearest bout, but movement at the corner of his eye drew him to a halt.

Some small scrap of a lad was stumbling towards the sea, looking like a devout man about to meet his maker. Antarin followed the path the boy was set to take with his eyes, catching sight of the corpe-like beasts waiting in the water like vultures before a meal.

”Wait-” Antarin started, but his voice was dry and cracked. He cleared his throat, lurching forward. ”Hey, don’t-!”

♡coded by uxie♡

picklemouse · Tuesday at 10:37 PM

THE BRIDE.

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Flora

CASSANDRA

FLORES

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Happy, a little drunk, a little spicy, and a lotta confused

OUTFIT

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

LOCATION

The Shore of Algol, but also The Canals, but also The Leviathan, but also The Haven Inn

MENTIONS

Adrius, Calanthe, Quinlan, and Helga

INTERACTS

@M4R5 ;

floralmoon [/USER]

Drowning (STWO Remix) - BANKS.

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TAKE IT FROM THE GIRL

who made you soup and tied
your shoes when you were hurting.
You are not deserving.
'Cause I'm drowning for ya.

CHAPTER THREE PART THREE.

TW: Violence

Without a second thought, she grabbed the cup and tilted the hot beverage into her mouth, and with a guttural scream, she hurled the cup in Adrius’ direction, shattering the ceramic against the wall above his head.

Of course Adrius flinched. They both did.
She had no chance against Adrius. He was too big. Too focused on her. His reaction to the projectile gave Cassandra the briefest moment to act.

Her legs had been tucked underneath her body as Quinlan delivered his villainous monologue. She appeared to be recoiled from the judge, but the position gave her a proper springboard to launch herself at Quinlan. Her guttural cry turned to a screech as both of her hands landed squarely on the old man’s chest, sharp pain radiating from her broken right hand. Down he went and in the scramble, Cassandra did the only thing she could do to escape the room.

She aimed her elbow, bracing her arm between her injured hand and chest, pivoting her body and she smashed through the window.

The sensation of these high dives were consistent. Wind rushing against her face, billowing her hair, and the unmistakable drop in her stomach as she twisted her body to prepare for the water’s impact.

The Canals were beautiful. Lush and full of sun. It was like she had never left, or more to the point, it was like she was living in her memory. She remembered this day, diving at The Punchbowl shortly before Yasmine left Tortoise Rill. It was a yearly tradition to honour the summer solstice. Their friends and family gathered to swim and pick fresh berries, ending the day with sunset celebrations and a summer feast.

The crash of water in her dream was followed by a sudden crash as a wave collided with the side of the ship. Cassandra was disoriented.

Adrius was clutching her. The ship rocked, they fell out of the bed.
“Sorry,” he muttered nervously, voice muffled against her back.
“It’s okay darling,” with her right hand, Cassandra pushed herself off the wood planked floor and turned herself under him. “It is not your fault.” His eyes pleaded with her in fear. Adrius had confessed his fear of sailing and his poor swimming skill, but she had never seen him like this. Like a child.
Her hands cupped his face lovingly. “It’s okay Adrius. Just breathe.”

In a better state, she would have noticed the pain in her hand was no longer broken, however the effects of the mysterious lady’s tea had a firm hold on Cassandra. In her mind, she was in their cabin on The Leviathan, but also in Tortoise Rill as she had dreamt she was before the passengers disembarked from their injured ship. The person’s face in her hand was not Adrius but in fact a petite blonde woman with rancor in her wide unblinking eyes. She shoved her hands away from her face and raised her own hand, swinging down and making contact with Cassandra’s cheek.

The first thing she noticed on impact was the pain. Not in her face, but in her right hand. The brief image of Calanthe melted and deformed into Adrius. Not with a face full of fear, but with a rage she did not recognise in him.
He must have followed me out the window.

Under his weight, she scrambled again, but he had a strong hold on her.
“LET ME GO! ADRIUS!”

♡coded by uxie♡

Nifty · Wednesday at 1:56 AM

THE SCOURGE.

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Dolores

THORNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

What have I done?

OUTFIT

Boatswain Slay.

LOCATION

Algol

MENTIONS

Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Little Pistol — Mother Mother

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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 III.

As the veils of the mirage lifted its curtains, her muscles tensed at the brand-new sensation that crawled all over her body. She never knew how it felt to sleepwalk. Until now. One flutter of her eyelash. Two. Three. It took her four blinks to vaporise the image of Helga, only to be replaced by a familiar set of inky smooth locs.

Ren… Her breath hitched, and the arm that launched the blade itself swung numbly by her side. The emotionless exterior of Dolores Thorne fell.

“Stop!” She wailed as desperation clawed her throat; the sharp edges of her anguish reverberated throughout the sands. As if the soundwaves of her voice were faster than her flying blade and somehow wishfully thought how it would curve at the last minute.

Funai Ren may be the most vexing man among her portfolio of people to be civil with. However, seeing the current trajectory of her flying knife, it may be challenging to move forward from this little accident. It is not her intention to lay harm on anyone except for the evil bitch that made her think she was trapped in the confines of Quinlan’s chambers.

As much as she loathed the man for leaving without saying a word, even she perceived him as unworthy of harm. Memories of his warm touch, fruit peels littered across the table, a mound of pith settled itself on the corner, and the heart-wrenchingly beautiful pools of his mahogany eyes all vanished the moment her bed sheets grew cold. Tears stained the sheets until acceptance writhed within her heart.

He’s never coming back.

He doesn’t love you.

And no one, will ever love you.

Harmful harmonies should’ve never reached her ears, for danger will always await. Limbs made out of thorns and fingerprints bathed in acid, all those she touches will see her the same—a horror. Someone to be feared and be cautious of. From the very first man who loved her, her father, to the last man who will, in all likelihood, love her, Funai Ren, all have been harmed. All have been just within her reach. And both have been tainted with the memory of her outstretched hands as the reaper claimed them.

She could still see it as clear as day. His severed head hit the perfectly polished marble floors of The Stage. His fading smile was all her conscience attacked her with. Perhaps if she were strong enough to push through the bodies of the crowd to stand in between the guillotine and her father, she would’ve had a much happier story. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been sent under Quinlan’s care. Perhaps she wouldn’t have found herself living in the capital. Perhaps, she wouldn’t have met the man who once held her complete adoration. And, perhaps, she wouldn’t have hurled one of her sharpest blades at him.

Luckily enough, the deafening thud of an unconscious body didn’t reach her ears. However, as her eyes drank his every action, a hint of crimson was spotted. The blade only grazed his temple. Relief washes over her. She made her way towards him. One. Two. However, her third step faltered as she distinguished an expression she was not expecting to see on his face.

Fear.

Don’t look at me like that, she thought. Eyes dripping with unease. That’s how they would all look at her. The people of Cascades dreaded her presence. It made her sick, feverish, and undoubtedly despicable. Perhaps the song of the graymaws still hung tightly on her mind, overwhelming her with an unknown terror she was yet to uncover, but no. This is the reality she must face. Don’t look at me at all, her mind ruthlessly echoed.

“I-” Incredulity grips her throat. “I thought you were the innkeeper.” She softly uttered. Genuine guilt began to tumble through her being. Saying her reason out loud seems like a pathetic attempt at a joke. But Dolores would never jest in dangerous situations such as this.

Dolores kept her distance; she stood still, within a few arm's length. Enduring the petrified gaze he bathes her in.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” She breathed the apology that weighed heavy on her throat. Delicate yet proficient hands fished a handkerchief from her pockets, hoping it would suffice in preventing any more blood from being shed. With outstretched hands, she offered the piece of fabric to the man before her.

Whether he chooses to accept or run is entirely up to him. For whatever choice he makes, one thing is certain in her eyes; while she saw him as a monster by his absence, he saw her as a monster by her assault. For once, the two stood on equal footing upon the scale of justice. As equal sinners in each other’s gaze. Will the balance stay as it is for now? Or will it tip as the voyage continues?

♡coded by uxie♡

CrimsonInk · Wednesday at 3:01 AM

THE OPHIDIAN.

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YASMINE

LAVIGNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

She....she has issues.....

OUTFIT

SHOWING SOME SKIN

LOCATION

Beach in Algol

MENTIONS

Helga? (Kader)

TAGS

floralmoon

GET IN THE WATER — MORGAN CLAE.

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POWER IS POWER

The gods have no mercy, that’s why they’re gods.

CHAPTER THREE.

Yasmine is a prideful woman. Her pride was the vice that has poisoned and intoxicated her bloodstream since birth. If she wants to fight, she’ll learn how to fight. If she wants to make someone bleed, she’ll make them bleed. If she wanted to kill, you better hope you’re not her target.

The blade only made a nick on the woman’s wrinkled neck before she moved. Yasmine followed, twirling her blade before gripping it with both hands.

“What’s wrong, Auntie? We’re just getting started…” she said, amused with eyes wide and deranged. Her lips curled into a grin showing her diamonds to the woman.

Another swing followed, only for the woman to dodge it but the sight of blood was a sight she enjoyed to see. Did she cut her hand? An arm? Maybe her side? It was all a mystery right now for her, since she was more excited about playing with her current food. The Innkeeper was truly making it fun. Auntie Helga can move really well for her age too. Not that it mattered. Yasmine was sure how much faster and stronger she was against the elderly. Under her breath hissed something dark and unnerving gazing at her prey. She slithered around circling her ready to strike.

Only it seemed that auntie Helga had other plans. She came for the handle of the blade, using this surprising strength to make her drop it. Yasmine yanked her arms around trying to get the woman off. Gritting her teeth she seemed to find that this woman was really determined to piss her off.

“You really shouldn’t have tested me, miss Helga,” she seethed, trying to throw back the sword only for the woman to actually get her to let it go. The sword flew off somewhere in the distance.

Eyes turned back displeased and fangs ready to sink venom. The woman before her pushed her back to the ground. Yasmine punched her side and her free hand raised trying to choke her, only for them to tussle and flip with her now on top. They continued flipping around, wrestling for dominance in their fight between life and death. For Yasmine, it was starting to get her excited. To finally tussle with a victim who wanted to fight for their life. Only it seemed their fight was not going to end any time soon. Not unless the old woman under her was ready to do something about it.

“Come on Helga,” she encouraged, thrilled by the woman’s tenacity, “fight.”

♡coded by uxie♡

Pepsionne · Wednesday at 10:01 PM

THE HUNTSMAN.

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MAGNUS

MOOD

DISORIENTED

OUTFIT

Black obvs

LOCATION

SHORE

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

qunqun Ilya

HARP VARIATION — MARTIN PHIPPS.

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DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR

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

CHAPTER THREE PT III.

The blade connects, steel biting into tender flesh with enough pressure to kill. Magnus’ eyes were wide, unblinking as he stared down at Celine under him. An animalistic bloodlust glazed over the typically placid grey. Mania cut through with a black fire, swallowing any remaining sanity he had been able to cling to.

Magnus wanted to watch the life go out, he wanted to watch her panic as she finally felt the sting of the bite she had trained to kill. Out, out, he wanted her memory gone completely.

Celine’s blue eyes were widened in shock. Only--they weren’t quite that same shade of blue were they? Magnus blinked. In this lighting, they didn’t look blue at all. What stared back at him now were a brown hue, frozen over in a mixture of fear and pain.

Magnus released his pressure on the knife in tandem with a sharp inhale of breath. The smell of salt crashed into his senses like a blow to the face--overpowering and disorienting. Below him wasn’t Celine. No, the person below him was a man.

Blood poured over his knuckles, hot in contrast to the cool breeze that ghosted off the shore.

“Dr. Jovanovic,” Magnus stumbled over the name. It was unfamiliar in his mouth, unpracticed, unsure. His angular features were too familiar to misplace. Magnus had seen them in his peripheral plenty, the doctor hunched over in concentration while he stitched up some new flesh wound Magnus had obtained during a hunt.

The knife he had plunged into Celine’s heart had actually nestled itself in the meat of Ilya’s lower abdomen.

Chaos erupted around them. Magnus attempted to orient himself in the confusion. Where did the inn go? And more importantly--how did Ilya end up on the wrong side of his blade?

Magnus swallowed hard. Monstrous figures lined the shore. He could smell the bloodlust that dripped from their pores and lapped ashore with anxious fingers. It was the same bloodlust he generated when closing in on a kill. Confident. Inevitable.

“Fuck--can you tell if I hit anything too deep?” He asked Ilya, voice slightly wavered. Would the doctor trust him? Given the chaos around them and the defensive glaze hardened over so many postures, Magnus figured he had about a fifty fifty chance of Ilya’s cooperation.

♡coded by uxie♡

Nifty · Wednesday at 10:22 PM

THE GLADIATOR.

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Tiberius

SANCTUS

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

You okay, bud??

OUTFIT

Ragscore.

LOCATION

Algol

MENTIONS

Dante

INTERACTS

qunqun

PIN-EYE — Jhariah

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Sanguine Stains

your path like a carpet of carnage. Its bloody jaws snap shut on your limbs, forcing you to walk upon the heap of carcass you created.

Chapter Three, Part III.

As the last drop freed itself from the cup, the ripples of his hazy dream began to evaporate.

Tiberius flitters his eyelids open only to be greeted with the murky view of a grey evening. His mouth is filled with sand, which he immediately sputters out, and aching muscles assure him that he is, in fact, no longer within the dream. Near the water's edge are minnows of yellow lights. His short-sightedness proves to be rather useless in that situation, for what he fails to see is an army of young graymaws awaiting a vulnerable victim to prey upon. He paid no mind to the shoreline and diverted his attention to the troubling state the party found itself in.

With a dusty exterior, he brushed the particles of sand that hung uncomfortably tight on the crevices of his clothes before properly surveying his surroundings. With a wrinkle from his brow, determined sapphire eyes, and a firm will to withstand heavy pressure; he stood tall as if he were once again entering the arena.

As if on cue, an animalistic scream came from nearby. Chaos enveloped his every corner, yet his feet leaned more courageously towards the curiously disturbing scream. Each step he took was lethally gracefully; it was as if he was prepared to break the jaws of a serpentine beast with his bare hands.

Instead of the bloodied sight of a battlefield, there under the lone trace of the silver moonlight sat a tortured stranger fighting an incomprehensible internal conflict. Tiberius’ heart ached for the man. Empathetically absorbing the pain he feels through his eyes.

The glimmer of his gun shone under the grim light of the moonlight.

His heart stopped for a moment. Without thinking for a second, his muscles moved on their own as it's permanently moved before, with pure instincts. His hands ripped the gun away from his hands and angled it away from him.

He was seething and angry at a man who wanted to take something precious; the gift of life is something to be treasured and loved. And yet, somehow, a devil between the crevices of his conscience holds enough understanding of why a person would be driven to such measures. The world is filled with the most disappointing outcomes you could ever imagine, and bringing it all into an eternal pause is one disheartening decision to make. It's as if every breath taken is a sign of the limbo you are under. Witnessing it once more at this moment almost made Tiberius want to hug the man before him out of pure sympathy and perhaps even for his sanity.

Whatever dream Dante found himself in must've been an awfully bleak nightmare disguised as a dreamy fantasy for him to want to take his own life. And that thought alone brought the gladiator great sorrow. Life is a precious thing to hold; he knows that, and yet, the truth of his scarlet fists fills him with great inadequacy to advocate for the concept of life. He had no right to advocate for such a thing when he himself buried others with the type of brutality known to the audience.

“Hey, bud.” He gently murmured. Calloused hands patted Dante’s shoulder.

A small piece of bread, the size of his palm, laid upon his hands. While planning on saving the item for later consumption, the gladiator figured the man in front of him could use it much more. “Here, you can have it.”

“Now, I’m not sure what you saw, but I—You—Uhh, Hug?” His words refuse to cooperate with him in important situations such as these.

“Okay,” an exasperated breath escaped from his mouth. Finding the right words in certain situations is always challenging for him. He only hoped his puny words would reach him. Or at least a part of him that is willing to listen. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m here for you. If you need a hug or anything, I'll be here.” He cooed softly next to him.

If Dante asked him to take a dip in the ocean to make him happy, he would do so without any second thought. If Dante needed a shoulder to cry on, he would gladly offer it. If Dante wanted him to travel through the nine circles of hell, he would do so barefooted with an open heart. At that moment, all that matters to Tiberius is bringing this man some semblance of comfort.

And through this single act of kindness, his heart can chip some guilt off his plagued conscience.

♡coded by uxie♡

Wyll · 2024-11-21T00:45:27-0500

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

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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.

His grip tightened around her neck as his impatience grew. He could see her lips moving, carving out words whose sounds did not reach his ears. Deafened by a turbid mixture of rage and worry, her pleas and cries for mercy did not reach him. Not even the tears that dripped down her cheeks fazed him. However, the look of fear...worse than that - the look of terror on her face passed across everything he felt that he needed to know.

"Aye, it's not so funny now, is it? Speak, witch, while you have your breath."

His words were not met with a verbal response from her. Rather, his vision became hazy, as if blocked by a thin mist, and, when it cleared, the person in his grasp was no longer the innkeeper, but someone he recognized from the ship. They hadn't had many interactions, but the face was familiar to him. However, this curried no favor and engendered no mercy. If anything, if summoned a fresh flash of rage at the incredulity of the deception.

"You dare?" his words laced with enough venom to poison a thousand men. "Devil," he hissed, no allowance for empathy given in his tone. "Now you hide behind the mask of innocents? Have you no shame?"

The blatant disregard for human life; the brazenness of trying to deceive him, not once but twice; the audacity to go after Valerie. Anon was beyond reason and lost to mercy. What was once a strangle hold turned to a vice grip as he felt the neck within his grasp throb, fighting for air. There was a struggle, the body beneath him jerking in a desperate plead for air. And then there was resignation...defeat, as the body went limp beneath his grasp.

The sudden lack of resistance shook him just enough to draw him from his rage and open his eyes. In horror of his own actions, he snatched his hand away from her neck, watching the body slide down the tree. Tree?

Only now had his eyes opened enough to see the truth of his surroundings. The facade of an inn room had given way to a beach, as though they had never left the shores when they made landfall. There was no bed, no room and no inn. Just sand, trees, and people littered about - some whom he recognised from the ship.

Clarity began to invade him as, layer by layer, the facade was revealed. However, the clarity revealed more than just the truth behind the illusion. It also revealed the horror of his actions. If there was no inn, there could be no innkeeper. If that was truly the case, then whose body had he squeezed the air out of? Whose body lay motionless at his feet even this second?

His hands felt as though they were bound to the very anchor that held The Leviathan even now, every breath he took shallow and labored - more than he could say for his victim. There was a ringing in his ears, denying entrance to all other sounds except the throbbing of blood rushing to his head; his vision going dark as panic begins to set it. He should move, he should try to do something, he should call for help. There was no shortage of options, but his brain couldn't process any of them. In fact, his brain couldn't process anything but one, get-ripping phrase...

Anon...Anon, what have you done?

♡coded by uxie♡

qunqun · 2024-11-21T01:04:32-0500

The Physician.

scroll

Ilya

Jovanović

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Hey Buddy (Threat)

OUTFIT

No mask, unfortunately

LOCATION

Shore time

MENTIONS

Magnus, Ren, Dolores, Bec, Anon, Lucrezia

INTERACTS

Pepsionne

Gao

Nifty

Mypilot

Artificial Paradise — Vlad Holiday.

scroll

Humanist's Folly.

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

Chapter Three Part Three.

And then as one’s soul slams into their body during a dream of falling, Ilya burst awake in a small gasping flail of limbs,

Oh.

Look at that.

He's been… stabbed. And then he looked up at his stabber, an equally confused Magnus.

Oh.

Magnus had stabbed him.

The fact hit something that was probably his trust or emotions if he could at all access them at this moment, somewhere locked far far away was a much more panicked feeling

“Can you tell if I hit anything too dee-” Really? Now you’re feeling remorse for stabbing someone

He couldn't think about that right now.

“We’re going to pray that there is no organ damage-” Was he hyperventilating a little? Maybe. But he did just get stabbed, he had to fight against the shock though so maybe feeling like he was going to throw up a little was a good thing. “I have a bag, it has bandages, we’ll need to wait for stitching until I can clean everything out- Magnus, MAGNUS, okay sorry for yelling, don’t focus on the gray things in the water.”

Dark eyes flitted over to man having breakdown, people starting to wander close to the sea, Rat on the verge of death (okay maybe that was not very unusual), Grog attacking another cat-

GROG ATTACKING ANOTHER CAT.

“Okay. Okay. Okay. I need you to remove the knife, quickly, and immediately start applying pressure to the wound. Ready? Go.”

And so, with Magnus’s help, he got his ruined shirt off and wrapped his wound up as best as he could.

He was fine. This was fine. That man had also gotten slashed with a knife- head count. Head count.

Were they down a couple people? Who had gotten off the ship- Where the fuck was the captain. Some guidance could come in handy right now.

The thoughts crashed into each other as he took a deep breath and tried to figure out who needed help most immediately, where he was needed first.

Small fella wandering towards the sea. Women fighting with blades. Ren bleeding from the head. Dolores… standing there. Dante screaming. Tiberius comforting him.

“Help the others. I’ll be fine.”

His first act was grabbing Grog and lifting him by the scruff so that he stopped attacking the three legged cat. Dropped unceremoniously onto sand, Grog purred and wrapped himself around Ilya’s feet.

… Weirdly clingy, okay.

He then went over and grabbed Bec by the elbow with his good side and began to forcibly drag him back with a surprising strength that was most definitely fueled by adrenaline and whatever mortal terror had struck him only moments before.

“I’d do this in a more polite manner but you are going to not walk in that direction and think about how awful of an idea going towards the creepy gray things are.” He said as he continued to drag this man away from the ocean.

The doctor, then, in his infinite wisdom, considered tying the fella up before deciding that no, it would be probably better to find someone who was more physically capable of restraining him.

Hauled Bec over to the two people who seemed to be in some kind of standoff.

“Hey. Whatever the fuck is happening here. Knock it off. Important life or death situations happening around you. Have your freak out after the mortal danger is over. He is being weirdly compelled to walk into the ocean. Stop him. I need-”

His eyes trailed over to some kind of commotion, watching Lucrezia’s limp body fall as some large man stood over her. Instinctively, he took a small step back, his grip loosening just a little bit.

“Keep a hold of Bec.” His voice sounded very far away at that moment.

And then he started his way over to this fucking dickhead-

♡coded by uxie♡

qunqun · 2024-11-21T01:26:26-0500

THE BUTCHER.

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Aurelian

Fiocchi

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FUCK Y- ah shit this is awkward

OUTFIT

EDGE

LOCATION

The Shoreline

MENTIONS

Luc/Gallin

INTERACTS

Wyll

Psychosocial — Slipknot

scroll

The Tertiary Sin.

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

Chapter Three.

“TAKE YOUR FUCKING TEA AND-”

Aurelian watched the entire world shift, and suddenly there was a rock traveling towards someone who was NOT this weird innkeeper. That was one of Dante’s weird nobility frien- fuck, fuck, fuck-

There was a thump, it hit Gallin’s shoulder pretty fucking hard.

Once something is thrown, it could not, obviously, be taken back.

He wiped tears out of his eyes, the demons being wrangled back into their closet. Rage and pain completely forgotten because it had attacked the wrong person, and that was not something acceptable in his world view (a failure, he’d failed).

A small throat clear, that would’ve sounded exactly like how his brother pushed away from awkward conversations. His voice was perhaps a tiny bit softer and less forced into gravel.

“If you want a free hit, those are acceptable terms.”

… He wasn’t quite making eye contact. The posture of the guilty. “... Think there’s a medic, around here… somewhere.”

Maybe the earth will open up and swallow him whole at this rate. It'd be an acceptable position. Not one for apologizing, Luc would have to take the offers of righting and guilty dog that got into the trash posture that Aurelian had currently taken on as an acceptable sorry.

“... I can take you to him. Somewhere- probably.”

So incredibly lame.

…

“... yep.”

♡coded by uxie♡

Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

oi oi

I'm fine. I'm just being dramatic. It's what I do.

oi oi

[sad jester jingle noises]

pushing the gay agenda

Nyx

Nyx

ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

[sad jester jingle noises]

It's that me, Antonio

Give me your herbs, worm.

The Duck Overlord

ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

[sad jester jingle noises]

[sad jester jingle noises]

Crow Person

Crow Person

It's that me, Antonio

ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

Nyx

oi oi

ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

Senior Member

Give me your herbs, worm.

Give me your herbs, worm.

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