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Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

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THE PERFUMIST.






























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CALANTHE
















































MOOD








DISTRAUGHT & HURT























OUTFIT








'add sand and water'























LOCATION








SHORE

























MENTIONS








Cassandra & Tiberius





















INTERACTS


@picklemouse Nifty Nifty











































Giuseppe Verdi - Messa di Requiem.
































































































































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"what are you?"








"to define is to limit."





























































CHAPTER THREE PT III.


Heat radiates through Calanthes cheek, the scratch from Cassandra had sent the blonde spiraling even further in her anger. Tears welling up in her eyes, causing her vision to blur, but she was determined to eliminate the threat before her.

With an unsteady hand, she raises the gun, aiming it in what she believed to be the direction of her attacker. Using her free hand, she tries to wipe away the tears and sand from her eyes, but is unsuccessful.

Her finger pulls back on the trigger.

BANG.

The gun goes off.

Calanthe's ears immediately fill with ringing, causing her to drop the gun, but also be released from her hallucinations, allowing her to quickly scan the beach. From a distance, she hears someone scream out.

Without thinking, she breaks out into a sprint, sand fighting against her feet, not allowing her to travel as fast as she would like. Her hand gripped tightly on the skirt of her dress, lifting it away from the ground in hopes that it would allow her to arrive sooner.

After what seemed like eternity, dodging others fighting or harmed, Calanthe arrives at the person she injured. Kneeling down, she looks the man in the eyes, memories flood her mind, the sounds of cheering roaring around her.

Tiberius.

Panic fills the girl, how could she hurt the man that she has been enamored with since the day she first laid eyes on him in the arena? What are the coincidences that the two were on the same ship? Was it fate? Destiny?

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts away, Calanthe finally gets the nerves to speak up, "Don't worry. I will save you, just like I should've when you were in the arena."



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE CAPTAIN.















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LEXIS



THE CAPTAIN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




G U I L T Y.











OUTFIT




THE ZESTY VESTY











LOCATION




ALGOL SHORE











MENTIONS




MALTY!










INTERACTS




escapist escapist


















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 III.

What humanity does not understand, they seek to destroy; a cautionary reminder of those that react with violence instead of a caring hand. Their trajectory changed the moment they lowered dinghies to the water, fate set the moment they noticed the yellow lights in the distance.

With eyes a thousand years old and caught all those miles afar in the desolate chill of Umbra, it occurs to Lexis that the body sheathing the bullet and hitting the snow— sand? is not the same as what he shot.

The tendrils of smoke coil like warped glass, and that boundless white cracks and fissures with dissonance. The sound of the shore and others around him is shafted back into the present as if surfacing from water, siphoning noise and murky sands like haemorrhaging chiaroscuro. In the growing shadows of Algol and contours of the night, he’d somewhere dropped the smoking gun, felt its heavy body collide with the sand and be left forgotten.

This scene feels like he has lived it already, trapped in a sliver of time where a body hits the snow and roils with pain, and the dawning commotion skewers a focus through him unlike any other. If this were a ballroom, an interview, somewhere he had to forfeit his weapons and make use of verbal words, he’d have lost any sense of his mind to the squall of apprehension.

But now in the throes of what he handles best, he does not have the time nor care to expend on delicate wording or looking approachable or discussing the weather. Much like his home, the dangerous disarray is familiar, and he slots himself into the situation with a certain flavor of nostalgia.

Shoes find give in the crumbling sand as he rushes to the curling form of a face unlike any other. Wrapped in the shroud of their coat like a disgruntled bird, Maltke Cycek. They are shouting and Lex cannot be entirely surprised: the man has many skills, making noise is one of them.

There is nothing to obscure the unabashed tension in Lex’s jaw, rigid posture common but now flickering with unease. He feels guilt when he drops to a knee beside the man, that silent simmering shadowing the space between his brows as he surveys the damage.

"Why...?"

Lexis does not answer. Discomfort twists at the tone of his voice.

"Do remain still, Maltke.”

Lexis does not answer because how is he to speak of what he saw without painting himself as hysterical? And what would the crew do in this instance if they witness a Captain who is not entirely all there? My mistake, valued crew member. I perceived you as a threat and decided to shoot you.

That does not sound sane.

Instead he communicates what will absolutely assure Maltke that he is in good care, and is trying to be careful in how he peels back the layer of their coat to check the seep of blood.

“Bullet.” He calmly observes. Good! Well. Not good! Bullet is not good! But observation is good. To observe is to obtain information. That is good. He would like to assume nothing fatal has been hit, but Lexis is not a Doctor.

"If only I threw pepper in yer face..."

The blonde’s head turns so pointedly one could almost assume a strict lecture was astir. How shrewd of the usually stoic Lex to find insult in a remark from the man he just shot. He can still feel it vividly, blinking salt out of his dull stare, perhaps that is just the sand in his lashes.

“That is not thoughtful nor kind.” The Captain had taken the comment just like Maltke had taken the bullet: personally. “I request we save resentment until after we have stopped your bleeding.”

Shedding the layer of his blue vest, he utilizes the inside that isn’t layered in sand to press it against the injury. Gleaned only simple medical care from expeditions, from the gory field instead of a sterile library, but knows that digging fingers through the meat of their shoulder is a welcome invitation for infection. With no forceps, alcohol, thread for stitches and no sign of Ilya in the periphery, he decides the little he can offer must suffice: safer to leave the bullet in and stabilize the bleeding for now.

“Do not fall asleep.” The disorientation of the older man is a concerning topic, and if not occupied with both hands impelling the fabric against the injury as if to seam the divide of skin and linen, he may have chanced a little slap. “I need to rip cloth for a bandage. You’ll have time to question my aim later, Mister Cycek, but for now you must hold this against your wound.”





























♡coded by uxie♡
 










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








Ren





















INTERACTS








Gao Gao





































"godhead" — cloud boat
































































































































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BROKEN BIRD,








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





























































CHAPTER THREE.


A knife would have cut cleaner.

Ren's words slice through skin already paper thin, leaving Bec feeling beaten. He had already been physically tackled, Ren having sent him to the floor, and his chest ached enough from that hard impact and the bruising of his jaw. But, oh, the sea. Even now it whispers to him, filtering in like a melody. A melody whose harmony was ruined by Ren speaking again, discordant words that make Bec's skin itch muscle deep.

"No," Bec groans, clawing at the sand as Ren drags him bodily away from those rolling tides. Words slice through him as he is shoved back, the ring of awful truth clammering in his ears. Nothing is his. But the sea is telling him-

Ren shoves him again, and Bec tears wild eyes away from the water. Ren stands before him, imposing and something like desperation dancing in the fine lines of his facade. What is this creature, this being, this man? Who is he to stop Bec from doing this one thing right? But no, Bec shakes his head. Think of that cold truth—he knows nothing is for him. Why would the sea say such a thing?

Knelt in the sand as if in prayer, Bec groans a ragged pained sound, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching his head. He curls into himself, bowing to that knifepoint of pain. "No, no, no," he murmurs, trying to make sense of it. "How do you know?" It was a softer question than what he wanted to ask: what do you know? But that was not him, he knew it was not.

What was he?

Bec. A boy. The whispers had called to him long before, but they were not like this. What was this? A lie, an illusion. Deceit. What was the truth, then? Nothing is for you.

Yes.

How could he forget?

Bec's breaths came easier, eyes wide open as he stares at the dark little pocket of peace he has made with his body. This was real, this was here: sand, grit, damp clumps of beach. Something simple to make sense of, and he holds it in his mind with a vice grip. Ren must be real then too, despite all odds. That oil-slick strangeness of his too abnormal to be anything else. Trust in Ren, for now. For now.

Turning his gaze up, Bec peers up at Ren in his bird-like fashion, eyes as dark as the sea that still calls to him in its muted tones. He defies that call, stares at Ren. See what the strange man does, for Bec cannot trust his ears.



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE ACROBAT.






























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PERCY






GRIFFIN









































MOOD








CONFUSED, ANGRY























OUTFIT








Velvet King























LOCATION








ALGOL SHORES

























MENTIONS








MENTIONS !!





















INTERACTS








floralmoon floralmoon Kader





































CUT — SWEET PILL.
































































































































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WHO AM I WHEN I FEEL?








What dies in me when I am me?





























































CHAPTER THREE PT. III.


“Posture up! Limbs long, graceful. I’m training acrobats here--not stagehands,” A melodious voice wrapped itself through the small tent. “If you cannot perfect this move you will not be featured in our next show,” The Siroccan Troupe’s choreographer drew out each syllable while the small bodies around her struggled to achieve the level of perfection she sought.

Percy executed the move with ease. He held his mark with the practiced obedience of someone hungry for the spotlight.

“Jasper!” The Choreographer’s sharp voice cracked with the sharpness of the whips they used in the lion acts. “You’re out! You cannot miss your steps when you’re hanging twenty feet in the air. I shouldn’t have to keep telling you this.”

Performers struggled to suppress their giggles throughout the tent. Percy maintained his show stopping smile, but a smugness bloomed wide in his veins. Circus life wasn’t for everyone, after all. What a joke that a runt like that would declare himself Percy’s rival. The smile on his face slipped slightly at the thought. Jasper could try to keep up with him all he’d like, but he’d never end up a starting act. It just wasn’t in his nature. Jasper would never replace him.

Percy coughed. His lungs burned from the inhalation of a fine misting of sand. The smell of salt was heavy, overwhelming every sensation as he pulled himself upright. Clumps of sand clung to his clothes and skin. Where the hell did the inn go?

Pieces of it manifested in split chunks across the beach. A bed buried in sand to his left would appear on his right if he dared to take his eyes off of it long enough. The table set of the common room rested delicately in crashing waves, undisrupted.

He hauled himself upright, body groaning in protest. What the hell happened last night? He had just been--he had just been back at the circus, practicing his routine. But that was years ago, he was a child then. Was he dreaming?

The figure of someone approaching him derailed Percy’s thoughts. He turned fully to face them. They were wearing white, their pale eyes trailing over his figure with the whispers of concern.

He blinked, and their figure twisted against grey sand, shifting and blurring until it was Jasper that slipped into their space. The memory of him stepping up to take Percy’s act the night of his accident danced through his mind. The image of Jasper’s silhouette against the spotlights was something he drank to rid himself of. But--what the hell was he of all people doing here?

Percy’s features were slack. There were so many questions and retorts thrown around in his brain that they clashed together violently, and in their wake, emitted a dead calm. It took several moments for his voice to gain enough traction to spit something that had festered silently for months. A feeling with no name, rotted so significantly that its shape became unrecognizable.

“You did this to me,” He said quietly, almost as if apologetic. “It was no accident.”

The acrobat stalled momentarily. He cupped the foreign feeling within his hands, squeezing together the crumbling pieces until he had fashioned something he could recognize. Now, held up close and tangible, what his subconscious had been cradling so gently for months--it was rage.

Features contorting, Percy took a step forward towards Jasper.

“You sabotaged me, didn’t you? You absolute bastard. I knew you were always jealous of me.” Percy spit. His voice was pointed, the sharpness of it cutting through the thick sound of crashing waves and screams. “Putting in the hours of practice was too much for you, huh? You needed to play dirty to win yourself the spotlight? You could have killed me,” The sneer that decorated Percy’s features was unrecognizable to the playful mask he worked so ardently to maintain. The stage Percy was joyful, fun, amiable. But now--there was no facade strong enough to hold back the anger that rippled down to the bone.

“Do you know what you took from me? You took my life from me! From my family!”

His expression suddenly calmed. A realization dulled his agitated rage, sharpened it until it was able to wield the fine point of resolve. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” He said. “I won’t miss my chance again.”



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 
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THE SCOURGE.

























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Dolores





THORNE







ㅎㅎ


























MOOD







Angry at Anon, Desperate for Lulu to be okay



















OUTFIT







Boatswain Slay.


















LOCATION







Waters of Algol



















MENTIONS







Ren, Ilya, Lulu, Anon, Grog

















INTERACTS







Wyll Wyll CrimsonInk CrimsonInk





























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.

Like a treasured artifact, her eyes glazed with elation once presented by her pristine dagger. There was a slight hint of blood on its tip; however, with a firm brush of her thumb, she erased the stain with ease.

Umber eyes reflected against the cold steel, perfectly matching her lack of emotion. The least effort she could’ve at least portrayed was a simple smile. And yet, when her gaze lazily analysed her bored image, all her eyes saw was a person worth leaving. The thorns of inadequacy tightly coiled themselves around her throat as Ren’s words went straight through her—a mere echo that not even a simple apology could snap her hypnotic descent deep into her mind. Though I suppose it would ease the barbs from digging, however, since it failed to reach her ears, silence was her only answer.

When another pair of presence stood too close for her comfort (about an arms-length), her attention was dragged away from the blade to meet the ship’s physician’s lanky figure. Her head tilted to catch a glimpse of a boy with a shaggy ebony mane—a stranger.

Her middle finger was itching to make an appearance the moment the physician swore at them. However, it halted the moment her eyes caught the sight of flying sands behind Ilya. Each grain gleamed as the moonlight graciously bathed them with their light. Her appreciation soon halted as the prickles of insufficiency wrapped around her throat were now replaced by a sharper, thicker, and bigger barbed wire that messily sprawled around her chest the moment a mere realisation hit her. Heart lurching, recoiling into each sharpened point as a defeated sigh escaped the woman’s lips.

She breathed Lucrezia’s name in dubiety. Her feet moved faster than her mind. Soon, she found her steps pacing well with the doctor.

No, no, no. I’m not ready to let you go yet—not again. Her hands trembled with discomposure as she ran. Her mind flashes with images of her beloved father. His gentle and calloused hands lead a cute father and daughter dance in the comfort of their humble home. The paper cranes that would always be delicately placed next to her plate at each breakfast. And finally, and the most cruel of them all, is his decapitated head rolling with a smile on his face. It taunts her inadequacy even more. Why do the good ones always leave first?

Lucrezia is more than her dearest friend; she considers the woman a doting mother, a supportive sister, and the very woman who held her together during the most arduous chapters of her life. The raven mother is essential to her bruised yet mending heart. Dolores’ platonic devotion to her is the ultimate testament to her blooming will to befriend and form her own connections. However, as the pale figure lay motionless and sands sullying her beautiful scarlet and ebony attire, that will of hers withers.

Unfortunately, before she could impale the man with a completely justifiable stab in the chest, he seemed to realise the gravity of his action and swiftly jumped back from the woman. She could still do it. However, before she could draw her steel, the doctor summoned all the strength he could muster and struck the man. The resounding noise of flesh meeting knuckles echoed deliciously in her ears. Right there and then, she found herself swelling with a brand new respect for the physician whilst birthing pristine cinders of hostility to the man who bore his hands to the sweetest woman Dolores had ever known.

Her feet swiftly shifted in the sand to turn to Lulu, kneeling over her figure. Vicious threats were thrown in the evening air; however, Dolores was brimming with concern to notice. Analytical eyes swept over other potential damages that the man could’ve done. If he had done anything else other than what she had seen, even Dolores’ reason would most likely not prevent her from letting the man breathe for another second.

Gloved hands held Lulu’s cheeks, gently easing her friend to wake. When no response came from the raven mother, her fingers physically trembled in fear. She was prepared to plead to god, the stars, and any other omnipotent beings out there to bring Lucrezia back at the cost of her soul. If not, then the whole world can burn and wither alongside her. No amount of ultimate justice could ever quench the frostbitten hatred she harbours for the man who hurt her friend, the man who made her a weapon, the world of men, and herself.

Orders flowed swiftly out of Ilya. Yes. Good. With proper instructions, she could focus on something else other than the ways to torture the man who bruised her pale neck. “Understood.” She replied swiftly and immediately fell on a mechanical instinct. Orders have been given. And it must be followed as always. That's what she does best.

The pendulum of justice typically sways within the beats of law and order. However, as time stills in the confines of her reason, it sways along the faint pulse of Lucrezia’s heart.

As long as there is a chance for her dear friend to be alive, then retribution should be put on hold until… Dolores shook her head, erasing the thought. Lucrezia will live, and if the resuscitation fails, she will drag the doctor by the collar if she has to, damn whoever else that needed him (sideeyes a bleeding Tibby).

Clammy hands wrapped around each other fell into a machine-like rhythm, ensuring that each pressure of her palms was precise and perfect.

Clothed fingers are itching for the sweet pleasure of an execution, a delight she abandoned when she left the Cascades. However, as it stands at this very moment, the scourge is eager to shed blood and pluck nails for the woman who became a victim. It’s a revengeful torture she will thoroughly enjoy. Her seething umber gaze perfectly relays her cold resentment for the man in front of her. The moment words came out of his mouth, a nasty scowl entered her facial features.

A sneeze rattled her rhythm. A cat sat next to her, nuzzling Lulu. As much as she finds the action rather sweet, it is still a dangerous proximity for someone with a dander allergy. She shifted her gaze at Anon, finding a purpose in his presence. However, her loathing seems to overpower her delivery.

“If you can fuck off with that creature, that would be delightful.” She remarks as each word rolls with a new set of venom. Even though her delivery contained a particular layer of hostility, Dolores would have been more efficient if there had been no fuzzy creatures within her vicinity to activate her allergies.

“Lulu, stay with me, love.” She softly cooed, hoping it would help along with the resuscitation. God (CRIM), please let her live.
















































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE KINGSLAYER.















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船井 蓮



FUNAI REN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




BEING MATURE FOR FIVE MINUTES.











OUTFIT




SNEEKY SLEEKY











LOCATION




ALGOL SHORE











MENTIONS




NADA.










INTERACTS




Mypilot Mypilot


















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.

Ren can see the motions of febrile dogfight in the demarcation of his vision. Someone is yelling— it feels like everyone is yelling, but he worries that anointing his eyes elsewhere for even a second would grant Bec the liberty to slip away.

Coiled as if at war with only himself, Bec keels in the altar of sand with the boot of the world at their neck. A knife may have cut cleaner, but the slicing truths are only tracing where scars already exist. Foundations bear memory, in the brick and mortar mapped like a faultline through their curling spine.

Being caustic was not some intricate strategy, only a desperate scramble to find a foothold in Bec’s fallacies. The way they shrink lingers with the regret of a knife-twist; harkening something achingly familiar, the uncovering of a bandage to reveal tender skin that still hurts in the wind. It’s a bruised pulse, small and disarmed, lost and trying to inhabit as little space as possible to find both isolation and nearness.

"How do you know?" Their voice is pale like a murmur.

Ren drifts in the absence of an answer because he has known nothing else. Exists as something equally as invalid as the bundle of pale bones before him. Supposes it’s the noise of fighting and the reality that Bec is nobody important that prompts him to share what he does.

“When I was younger, I’d visit the wealthiest areas of Zenith to look at the houses.” There is nothing more humiliating than wanting what you cannot have, but the theatre is absent of those who matter and there is no need to impress this shadow. It’s an open wound and for once he does not find himself afraid of the outpouring blood, speaks with a detached calm. “I’d stand at their tall iron gates and imagine what it’s like to live inside a place like that— what it’s like to belong somewhere and know you’re actually meant to be there.”

And he knows how it ends, walking away from the table empty-handed and still hungry. It never made him want it any less, but there are other horizons to turn towards when that eternity of chasing feels ludicrous. A paradox presence, a protector who feels almost as lost as they are.

Absolution or redemption, Bec had moved from the grit and shadow of his ball to look up from the sand. Ren has met wild animals with more trusting natures, eyes fathomless as a millpond of black but attentive all the same.

“The world feels as if it was made for everyone except us. That’s not your fault, not mine, just is.”

Is it warmongering? What else is he meant to say to this waifish spectre? A better man would have the correct words, all the answers, hold softer features, not own wicked hands that always reduce things to clumsy broken mistakes. Ren understands he’s not that better man, no savior or hero, but he does not want to be bad either.

“I do not know what you’re hoping to find,” he admits “but if you don’t want to be alone in that, you don’t have to be.”

It’s not a perfect solution as he extends a hand to Bec; not as a guarantee of safety, but trust is a choice. The man cannot offer much outside of the chance to be seen, be welcomed in the small space he can spare in spite of it all. A different path that was not so perpetually solitary.

“I won’t leave you here,” an open palm waits, “I will not let you be forgotten outside the gate.”






























♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE OLD-TIMER















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Maltke



Cycek




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




Confused, frustrated, dreamy











OUTFIT




His usual dirty coat of course











LOCATION




The shore of Algol











MENTIONS




Captain Lexi, Ilya









INTERACTS




Lexis, Gao Gao

















no music




























































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Take care of me, Captain!



































Chapter Three, Part iii

A bullet, indeed. The metal slug was fidgeting in its flesh-cradle slippery with blood, making the old man to squirm in pain, drawing abstract lines with his limbs in the sand. Dark shapes and patches were dancing in front of his single eye which made it hard to concetrate or even see the Captain, half kneeling next to him with a stern expression on his face. Maltke groaned as firm hands and keen eyes were examining the injury they had caused successfully. Or the opposite since he was still alive and able to whine, argue and complain.

The Captain be sane, right? Now he looked back to the seconds before the gunshot, Maltke could have sworn that he had seen dread in Lexis Graves' otherwise expressionless, cold eyes. And now there the Captain was, examining the wound as if the old man was a ship, except with much more detachment. Maybe because he was a human afterall.

"That is not thoughtful, nor kind." Stated the man who had just shot Maltke, somehow missing his head. The exclamation at least brought back some mordels of his consciousness that had been slipping away like Algol's sand from his desperate grip. This man got insulted after shooting me to the ground?!

"I request we save..." This time Maltke's eye rolled back to his skull not out of pain but annoyance, his face contorted into a grimace of a man who had been taken too seriously. The beauty of final lines is that they wouldn't sound suiting in any other context, so after the old pirate had stayed alive, his so-believed last sentence was hanging in the air awkwardly, waiting luxuriantly for free interpretations."I request your mother to..."

Maltke stopped himself in the beggining of the monologue about what and how the Lexis' mother should have done with her son, with a killer-whale and with any other subject of the pirate's filth- and rage-filled mind. He stopped because the Captain had been right: he was bleeding, not fatally but Maltke had seen his fair share of death, caused by a non-fatal wound. Also, Lexis - sane or not - was still the Captain of the ship which would bring Maltke to the next stages of his very new adventure. "Um..." He looked away, his body relaxed again. "Ye be right...let's discuss things later..." He pressed his lips in a thin line, his mustache twitched with irritation and confusion as if the words he kept to himself were trying to escape through the skin of his face.

While he was taking care of him, Lexis Graves could experience one of the rare occassions of Maltke Cycek being silent. The old man's thoughts went to wander, drifting back to the past when he encountered with equal amount of pain. During sea battles, escaped bullets often find anyone, so naturally he had recieved a few shots. Some had simply grazed him, one had hit him on his right knee that had never healed fully, still throbbing on rainy or cloudy days. However the numb pain was bearable in contrast with the burning torment that disinfection would bring. All that sweet nectar of alcohol poured on his wound instead down on his throat, increasing pain instead of dulling it...maybe he would be able to speak with the ship doctor about it...pirates see scars as the embodiments of bravery, masculinity and the tokens of warning, criss-crossing the rough, sun-baked skin. How much attention he had recieved after loosing his eye...! In reality scars felt like the dead-weights of his victims, still hanging on him, pulling him lower and deeper...

"Do not fall asleep."

"Fuck I be not weak..." Maltke groaned, opening his eye and blinking a few times to get used to the light. "Many accursed son of a bitch tried to finish me for good but none succeeded, see. Ye think one little bullet be enough to take me out?" He snorted and took a glance at what Lexis had done with his injury. "Captain." He added with as much reverence as much stayed in his old, rebellious heart.

"Ow-ow-ow" Maltke sat up, following the Captain's caring instructions, his coat slided lower on his arms, revealing more of the bloody patch under his dirty shirt. "Fuckin' hell" He added just in case the sounds of pain he had made had not been manly enough. His other hand moved to secure the ripped fabric against his wound. "Yer aim was accurate. A few inch and ye blew off my head or destroy heart! So if yer goal was to keep me alive, here ye go. But yeah, later, later" Maltke sighed, allowing the Captain of The Leviathan to take care of him without being questioned about his actions for the third time. "At least yer grip be firm on the pistol I think...it be more dangerous anyways when an idiot swabbie with no skill is havin' a gun..." He mused, wondering where Lexis had dropped the gun. Turned his head away from Lexis, the old man looked towards the sea, his mind was already filled with images of him, musing a bottle of rum, relaxing in a comfortable chair, occassionally recieving the crew-mates' compliments and...

Speaking of which, snapping back to reality, Maltke now spotted not only the sea-monstrosities in the water but figures on the shore, moving strangely. Bent knees, straight backs, colliding bodies, erratic, energetic moves, glinting weapons in the faint light of the sun - these details evoked several bloody clash on shores from his past. "With all respect, Captain...maybe ye be not the only crazed on this shore..." Maltke muttered confusedly, then he let out a faint whistle to get Lexis' attention and nodded towards the crew-members who more or less seemed to be busy with solving their own conflicts. "What the filthy, leprous, knock-kneeded mother of the seven seas is goin' on there?"






























♡coded by uxie♡
 
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THE ANVIL






























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ANON






KEEP









ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








Remorseful, Needing to feel useful























OUTFIT








Who needs a shirt?























LOCATION








BEACH

























INTERACTIONS








ILYA, DOLORES, LUCREZIA





















TAGS








Nifty Nifty , CrimsonInk CrimsonInk





































Now We Are Free— Taylor Davis
































































































































scroll












FILL THE UNFORGIVING MINUTE








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





























































CHAPTER THREE.

Even knowing nothing of the woman before him, her gaze was enough to send chills down his spine. The feeling was comparable to having a freshly forged blade - hot and sharpened to a sting - pressed against your neck, daring you to move. It wasn't often that Anon met someone who could raise up his walls with a single look, but she somehow managed to.

Ordinarily, it would have excited Anon, made him want to get to know her better, maybe even test his mettle against hers. However, in this moment, his guilt overpowered and outweighed any other emotion or feeling he dared think of.

He glanced over to the cat, the preceding sneeze allowing him to rather quickly put the puzzle pieces together. He moved so hurriedly that he even slipped, not taking the time to firmly plant his foot in the sand before he tried to take another step. He managed to find firm footing before embarassingly reacquainting himself with the ground. Ignoring it entirely, he moved to the cat and ggently picked it up, pulling it away from Lucrezia's leg.

However, somewhat against the stranger's request - though 'demand' was a more fitting term - he didn't enirely leave the area. He stayed far enough away that th cat was no longer a problem to Lucrazia's care taker, but close enough that he could still monitor what was happening. It wasn't that he didn't trust the woman to be able to bring Lucreazia back, but he felt responsible for what had happened. More than just feeling it, he was responsible. He didn't want to simply walk away and pretend like it never happened, live his life peacefully without knowing what had happened. No. If she was to die here and now because of what he had done. He wanted to see it. He wanted to watch the life and color fade from her skin, know that he did it, and live with that regret and self-loathing until he drew his last breath. Which, given how the strangers had looked at him, wouldn't be very long after her passing.

He held he cat in his hands tenderly, fingers gingerly stroking the cat. The gesture was as much for the cat's enjoyment as it was for his comfort; a pattern of movement that came so naturally to him he wasn't even aware that he was doing it.

Rather, his gaze was solely fixed on Lucrezia. He had locked in on her neck, where he could still see the marks he had left on it and the makings of a bruise that came from being so rough with her. The sight caused him to wince in discomfort, but he refused to look away. Averting your eyes from tragedy was a mercy reserved soleley for the innocent, a word that could no longer be used to describe Anon.

Right now, he was just the same as the boy his montor had taken off the streets of Antares: a ruffian, a miscriant, a stain. Anon had always known that his mentor had never fully tamed the violence in his heart, that it had only been put to sleep, waiting for a chance to rise again. Deep down, he knows his master knew it too. But they had both foolishly believed that Anon would be able to keep the beast asleep, keep his anger dormant. and Lucrezia was the victim of his failure.

As if he hadn't disappointed his mentor enough.



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE GLADIATOR.















scroll

Tiberius



SANCTUS




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




LADS! I LIVE!











OUTFIT




Ragscore.











LOCATION




Waters of Algol (Derogatory)












MENTIONS




Dante, Yasmine & Calanthe










INTERACTS




qunqun qunqun floralmoon floralmoon


















Bang Bang — K'NAAN
































































scroll






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.

TW: Tiny mentions of blood.​

Alternate Universe? AU? Is that a country outside Solas’ borders? He thought aloofly as he exemplified his magnificent frog blinking, genuinely wondering how that information had managed to slip away from his general knowledge even though the majority of his sparse knowledge is contained within the sandy borders of Siroc. It’s always a wonder how a man such as Tiberius could think so much and yet think so little.

His thoughts disintegrated the moment the sound of Dante’s shaky voice drifted past his ears. Snapping and sharpening his focus back down to the man he preciously held and silently vowed to protect.

Tiberius hummed in response as a river of confession flowed easily through Dante’s lips. As the gladiator held his body close, a muffled ‘oh buddy’ dripping with sympathy fled from his mouth. An invisible thread of his soft kindness has weaved itself between the seams of his open heart; despite its puncturing pang of condolence, Tiberius couldn’t help but feel helpless at that moment. If he could somewhat absorb Dante’s pain and somehow guide it to himself, he would do so in a heartbeat. The thick veil of negativity that shrouds every corner of the world is the lone reason why acts of genuine goodwill are his most critical principles.

And so, with gentle hands, he reached at Dante’s back in hopes of easing the exit of his dinner. After all, the man has seen much worse. A mere hurling episode will not prevent the man from being present in this stranger’s time of need.

He followed the man’s gaze to the amber orbs that eerily glow in the water. Pretty jellyfishes? Boat lanterns? Flickering fishes? Even as he squinted, the alluring blaze of the graymaw’s golden eyes evoked beauty from his blurry vision. However, the same can not be said for Dante, as the magma of loathing curled around viciously on each syllable of his word. If Dante was the gatekeeper of the fabled garden of Eden, the probability of a creature with the name Yasmine entering is far lower than Tiberius’ chances of abandoning his love for bread. He may not know a Yasmine, but the gladiator surely pities the person who can bring this sort of rage to a man. He wonders how despicable that individual must’ve been.

There’s nothing worse than a man’s hungry rage. A twinge of unease slithered in the crevices of his heart. His reluctance to give the gun back to its rightful owner only increases as a hateful rant cascades through his lips.

Relief washed over him the moment his rage simmered lowly. Simply thankful that his tirade had somehow eased him enough to bring the chimera a sense of materiality.

"We should... We should probably see if someone else needs... more... better help."

“You’re right. As long as you got all that out of your system—” He made eye contact with the vomit, and his ears immediately went red. “I meant your feelings and stuff! I wasn’t trying to be mean or anything,” He quickly replied with an anxious delivery. Tiberius could only hope Dante didn’t think ill or less of him. “But what I was trying to say was. I’m glad you’re feeling much better now to check on others.” He spoke as he awkwardly slicked his oily hair back.

"Did someone just get shot?"

“Gods, I hope no-” He cut his sentence quickly as the muscles tensed and immense spatial awareness took control of every fibre of his being. The silver sliver of a bullet in his peripheral vision urged him to act swiftly. With a harsh shove at Dante’s shoulders, navy blue fabric playfully danced along with the gravity of his fall. The chimera managed to dodge the shot just in time; however, as for Tiberius…

“FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFU-AAAaAAAAaaaAAaAAAHDGE MMMUFFINS!!!!!!!!!!” A panicked scream rips through him. A sizzling sensation erupted from the wound, making him drop to his knees. He could feel his blood boil as the heated metal encapsulated his ligaments. His thick brows furrowed at the thought of a single bullet squirming within him. When his gaze drifted to his bicep, a scarlet tint began blooming at a slow pace. He quickly unwrapped his scarf to press the fabric to his wound.

He felt his knees buckle as the heat began to crawl up to his shoulders and landed a tingling agitation to his nape. Swallowing his pain, he relinquished his will to stand, sullying his clothed knees and shins with the Algol’s sands. “I think I just need a quick minute, bud,” the gladiator uttered breathily, still trying to catch his composed breathing after his quick screaming episode.

Though his feet and arm may be slightly incapacitated, his senses remain sharp as ever. Quickly picking up the sound of shuffling sands and slippers softly padding itself near them. A protective urge overwhelmed him as he attempted to stand in front of Dante, bracing himself for a fight. However, as his eyes landed on a fragile figure of a woman, his defences immediately fell.

The moonlight produced a halo that enveloped beautifully around her blonde curls. The approaching woman adorned with pearl white silks could easily be mistaken as some sort of angel. An angel? No, if anything, devils should be the ones to embrace him for the manslaughter he has committed.

"Don't worry. I will save you, just like I should've when you were in the arena."

A gentle chuckle escaped him. “It’s alright, miss.”

THIS IS PAINFUL AS HELL!! THE FRICK YOU ON ABOUT TIBERIUS?! His inner voice shrieked with unadulterated honesty. However, as his azure eyes met the worried gazes from the chimera and the perfumist, it was enough to put his inner turmoil aside and ease those around him.

“As long as you and my friend here weren’t hurt, I’m alright,” he uttered as sapphire eyes met Dante’s, hoping it would reassure him. Though the wetness began seeping through the fabric, he quickly revoked that statement. “Well, at least it will be,” He muttered as his grip on his scarf tightened.

And then, he turned to the lady. “I’m tougher than you think, angel,” he said along with a reassuring smirk. His grin solely aimed to ease the innocent civilian’s heart, who was kind enough to lay her attention at him. How sweet. A certain intensity glazed his eyes as he beamed at the woman. Some may mistake it for devotion and yearning, yet all it held within was the searing pain that rattled his body.































♡coded by uxie♡
 










the urchin—






























scroll


bec






the boy








ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








Panic attack core























OUTFIT








Working those rags like he owns them























LOCATION








Algol shoreline

























MENTIONS








Ren





















INTERACTS








Gao Gao





































"godhead" — cloud boat
































































































































scroll












BROKEN BIRD,








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





























































CHAPTER THREE.


The story Ren told was familiar, something akin to a memory but with the resolute knowledge that there was never anyone wealthy enough to long after in Kestyr. But it was the meat of the emotion, that feeling of wanting more and knowing it will never come, that Bec could understand in every dirty fingernail, every sinewy muscle.

As Ren speaks, Bec turns his gaze back to the sea. The waves are as grey as the sand, as dark and dismal as the beach they have found themselves on. This place was depressing, a wasted nothingness of haunting faces and lost souls. There was still so much chaos around them, so much confusion that Bec couldn’t begin to unravel. But there was some sort of catharsis in seeing all these well-to-do folks in the same shit situation he was in. Patron and pauper all, each laid to waste by the sea.

The volunteered hand drew Bec’s gaze back to Ren, and he eyed the offering with some flicker of distrust in murky tired eyes. Bec’s survival instincts had been utterly eclipsed by that worm of whispered lies burrowing in his brain, and it was easier to simply give in, but distrust was so fundamental to who he was that it was no simple feat to take the extended hand. With Tiberius it had been easier—that man wore himself on his sleeve, and Bec felt he could trick his way out of that interaction with ease—but Ren was a complicated creature with a far less readable face. Risk versus reward. Reluctant truth versus voluntary deceit.

Bec grabbed Ren’s hand.

It was likely as difficult to pull Bec up as it’d be to blow a piece of paper and watch it get carried away in the wind. Bec was quickly standing and focusing so utterly hard on looking at Ren, at ignoring those words still playing in the back of his mind, that he felt he could hardly do anything else. The sea, the sea, the sea. Wobbling slightly overfoot, Bec turned his body away from the twisting waters and those yellow firefly eyes flickering in its depths.

”There is nowhere safe here,” Bec said, not knowing if that was even true but feeling confident in it. The same confidence that a child might feel about the monster in the depths of their black, black closet. This land was unlike anywhere Bec had ever been, and he was surrounded by strangers. He felt adrift, his one purpose turned against him and now with nothing and nowhere to go.

How were they to escape this?



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE SOOTHSAYER.






























scroll


KADER
















































MOOD








CONCERNED























OUTFIT








'full length skirt & shawl'























LOCATION








SHORE

























MENTIONS








Yasmine, Percy





















INTERACTS


Pepsionne Pepsionne











































Fear - Sleeping at Last.
































































































































scroll












"prophet child, chosen by the sun.."








"do you hear the gods whispering those silent stardust words?"





























































CHAPTER THREE PT III.


A belt lays across Kader's hands, with instructions from Yasmine to use it as a tourniquet, though it seemed their wounds weren't quite that severe, it would be better to take precautions. Removing their shawl, they wrap it around the wounds, and then used the belt to keep it in place, their stomach seared with pain while doing so, but it soon went away. Finally getting a chance to take in their surroundings, Kader is immediately immersed in chaos. People are yelling, guns are firing, fights are happening all around, why were such horrible acts being committed, weren't they all supposed to be a team?

Spotting a body in the sand, they rush into action, closing the distance between the two, then the man sat up, allowing Kader to breath a sigh of relief, at least he wasn't dead. As the gap closed, the man sat there in silence, but before they could even think of what to say to him, he spoke up. "You did this to me. It was no accident." Did what? There was no feasible way that Kader could've done something so atrocious. Maybe they did? After all, they had just slapped Yasmine a few moments ago.

He stood up and took a step towards them, forcing their head to tilt back in order to maintain some sort of eye contact. The man towered over Kader, sending a sight chill down their spine, there was no way they could possibly defend themselves in this situation, but they'd be damned if there was no effort. As Percival continued to speak, adding more anger into his voice, Kader stood there and listened, maybe that's what he needed.

"I fear you may be mistaken, it seems you have consumed the same substance as some of the other passengers." They spoke calmly, hoping that maybe it would get through to him. Although the height difference was substantial, Kader stood their ground, refusing to back down, completely brushing off how they could barely see his face at their current angle. "It sounds as though you are quite angry at someone from your past, and although you may see me as them at the moment, I refuse to be treated as them as I have no connection with this situation you are speaking of."

Perhaps there was a better way to approach this conversation, but based off of all Kader had learned in their life, they knew to never fight fire with fire, as that would only end up with a significantly worse outcome. This was not the end of the interaction, despite wishing their words were a cure-all, but they were willing to continue trying to fix the issue at hand, even if they were absolutely clueless as to what Percival was speaking of.



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE RAVEN.






























scroll


LUCREZIA






CAMBRIDGE









ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








ALIVE :3























OUTFIT








I MUST MATCH THE INTERIOR























LOCATION








ALGOL BEACH

























INTERACTIONS








DOLORES





















TAGS








Nifty Nifty , Anon mention Wyll Wyll





































LULLABY — JAVIER NAVARRETE.
































































































































scroll












IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN








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





























































CHAPTER THREE.


Death is both a beautiful and tragic creature.

The perfect gentleman.

A guide to healing.

Their words make you feel warm and at peace.

Just when they extended out their hand, it wasn’t an invitation to guide you into a better place. No.

Not this time.

You are not ready Lucrezia Amore Cambridge.

Vitam vive, memento mori

I will.

The heart that once beat so slowly now found its correct rhythm. Blood coursed through her body instantly, her eyes opening wide awake and alert. Air began to find its way into her lungs allowing her to gasp for air. Instead of trying to panic, Lucrezia began to analyze her surroundings. The hint of wavy brown locks catching her attention, and over her was a face she had not seen for a very long time. A face so dear to her heart that it left her almost wondering if death had lied to her.

Her lips moved but no sound came about. The motions of her lips curving and tongue curling up to sound out the words ‘Lori…’ to the woman. It was the only way she could be vocal, finding herself trying to swallow whatever saliva she could to coat her throat. The empty feeling of strong hands still crushing her windpipe started to make her tear up from the sudden thought. Fear began to make its way into her alerted cognition and the feeling of safety felt more of a myth even in the presence of a friend. How cruel it was to play with her mind after coming back. Memories felt jumbled into their own dark labyrinth. Lucrezia only wanted to remember what happened before she passed out. The hotel….the ship….Madam Helga….what happened to it all?

Rising slowly she took time with her breathing before glancing back at Dolores. Her sweet, tired face was purely a lighthouse leading her back to life from such dark waters. Her hands rested to cup them and Lucrezia smiled so lovingly, bringing the woman into a warm embrace with her actions telling her how she missed her presence as words were unable to form. She breathed in the wonderful smell of lilac from the girl despite the salty ocean smell that stung her nostrils. Pulling away, she motioned her hands in a way that was saying

“Please, help the others. I’ll be okay.”

It was a little difficult as sign language was one of the few skills she hasn’t properly practiced, but with their bond she trusts Dolores to understand even without having to know. There has always been that supernatural telepathy between the Raven and the Executioner, as they know Death well in their own ways. Death bonding them in the realm of the living. Where Lucrezia sees more strength from a child forged from the ashes, she sees her spread her wings to soar carrying a draconic spirit.

She smiled, gracing her with a kiss on the head and allowed the woman to continue her duties. Her next assignment she had in mind was to face the one who did the deed. The blonde man.



























































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THE CHIMERA.















scroll

Dante



Fiocchi




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




K thanks bye now











OUTFIT




Fancy drowned rat











LOCATION




Algol











MENTIONS




Tiberius Nifty Nifty









INTERACTS






















Only Acting — Kero Kero Bonito




























































scroll






Icarian Cloud.




To reach for silver lined impossibilities amongst thunderous perils






























Chapter Three.

The barrel points in his direction and Dante’s life flashes before his eyes.

With all of his new, real memories of truth and honesty he has the sudden realization of wow my life was fucking pathetic

And his second thought is Oh stars above is this the last conscious thought I’m going to have before I die.

And then

It is marginally ridiculous that this is what I’m worrying about when I have a GUN POINTED AT ME FUCKING HIT THE DECK, MAN

Dante’s body flattened almost immediately into the dirt as he covered his head and essentially waited to die. His entire form flinched as the gun went off with a tiny pathetic little whimper.

Honesty, as it turned out, meant that his pokerface was absolutely gone and he was fucking terrified.

“You… You just got shot. Stars above you just-you just. Oh stars. Fuck.”

Tiberius was consoling THEM??!?!?! HE JUST GOT FUCKING SHOT FUCK. FUCK. FUCK FUCK-

His mind was just full of panic as he watched whatever the fuck this was and OH HE WAS BLEEDING HE WAS BLEEDING SOMEONE GET A DOCTOR OH NO-

Excuse me one moment while Dante begins to hyperventilate again.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 






The Physician.















scroll

Ilya



Jovanović




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




Can we all please calm down a little











OUTFIT




No mask, unfortunately












LOCATION




Shore time












MENTIONS




Tiberius, Calanthe










INTERACTS




Nifty Nifty floralmoon floralmoon




















Artificial Paradise — Vlad Holiday.






























































scroll






Humanist's Folly.




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































Chapter Three Part Three.

Well shit a gun went off. Twice.

A large scream came from the gladiator as the bullet tore through muscle
Ilya went over to Tiberius and the woman that shot him and a man… freaking the fuck out- probably normal reaction.

Maybe he was the callous one, who knows? But he immediately understood that guy to be a problem in the running- was that vomit in the side of his mouth?

“Hey could someone please take Mister Fiocchi away?” Remove the problems one by one, assess the issue at hand, solve. The woman seemed similarly clingy, but less likely to .

“Mister Tiberius, you seem very calm right now, I need you to keep responding to me while we get through this together.” Something felt… off.

“Please continue to put pressure on the wound- does someone know how long it will be until they will be gone?” Ilya gestured to the Helgas bobbing up and down in the waves, staring at them. Huh… the world was going a bit…

“I can do surgery once we get back on the boat” Far away…

“Please try to keep your shoulder still. Do not elevate your legs.”

…

“And…”

Ilya’s face was pale and drawn, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

RIP Ilya, you kept working through a stab wound.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE BUTCHER.















scroll

Aurelian



Fiocchi




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




Vibing











OUTFIT




EDGE











LOCATION




The Shoreline











MENTIONS




Luc/Gallin









INTERACTS




Wyll Wyll

















Mii Theme — Nintendo




























































scroll






The Tertiary Sin.




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






























Chapter Three.

….

He stared at Gallin like he was the dumbest person in the universe- well he was currently considering the idea of Gallin being the DUMBEST FUCKING PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE-

Calm down, not now. This was a reasonable question.

“You remember the weird creepy lady? She’s those fuckers out there casting bullshit in us to make us drink her stupid fucking tea like we’d fall for some paltry parlor tricks like that.” Snort. A small huff from the always self-assured butcher.

Amber eyes scanned his general vicinity for dark smudges that seemed the boogeyman type if you weren't as awesome as himself. “Your buddy is over there talking the princess and Antarin off a fucking ledge.”

Ever the compassionate soul.

“... I might've thrown a rock at you thinking it was the old hag, by the way. I offered you a free hit or a trip to the doc over there treating the other stabbings, but frankly I think you came off it easy than these other psychos.”

… relatively.






























♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE ANVIL






























scroll


ANON






KEEP









ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








Remorseful, Needing to feel useful























OUTFIT








Who needs a shirt?























LOCATION








BEACH

























INTERACTIONS








DOLORES, LUCREZIA





















TAGS








CrimsonInk CrimsonInk





































Now We Are Free— Taylor Davis
































































































































scroll












FILL THE UNFORGIVING MINUTE








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





























































CHAPTER THREE.

His eyes had been fixed on her face with hawk-like focus and attention, so much so that he flinched with how sharply her eyes had opened. As life filled her, his own life was returned to him - as though every breath she took was one more that he allowed himself to take.

He watched the tender and loving interaction of the two in front of him, understanding that - with his own hands - he had almost destroyed love itself. How many souls had this woman touched. How many souls would have been left with the hole in their heart had she not woken up. What would have become of his soul?

Tears found his eyes before he could stop them and as the lady's attention was turned to him, Anon sunk. He immediately dropped to one knee in submission, head hung low in remorse as a tear fell from his eye and darkened the sand on the beach. Thankfully, the hair falling around his face helped him hide the several other tears that threatened to fall at a moment's notice.

"Milady..." As he spoke, his voice was soft, yet strained from heart string that had been pulled taut night the point of snapping. His thoughts swelled to a deafening cacophony, each one fighting to take precedence over the next. What does one even say in a moment like this?

"Milady, furth of forgiving be my sin. Aye, I was blinded by rage and love, but 'tis no excuse. An apology cannae be enough, yet an apology I dost all the same. A thousand apologies, milady, and then a million more." His other knee found the ground - the rocking of his body causing two more teardrops to fall - and he assumed a full bow, hands laid over each other in front of his head. "Nae act nor-" his voiced cracked under the weight of his remorse, forcing him to clear his throat and try again. "Nae act nor word can atone for ma fool act, aye, I know. Yet if there be anything I can do to pay but a hair of my debt...by me hammer and by me breath, I swear that I shall do it."

He had no jokes, no quips, nary even a flirty remark. Nothing to brighten the mood or ease the tension. Not only was this not the time for it, but the gravity of what he had almost done...what he was certain he had done, didn't allow for his mind to go there. Yes, she still lived, but for all he knew, thanks to him, she may never be able to speak again. What kind of a life would that be? And that because some overconfident blacksmith had allowed his mind to be overtaken? No, there was no light in this tunnel, not for Anon at least.



























































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THE CAPTAIN.















scroll

LEXIS



THE CAPTAIN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




G U I L T Y.











OUTFIT




THE ZESTY VESTY











LOCATION




ALGOL SHORE











MENTIONS




MALTY!










INTERACTS




escapist escapist


















FUNERAL — TIGERCUB.
































































scroll






WHEN GOD TOOK




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






























CHAPTER THREE PART III.

"I request your mother to..."

It is better than the man taking a literal stab to make his ire known, and Lexis, undaunted and unaware of the true provocation behind it, waits with intent to hear the remainder of their remark. Brows have raised to afford a measly expression, attentive but not hostile. How confusing to speak about his mother in a situation such as this.

Maltke is not in his right mind (one may argue, when was he ever?), and Lexis presumes it is a disoriented gesture of the permeating blood that staggers his sense. Recovery from what would have been an insult was clumsy but social cues are distant to a man like this. Lexis gives an assured nod to discuss… his mother… at a later time.

It’s interesting to see this facet of the older man, all that abrasion temporarily effaced while Lexis tends to the wound. It is not softness, Lexis would not dare call the other man soft even in his own head, but for all the dismay the man causes him, there is a blossom of envy. Here is a man that does not actively endeavour to be shoved towards smallness, a man where the volume of his voice and gumption for antics are not just some wild whim.

Lex has spent a lifetime trying to have a minor existence, and he is jealous of that unabated gloss that calcifies Maltke as someone who is always sure to be seen and heard.

He did not doubt their quiet would be short-lived, and their mouth oozes again, as crass and hot as the blood Lex is trying to staunch.

"Fuckin' hell.”

“Language.” A placid morsel that has the magnitude of a feather, but do not think Lexis is expecting Maltke to abide by the request for more civil dialect. He helps the man sit up, and is pleased to have their cooperation in holding the fabric to their wound.

"Yer aim was accurate. A few inch and ye blew off my head or destroy heart! So if yer goal was to keep me alive, here ye go. But yeah, later, later"

“Yes,” he replied flatly, “I should have aimed better.” It’s a jagged comment unusual for his mild nature, and it takes Lexis an interval of ripping fabric to remember the importance of disclosing his intention.

“That was a joke.” The unspoken reason hovers with weight, and the Captain thinks they ought to know. “You were not the intended target,” something in the inflection almost sounds disappointed, but closer inspection might identify it as shame, “and as a gesture of goodwill I would one day like to invite you to share a drink with me.” And not call me crazy to the crew please.

Maltke’s eyes have pivoted to the disarray over the sandy expanse, captive in the throes of what Lexis can assume they’d all been a victim to inside the Haven inn. Hands are occupied binding a ripped swithe of his white shirt against the man’s shoulder, and he chances intermittent glances between the tethering to establish their surroundings.

“I thought we were further out when the storm arrived,” he has never anchored here— and clearly for good reason, but this also means he has unknowingly submerged them all into remote danger. “This must be Algol.”

Of course he had heard of the stories, but he’d never been one to test their veracity. Now he is one to see it— see them by the shore. No fishwife tale or magic trick, carnivals use smoke and mirrors but nothing can explain the unease rampant throughout the crew. How quickly can everything be altered, and what one thinks they know about the world changes to realizing they know nothing, truly.

There is nothing man made or natural to the wide-eyed figures stood along the shore.

Something twists in his gut and he looks back to Maltke, back to something he does know: this man had been shot and required assistance.

“I will tighten the dressing on three, Mister Cycek. One.” Without warning he wrenches the fabric taut in a single motion. “I lied. I have used the element of surprise.” Perhaps he had not quite inherited complete authenticity in his Anatres upbringing, but perhaps bandaging up a man with your own shirt on an unknown isle does something to the morals of honesty.

He’d only just secured the makeshift bandage firmly as a placeholder till the doctor could regard it further with sterile precision when another shot rings out. Lex would be a fool not to recognise the knock of his own gun.

His neck rears like a whip to scour eyes over the sand and find the firearm missing, follows the meteor path of footsteps slew through sand to see a keeling man and a sprinting blonde.

“Not good,” observant mutters for the audience of himself, “very bad.”

Lex offers an arm to help the man from the ground, for as much as he’d like to allow Maltke the luxury of rest, time is a precious resource who likes to quarrel.

“Are you able to stand?” His voice is clinical as if the urgency of the situation has little effect on him. “The situation with the others is unclear, I will need your assistance to move everyone away from the shoreline.”






























♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE PERFUMIST.






























scroll


CALANTHE
















































MOOD








FLUSTERED & DRAMATIC






















OUTFIT








'add sand and water'























LOCATION








SHORE

























MENTIONS








Tiberius & Ilya





















INTERACTS


Nifty Nifty qunqun qunqun











































Piero Piccioni - Per Noi Due Soli.
































































































































scroll












"what are you?"








"to define is to limit."





























































CHAPTER THREE PT III.


"Angel."

Angel..? Did he just...? Oh my god. He did. He just admitted he's in love with Calanthe. Blood rushes to the girl's face, and without hesitation, she crashes her lips into his, this was the moment she had been waiting for her whole life. No longer spending days in the colosseum, watching from the stands, cheering Tiberius on as he fights, it had all lead up to this.

"....until they will be gone?” Calanthe snaps back from her daydream, it appears that the tea had not completely worn off just yet, she looks up to see another man standing near the two. He looked awfully pale, but he still remained tall while giving directions to help Tibby. Quickly, as to not let the love of her life die, she applies as much pressure to the devastating wound immediately.

She places her free hand on his shoulder, guiding him to sit down on the sand where he was when she was first approaching. "Lift your legs, now!" Her eyes well up with tears slightly, she would never be able to cope if her future husband died, especially from her own hand. In that moment, she noticed in her peripheral, Ilya had collapsed. Calanthe was sure that someone would come help him eventually, she was very occupied with saving a life of her own at the time!

Her hand looks around, seeing if maybe someone noticed what happened, "Uhhh... I think this man needs help here." She yells out, to anyone who could hear. Her attention occasionally flips back and forth between the two men, making sure that Ilya was still breathing, and that Tiberius wasn't bleeding out. "It'll be okay, my darling. I'm not leaving your side." Calanthe grins at Tiberius, trying to reassure him that she would not be leaving, despite her blowing the situation VERY out of proportion.



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










MADELINA VOLKOVA.






























scroll


Maddie






Decoy








ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








Let No One Else Die This Day























OUTFIT








Dainty Murderess























LOCATION








Algol

























MENTIONS








Graymaws





















INTERACTS








Antarin & Magnus

















TAGS








Mypilot Mypilot Pepsionne Pepsionne







































WOLF — FIRST AID KIT.






















































































































scroll












A PRINCESS








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





























































CHAPTER THREE, PART THREE.


For all she knew, years had passed before he arrived. Seconds, minutes, hours, what was the difference anymore? Madelina had aged considerably in these past several moments, and she was sure if she tried to unfreeze time from the molasses it was stuck in, she would simply shrivel up and fade into dust. It was what she wanted, after all, after this.

A slow blink, and suddenly there was another, trying to save the other girl. Doesn’t he know? she wailed internally. Doesn’t he know that I murdered murdered her? What optimism, to believe that a dead woman can be saved in the midst of these monsters. Including her. Madelina knew, deep down, that perhaps someone could fight them, perhaps rectify the horror of what the innkeeper’s vision has caused. It was not her, it was these things, whatever they were, but nevertheless, the blood was on her hands. No one else’s. Whatever was happening elsewhere on this beach could not change the fact that of all the casualties, she was the one who had caused a true death.

Another blink, and now she saw the man was bleeding. Blood. Was Madelina to blame for this as well? Surely she was, since he was trying to save her victim. What would be the punishment for this, she wondered. What name would they give this crime? Accessory to assault? Attempted murder?

Rationality crept in, finally, blessedly, through the panic and shock that has frozen all her faculties. She thought, perhaps, to offer him some help, staunch this bleeding that she has indirectly caused. And then he asked, Why?

Guilt clawed through her heart, piercing her lungs and ribcage in the process. She felt the way her body wanted to curl in on itself, disappear into the sand, crushed under the weight of the earth until she became something else, fitting for the inhumanity she had shown today. Any words she had had flew away as a fresh wave of tears fell down her face. What could she say except an apology that wouldn’t take it back?

Surely he hated her. He knew what she did, had probably witnessed it. Madelina had never met the man before her, or at least, never as herself. His first impression of her was that of a murderess, a heartless heathen intent on bloodshed. That’s not me, a voice whispered. That’s not who I am.

But that’s all you are now.

She had thought, perhaps, that she was nothing. Now that she was something, it was terrible, inexcusable. Reprehensible. Why had she ever wished to be anything more than she was?

Her gaze snapped to the other man, staring blankly at him as he helped the first. Oh. They were so close to the monsters. Surely they needed some help.

Chapped lips parted, air whistling through them for a moment before her voice finally reappeared. “Please, let me help you.” Moving on their own, her hands tore at the fabric of her skirt. She had no use for long skirts in hell. Makeshift bandage in hand, she moved toward the men, eyeing the monsters fearfully as she pressed the cloth to the claw wounds.

From murder to healing, but even she knew this was not enough to atone for what she had done. Yet she wouldn’t allow someone else to perish needlessly. These creatures had fed on enough blood.


























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










MILO STAFFORD.






























scroll


Milo






Farmboy








ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








OH GOLLY GEE WILLIKERS























OUTFIT








Suspender My Heart























LOCATION








Algol

























MENTIONS








Ren





















INTERACTS








Tallulah, Ilya, Dahlia

















TAGS








ComplexDragon ComplexDragon qunqun qunqun CrimsonInk CrimsonInk







































GOOD THINGS — DAN + SHAY.






















































































































scroll












IT IS ONLY








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





























































CHAPTER THREE, PART THREE.


The sky was blue. Cows mooed. Horses neighed. All of these were facts of life, much like the fact that Milo was plainly not the smartest person in a room. Ever. He had long ago come to terms with this, usually nodding along with a lost smile whenever someone intellectual crossed his path. There were things he knew, and things he didn’t. Wasn’t that true for everyone?

Well, of all the things he knew, Milo was well aware that there were strange forces in this world that he couldn’t begin to imagine. The moment the innkeeper seemed to summon visions of his friends, he realized she was one of them. He had no way of knowing what her tea would actually do to him, but that was not the reason he declined it. Rather, he stuck by his assertion that his friends would not want to be recklessly resurrected just because he missed them. Also, they hadn’t actually aged alongside him. So that would be awkward.

Still, having turned down the strange woman’s offer to supposedly make his desires reality, Milo was unsure what the consequences would be. The best case scenario would be that she would respect his candor and honesty and let him go on his merry way.

Naturally, the worst case scenario happened instead.

She seemed to lunge for him. Well, it wasn’t actually her. In fact, didn’t he know this woman? Yes, she had been part of the huddle Ren had gathered during the storm. Had he crossed some sort of line with her that he wasn’t aware of? Gosh, he hoped not. Still, it wouldn’t do to assume that he’d never done anything wrong—that was foolish thinking if there ever was any—and so Milo made to apologize.

Fat load of good that did him.

Tallulah’s body careened into his, the surprise of it all knocking him off balance. Falling was not something he was terribly used to. Well, obviously he’d done it before, but it hadn’t been often since entering adulthood. His body was much larger than it used to be, and so when he hit the ground—sand?—the breath was knocked from his lungs. Gasping didn’t do much for him. He was certainly not obtaining any oxygen at this moment.

Even Milo in all his farmboy-small-town-kinda-dumb-not-that-smartness could tell Tallulah was not seeing him. Her eyes weren’t far away per se, but there was something there. Was this all the innkeeper’s doing? He knew an attack when he saw one. Instinctively, Milo lifted his arms to protect himself, squinting his eyes so he could still see through whatever she would do to him.

He wasn’t sure why she thought he wanted to cage her—probably to do with this vision thing again—but he did feel the acute pain of a knife to his skin. “AH!” he cried out, reacting to the pain, the residual feeling of something sharp having harmed him.

Lowering his arms, he peered down, inspecting the severity of the injury. Not too deep, thankfully, but still hurt like heck. Around him were the noises of other encounters, going just about the same way this interaction was going. At least Tallulah wasn’t the only one affected, and Milo was sure going to tell her not to worry about him—ow. Okay. He maybe needed some patching up.

Looking up at her voice, Milo saw the way guilt seemed to be swallowing her whole. “Hey now.” He smiled brightly, not that the dim shores of this strange island could really illuminate such a feature. “I’m alright! Don’t worry about me none. Are you okay? Tallulah, right?” Now was probably not a great time to tell her she had a very pretty name, not when he was bleeding after she’d accidentally stabbed him. Yeah. He would have to mention it later.

…much later.

Wow, everything was so messed up here. Gunshots? Multiple gunshots? Weird monster things in the water? More blood than just his? What was going on?

“Okay. We should probably try to help out, yeah? Unless you need a break!” Who was he to assume a lady carrying a knife could use it and pretend nothing had happened?

The next few minutes were a bit of a whirlwind. Very confusing for a brain as small as Milo’s. The doctor, Ilya, appeared and bandaged up Milo’s arm. That was helpful! “Thanks a lot, Doc Ilya!” He saw the harried look on the poor man’s face and tried his best to muster up a sympathetic smile through the pain. “You’re doing a great job.”

He was ready to follow the doctor’s orders and go see what was up with… okay, he knew which way Doctor Ilya gestured, but he didn’t know the people involved. Was this pain blurring his mind, or had he not been paying as good attention as he should have?

SQUIRREL! Milo saw movement out of the corner of his eye and saw another woman approaching Tallulah. Hm, he knew her, too. She was ALSO involved in the strange storm huddle. What a reunion this was. Only—wait. Something was wrong. Did she just call Tallulah “mum”?

Oh, well. There were certainly young mothers out there. Some even in Freymoor. Who was he to judge? But they didn’t look very much alike… oh. Something in the other woman’s—Dahlia, he remembered, and what a pretty name THAT was too!!—eyes alerted him to the fact that something was very off. Not quite the same as the influence that had him stabbed, but similar. Hm.

Milo stepped forward alongside the two women and laid a gentle hand on Dahlia’s shoulder. “Hey there, Dahlia. Can you come back to us? She isn’t your mom. She can’t answer you the way you want.” He frowned, swallowing. He dearly hoped he’d been mistaken in what she’d said about her mother. “Whatever happened must have been really hard, and I’m sorry that happened to you. Right now, we need to find you some help, okay? Can we do that? Maybe sit down?”

He glanced at Tallulah for assistance. Surely she could do more with two working arms?

Yikes, that sounded accusatory. He didn’t mean it like that!!!!


























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










ROSALINE TOUCHARD.






























scroll


ROSA






Enamored








ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








O CAPTAIN SO SHIRTLESS























OUTFIT








This Shit Comin' Off























LOCATION








Algol

























MENTIONS








The Captain





















INTERACTS








Rat, "The Captain" (Graymaws)

















TAGS








Gao Gao







































PUT YOUR RECORDS ON — RITT MOMNEY.






















































































































scroll












THINKING OF YOU








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





























































CHAPTER THREE, PART THREE.


At first, after drinking the tea that might as well have been a liquid form of mold and fungus, Rosaline felt as if she was floating on clouds. Gone was her gorgeous nightgown, and instead she was in the dress the storm had ruined. Oh, but that was alright, she could work anything if she set her mind to it. What was more compelling than a damsel shivering and sopping wet from a terribly timed storm? Surely the captain would take her in and wrap her in blankets, perhaps offer to draw her a bath, oh yes.

Why, was that the captain waving to her?

It did not occur to her that it was strange how she was suddenly on a beach, rather than in the inn. Nor did she find it odd how everyone else on the shore was either fighting, shooting guns, or being a general nuisance. She did not care. All that mattered was the captain, beckoning her towards the sea. Oh, how romantic to swim with her love!

“Wait for me!” she called, not noticing the hungry looks of the monsters or the way they seemed to anticipate her approach. No, she was far too entranced by the hallucination of her paramour.

Now, as humans do, Rosaline blinked, and that was the first error she made post-tea drinking. (Drinking the tea itself was a mistake, but it was one that anyone in her position had been liable to do, considering the vision the innkeeper had chosen to curse her with.) She saw it, that shadow, that hulking mass that haunted her rare nightmares. Yelping, she paused, still seeing the captain smiling at her. (Seriously, how was that not her first clue?) Blinking again, she realized that she was quite possibly in danger. “Save me!”

She picked up the pace. Faster and faster, she approached the shore and the monsters looking to consume her. But for all she knew, the captain was wooing her, romancing her, and yes this wasn’t strange at all to her. (What the hell was in that tea?)

It was likely she heard the voice calling out to her, but her yearning heart was louder as she continued stumbling through the sand toward salvation. Every blink was torture, but every time she opened her eyes, she saw only perfection. (Girl, get help.)

Her movement was halted by something grabbing her arm. Thinking it the monster of her worst imaginings, she screamed. “NO!” She must be stronger than this bony grip—what was this, a pigeon?—and she struggled accordingly, trying to tear herself away from the stranger’s grasp.

Oh, but she did hear one word: “Ugly.”

Now, if that was directed at her, rude. Absolutely untrue. Jail for a thousand years. However, such a comment directed at the captain was equally despicable. And she made sure her assailant knew so. “Neither I nor the captain are ugly, you insufferable mutant! Why, just look at his perfect visage!” She turned loving eyes, probably bloodshot from whatever close-to-drunk state consumed her, to what she believed to be the Captain. “O Captain, my Captain…” she whispered adoringly.

(Frankly, that line will never stop being funny.)

Yet she was still gripped by this pigeon or whatever. “Let go!” she insisted, trying to wrench her arm away. The Captain seemed impatient, or at the very least eager to begin their swim, and—oh my.

Guard your eyes, children. This is where it gets weird.

The Captain was now shirtless, and her heart dropped to her—okay, we all know by now how excited she gets. She watched him dive into the waves, and oh, how majestic he looked. Her beautiful dolphin. (Gag.) What a beauty he was.

So, naturally, she, too, had to strip. Unfortunately, she was in much more complicated clothing, and while that was a separate conversation pertaining to why the hell were dresses like these so constricting and impossible to remove, Rosaline had no trouble. Years of practice had her bodice halfway down her body, her bare chest on display for the stranger and the entire rest of the Leviathan victims to witness. Not that she would have minded—rather, she felt as if she should be admired by all like the goddess she surely was in another life. Never mind that she was quite possibly traumatizing her attempted rescuer or that it was monsters she was stripping for rather than the captain himself. (What is even going on anymore.)

“Don’t forget about me!” One of her sleeves was still caught on her arm, and she looked down at the hand still gripping it. By now, Rosaline had grown to ignore what she was seeing as she blinked—the monster was nothing compared to the healing powers of the shirtless Captain—and so she blinked up at the man currently keeping her from her beloved. (Reminder: it’s the graymaws.)

“If you’re trying to seduce me away from the Captain, it won’t work.” Yes, because that sounded sane. As she stood there. Half naked. Tiddies out. This woman was… something. (Poor Rat.) “My heart belongs to another.”

A pause. “I will admit I’m not opposed to a menage à trois. You’d have to ask my beloved’s permission, however.”

Someone shut her up.


























































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE KINGSLAYER.















scroll

船井 蓮



FUNAI REN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




DEFENSIVE.











OUTFIT




SNEEKY SLEEKY











LOCATION




ALGOL SHORE











MENTIONS




BEC, DANTE, TIBERIUS, ILYA, CALANTHE, ROSALINE, STORM GANG.










INTERACTS




Mypilot Mypilot qunqun qunqun Nifty Nifty floralmoon floralmoon


















RUN BOY RUN — WOODKID.
































































scroll






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.

Bec is the composition of a wild animal, and maybe that is why he has no other option but to accept Ren’s hand. Chew through his own foot when cornered or wither under the teeth of another, maybe it’s instinct or impulse or some concoction of boredom that spurs reason to look beyond the allure of the sea and trust a stranger.

He helps Bec to his feet, yet hovers his arm in preparation to catch them because first and foremost they are built like paper and their footing does not appear to be prospecting.

With his focus moving outside of Bec to the observation around them, it would be a fool’s error to try and compose exactly what had happened. Movements are gnarled, desperate, and silhouettes he thinks might be familiar are bristling like hives. Tea-drinking heretics couldn’t bear to give them all a moment’s rest, but now is not the time nor place for someone like Ren to start lectures.

”There is nowhere safe here,” Bec says, and Ren knows there is truth to that. With such a sour outlook, he almost feels the need to be optimistic out of spite. At least the sand isn’t lava. Their feet would burn. They would not have any feet. Ever think about that? Purspecktive is important.

“Maybe not,” there are monsters in the sea and the crew is no better. “But there is still time to help others.”

They do not seem to be a pair accustomed to feeling safe, or in the least, the type to settle in a space and think it to last forever. He can stomach the turmoil like a curdling shadow because he is a self-serving creature who must serve himself. It lends itself to prioritizing his own survival, his own solitude, meals and coin— but now something encroaches from within that he has others, too.

Dante, Rosaline, Evelyn, Dolores, Ilya, those he met in the storm—

Maybe he is better for it. Or maybe he should learn not to waver for these fragile things called friendships.

“Come,” he ushers them away from the shore to walk up the sand before he can linger on that tangent, but it’s another gunshot that siphons his attention away, a pinscher locked into the direction of the pained screaming. It takes an interval of noise to distinguish them, a kneeled Tiberius and lump of dishevelled curls trembling from the sand, to realize the silhouette he is watching belongs to Dante.

For the swell of a moment Ren is elsewhere, and for the swell of the next moment he is moving towards the pair on his own inherent volition. The panic sears and ribbons out like a cold chill, and he is moving towards the assumption that Dante has sheathed a stray bullet. A palate for erratic choices but currently his senses feel dulled and his body moves on its own accord.

The Doctor (the one that does not wish to kill him), enters his line of sight and reaches the gathering. Something is said in regards to Dante, but Ren is not going to linger on this being the second of Ilya’s demands tonight that he is obediently following like some loyal hound.

“Dante,” no playful Dan or taunt of Daniel, Ren does not often go without nicknames and it fills the corners of his mouth like unfamiliar syllables. He runs his palm down the mast of the man’s arm as he kneels beside him, the frail shade of his friend now akin to a splinter ready for snap.

Accusation is what first darkens Ren’s gaze, the sable ink flashing to Tiberius first, then the dovelike blonde that has also arrived to fret over him. Cements Ren with what could be anger, what could also be the indecision to attack.

“What the fuck did you do?!” It’s a dark question and his fingers instinctively curl into the fabrics of Dante’s clothing as if to hoard the man like a jewel. See, ever the dragon of the story, all exhaled smoke and tempest nostrils.

There must be a reason why Dante is now trembling on the sand like a wounded thing and the answer is between the two lovebirds (derogatory). What eclipses that surge of ire is attuning his attention back to the lawyer, for the urge to help triumphs such volatile tendencies and striking out would not bode well for anyone.

“Are you hurt?” Ren is trying to take inventory of the trembling man, searching for an injury that would lend itself to their shaking state. He manhandles them as he scours for blood, brows knitted and jaw tense while he pulls and pats over the navy fabrics. The unbidden urgency in his hands is the only source of honesty that he is not as calm as he would like to pretend to be.

“Bec,” he calls for the boy but does not take eyes from his frantic search for shrapnel, “find the gun, do not give it to anybody.”

There is no wound, no seeping blood, and Ren is too worried to care about the potential boundaries he has breached just by being near and checking the man. Dante can hate him later if he wishes to. He’d been half-listening to Ilya’s doctoring, half-listening to the sound of the lawyer’s breathing, and somewhere in that amalgamation he noticed the quietude and collapse of the physician.

“Doc?” It’s skewered with urgency, the first verbal spike from Ren this evening.

He has an injured Tiberius and his little lovesick wife, an unconscious doctor, a broken Dante and an ocean-hungry Bec.

Great.






























♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE PRODIGAL.















scroll

Cadence



VALIENTE




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




Click Me











OUTFIT




Purr











LOCATION




Waters of Algol












MENTIONS




Tiberius, Lucrezia, Dante










INTERACTS




None


















Sleeping Giants — The Crane Wives
































































scroll






Orchid Pools




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






























CHAPTER Three, Part III.

TW: Mentions of blood and details of a bloody injury.​

The crashing waves mellowed her senses into one she could comprehend within the sweetened haze of her orchid eyes, and hungry euphonies devoured her eardrums. Orchestrating the percussions of the tantalising lure of parental approval. Her father’s warm violet eyes and her mother’s kind smile settled on her figure with a gleeful emotion. Underneath Siroc’s blinding sun, a halo of reprieve held her parents with the remarkable aplomb the Valientes always carry. It was comforting. Cadence wasn’t sure what prompted them to radiate such emotion towards her, but she didn’t care. Reason has completely withdrawn itself away from her presence. Just a few more steps, she would be enveloped in their arms.

Just a few more steps. And all she could ever want would come true.

Sand shifted beneath her silk slippers as she slowly made her way to the hypnotic lull of the waters. However, in her honeyed fantasy, it was her parents' warm embrace while being encouraged by the crowd in the Coliseum that reminded her to move. Her steps hitched along to accompany the enthusiastic ‘hurrah’ and the deafening ‘huzzah’ she received, a gleeful pep in her step, as most would say. Utterly blind to the dangers of amber gazes that lurk within the water.

The cheers of the many rang in her ears as sweetly as Tiberius' screams, Lucrezia’s final gasp for air, and Dante’s spiteful rant. Oh, how it softened her senses into oblivion.

An icy, wet feeling overwhelmed both her ankles.

And like an idiot who has fallen for a trap, she fell—plunging herself at the mercy of gravity. A flurry of golden fabrics danced along with her fall. The heat of Siroc and its golden sands was quickly replaced by the evening chill of Algol and its murky waters. Her back was wet from the fall and before she could process what had happened, a tight grip locked itself onto her left ankle.

“AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” A cowardly scream arose from her, almost ripping her vocal cords apart.

“HELP ME!! PLEASE!” Desperation clawed her throat as the realisation of being dragged fell upon her. Deeper into the seas. Deeper into the danger. “HELL-” She choked on her own plea as pain erupted from her left leg. While she managed to hug her right knee in time, the rough tug of her left leg created an opening for the creatures that followed her fall.

The distressed heiress could see their horrid little claws digging into her flesh, nipping at the blood that seeped from it. Her silk skirt offered no protection, leaving it in tatters in their endeavour to damage her leg. From her knees to her ankles, deep cuts were made by their needle-like fingers. Cadence held her breath as she tried to compose herself into calmness, ultimately failing the moment their claws sadistically dragged themselves down her leg, leaving a few nasty gashes.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 
mood :
locked in



location :
the shore
outfit :
mentions :
n/a



interactions :
cadence Nifty Nifty ,ilya qunqun qunqun , ren Gao Gao & the rest of the group
Acindius
Devana
The sound of an anguished scream sent a shiver down her spine, the pitch of it striking something primal in her bones. For a split second, the warm tropical air around her transformed into biting cold, and suddenly she was no longer on a moonlit beach but back in the blood-soaked snow of home. The memories crashed over her like a wave – screams of the dying echoing off frost-covered trees, the familiar weight of her blade as it cleaved through flesh and bone, the endless crimson staining pristine white snow until the ground looked like a butcher's yard. Everything clicked into place with terrible clarity, muscle memory older than her scars taking hold. Devana moved on instinct, her gaze zeroing in on a woman being dragged into the inky water by pale hands. The thought of her stolen porcelain mask became as insignificant as seafoam against the tide.

Powerful legs kicked up plumes of sand in their wake, years of combat in a harsh terrain making the unstable beach no more challenging than solid ground. The soft granules scattered like stardust in the moonlight with each driving step. Devana could feel her blood singing in her veins as she closed the distance, that familiar battle-rush taking hold – a state where time seemed to slow and every sense sharpened to a knife's edge. Before long she was upon them, her black eyes glinting with the kind of cold fury that had earned her both awe and fear – the same look she'd worn in countless battles, in countless moments where life and death hung in perfect balance like scales waiting to be tipped.

Her movements were liquid grace as she drew her sword, the obsidian blade emerging from its sheath with a whisper of steel against leather. There was no hesitation as she stepped over the woman protectively, her stance wide and grounded despite the shifting sand. The blade slashed at the creatures' arms, its edge catching the moonlight before biting into pale flesh that parted like wet paper. When the creatures shrank back, she was quick to lift the woman into her arms.

A hiss escaped her lips as a stray hand – cold and slick as a dead fish – snagged the pearl net that kept her wild curls in check. The locks tumbled free, a cascade of night falling past her thighs, each strand catching the moonlight like strands of silk. Such vanities meant nothing in moments where survival hung by a thread, though the feeling of her hair moving free against her scarred face sent unwelcome shivers down her spine.

Devana spoke once they reached safer ground, her voice carrying the steady authority of one who had commanded both ships and armies through storm and siege. "Hush now, death has not come for you just yet." The words emerged in a low contralto, steady despite her quickened breathing from the exertion. Dark eyes swept the growing crowd until they landed on Ilya, taking in his state and the state of those surrounding him. The doctor had his hands full with other victims, and though she was no professional, Devana had stitched enough wounds and set enough bones to know her way around battlefield medicine. Experience had been an efficient, if brutal, teacher – each lesson written in scars and screams.

She placed the dark-haired woman down with careful precision, already cataloging injuries with a tactician's eye: lacerations along the legs where those pale hands had gripped were the most pressing. "We need to stop her bleeding." When no suitable materials presented themselves immediately, Devana's patience crumbled like sand castles at high tide. She began tearing at her own shirt, the sound of ripping fabric sharp against the night air – another sacrifice to survival, another piece of herself offered up to keep death at bay for just a little longer. The threads snapped one by one, each tear methodical and purposeful.

Her scarred face, still exposed to the salt air and stranger's eyes, showed no trace of uncertainty as she worked. The rough tissue that marked her from jaw to temple caught the moonlight differently than her unmarred skin, creating shadows within shadows. This was familiar territory – blood and bandages, the razor's edge between life and death, the race against time that she had run so many times before. She might not wear the mask of a healer like Ilya, but she wore the experience of countless fights in every movement, every decision.

The way she tied the makeshift bandages spoke of years of practice – tight enough to stem bleeding but not so tight as to cut off circulation, angled to allow for movement without slipping. In this moment, she was neither heir nor warrior, but simply someone who refused to let death claim another victim on this strange and terrible shore. The ocean might be hungry for souls tonight, but it would have to fight her for each one.



coded by reveriee.
 





THE GLADIATOR.















scroll

Tiberius



SANCTUS




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




FUCK IT WE BALL











OUTFIT




Ragscore.











LOCATION




Waters of Algol (Derogatory)












MENTIONS




Dante, Calanthe, Ilya, Ren, Bec










INTERACTS




qunqun qunqun Gao Gao floralmoon floralmoon Mypilot Mypilot


















Bang Bang — K'NAAN
































































scroll






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.

“I’ll be alright,” he directed his comfort to Dante once more. This time, however, his delivery sounded like a wish. It was as if he himself could will the bullet to be extracted magically, and bandages would methodically dance around his wound. Though his words seemed to have no effect as he watched the man’s chest rise and fall at a concerning rate.

Gods, how useless can you be? The gladiator thought to himself pathetically. Inadequacy fills him, drowning the stinging ache of his arm.

A fourth presence made himself known. Relief washed over him, realising it was the ship’s doctor. When the doctor finished his instruction, he felt a gentle hand guiding his shoulder back, making him lay flat on his back and awkwardly lifting his legs up. Finding it tough to will himself to relax in the uncontrollable and risky situation they find themselves in.

"It'll be okay, my darling. I'm not leaving your side."

Darling? A confused brow raised in question. Oh! She must think I’m a darling! Which, in his limited and often incorrect dictionary, would roughly translate to: a sweet thing.

“Thank you, miss,” he politely said as he sat up, gently brushing her fingers away from him. “I appreciate your help very much. But, I think I’ll be oka-” He halted his speech as another set of people joined their circle. Tiberius felt himself shifting into a cautious stance, prepared to protect the people around him if needed. However, the moment his eyes landed on a small and familiar figure, he was immediately washed with ease.

Thank god you’re alright.

As his azure eyes landed on Bec, he offered an apologetic smile. If his gaze could weep without the presence of a few wet tears, Tiberius managed to pull such a look ideally. His heart ached more than the wound on his arm when he examined Bec’s features. The boy wouldn’t have been involved in this nightmare if it weren’t for his offer. Along with his inadequacy to comfort Dante, a new melancholy threatened to ruin his indomitable spirit: guilt. A sensation he has known all too well, so well that it seemed like he had tasted every flavour of that emotion. And every time it arises, bile fills his throat, and bitterness permanently envelops his sensitive palate.

And so, when it came to the innocent boy, the guilt that clenched his heart was disgustingly familiar. He has murdered countless for a victory that could only be appreciated by soulless sycophants that birthed the fundamental guilt a human would feel. He has seen his best friend and the women whom he called his mothers succumb to an illness while he lived—birthing the foundation of his survivor’s guilt.

Tonight, as he focuses on Bec, all Tiberius can see is the boy whom he had failed in a situation entirely out of the threads of his control. Maladaptive guilt is one hell of a bitch, especially when it always seems to make itself known in every misfortunate situation he finds himself in. It is the type of guilt that can’t be stopped. Unpredictably ruthless to its very core. And it’s slowly corrupting his spirit.

However, the moment the doctor collapsed, he knew then and there what they needed: strength. With a quick and rather rough slap of his own cheek, he effectively froze his melancholy as the hot magma of determination permeated his veins. Enough! He growled internally. The tremor of his resolution rattled his bones to act, and his muscles flexed with steel determination. His good hand properly wrapped the bloodied scarf uncomfortably tight around his arm. It should give him a few minutes to help and be useful.

With a well-practised motion, the gladiator swooped the physician up and heaved his figure over his good shoulder. To Tiberius, the physician felt like an extremely tall sack of potatoes.

“As Doc said, it’s better to treat me and the wounded on the ship. Until then, I think I’ll manage," he stoicly told the group. Gone was the soft, reassuring facade he built a second ago. He firmly believed that it was in their best interest if he didn’t drag the rest with such a meek injury. He has been stabbed, choked and bludgeoned; the scars that painted his body have attested to that fact. A mere bullet will not prevent this man from seeing the people that gathered around him safe and sound. If his strength, whether in the form of his physique or absolute will, is what the group needs, then let it be so.

“Dante, bud,” Tiberius reached for Dante with his bloodied arm. A horrid sight to behold, probably, but with his other arm occupied, this is the next best alternative. With a tight grip on Dante’s shoulders, he gave the man a rough shake in an attempt to unshackle the man from his toxic thoughts. “I’m going to need you to breathe, alright? Can you do that for me?”






























♡coded by uxie♡
 
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