Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[floralmoon]

THE PERFUMIST.

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CALANTHE

MOOD

WOOOO LICKAAAAAA

OUTFIT

pretty in pink

LOCATION

ANTARES DOCK -> THE ROOST

MENTIONS

RAT & NPC

INTERACTS

Gao

Johannes Brahms - Hungarian Dance No. 5.

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"what are you?"

"to define is to limit."

CHAPTER FOUR.

It had seem like the ship was never going to make another stop, Calanthe tried counting the days, but eventually gave up, deciding that it was pointless. Her desire to be on land once more was solved as she felt the ship slowly coming to a halt, voices & music entering the ship from the outside. A smile grew on her face as she ran to the deck to view where they were docking, she had never seen this place before, but that's the best part, nobody will know her, right?

As the ship comes to a halt in the port, members of the ship began piling off, also relieved to have a chance to stand on solid ground again. Blonde locks bounce on shoulders as Calanthe jogs across the dock, ready to enter the new city and explore all it has to offer. Though not much exploring was done before the sounds of music attracted her to a tavern, a large plank of wood with "THE ROOST" scribbled on it was attached above the door to the establishment.

Doors swing open as the woman enters the tavern, revealing a room full of people focused on whatever they were doing at the moment, whether it be talking, drinking, or fighting. Cal sighed a bit as she noticed absolutely no attention was given as she made her entrance. Regardless, she approaches the bar and requests a drink, she had only ever had a glass of wine during dinner, so nothing could've prepared her for the strength of the liquor she would be given.

Swallowing the liquid, it felt as though her throat was on fire, but almost in a good way, her head begins to tingle as the effects of the alcohol slowly set in. The sensation was enjoyable, but wasn't happening quick enough. Three additional glasses later, and Calanthe felt unstoppable, dancing around by herself through the tavern, chatting with random patrons. In that moment, she turns and bumps into a man, his neutral expression was replaced with anger.

Hands wrapped around the girl's arm, and words began to be thrown into her face, "Ye better watch where ye movin' 'round here, ain't ye 'posed to be at the brothel, anyways?" Being mistaken for a sex worker is one thing, but as the man griped, the smallest bit of saliva landed on Calanthe's cheek. With her free hand, she reaches up and wipes it away, glaring back at the man, right dead in the eyes.

If it wasn't for the alcohol flowing through her system, she probably would've regressed back to her royal days, apologizing to the man and stepping out of the way, but those days were long gone. Pulling her arm back, she swings on the man, landing a punch right on his jaw. Once more, his expression changed, rage to embarrassment, as Cal speaks up, "You disgusting pig, watch who you're speaking to."

A small crowd was watching the scene unfold, it seemed that the man had some type of morals as he retreated from the feud, choosing to leave the tavern. "And your shoes are absolute hideous, by the way!" The blonde yells out as the front door closes, whether the man heard or not made no difference, as she made her way back up to the bar. She found herself standing next to a man who looked awfully sick, "They were ugly... right?" She questioned the stranger, hoping for some sort of validation in her insult to her attacker.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Shadow]

The Drowned

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Toska

"??"

...

MOOD

Confused, distracted

OUTFIT

Ragged + Coat

LOCATION

Disembarking the Leviathan

MENTIONS

Willow Farchill, (briefly) Rayna

TAGS

lyn.

La révolution - Saycet

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How can one Live

With heartstrings unwound,
and nothing beneath?

Has a ghost ever overcome despair?

Chapter Four.

A rigid pattern of tightropes had crisscrossed the path of a life once lived: invisible limits that could never be escaped, their authority manifest in every minuscule edge leveraged by one person over another...
Now, simply forgotten.
The emptiness of its wake was enormous, and he barely spent a moment without sensing the overwhelming outlines of implications that refused to take form.
But a month aboard the Leviathan had supplied two things he could now claim to know.

I'm called Toska.

I have amnesia.

The first one he had used often, to place a distance between himself and each new face.
He wasn't a barren wasteland nor a colorless pane of glass, but rather, a name he couldn't recognize.
No one else seemed to know it either, but he had been assured that wasn't the point. For now, he could think of the face of the woman who had given it to him, and that made the transient name feel a bit more real, more tangible than anything else about himself.
She had, after all, offered him several names and when he chose "Toska," she had smiled kindly enough that it felt, almost, impossibly, his own.

Every time he had to say the second thing he knew, he dreaded it and felt the urge to resist through each second of it being pulled from his lips under the necessity of questioning and confusion.

Where are you from?
What do you mean you don't know?
Strange fellow, aren't you?
Isn't anyone with you?

I have amnesia.

So, he kept out of sight, most of the time, and treated as sacred the earliest advice he had been given on how to stay out of the way. It wasn't much, but he found a purpose in avoiding the dining hall at certain hours, learning which areas of the ship were quietest and which doors let him out to the sea air the fastest.

The sea was a constant mirage of escape, with scents and sounds that washed away the discomfort of uncertainty, even if he couldn't quite interpret what the waves were whispering.
Was it memory? Familiarity, or just an empty promise?

He often stood by the railings and became lost to himself for hours, but it was the only peace he knew.

Soon, the Leviathan would bring them to Antares, he had been told, and there, on delicate strings, was a chance for remembering. His anticipation grew daily, in a tandem step with trepidation, but the thought of meeting someone's eyes and being flooded with undeniable recognition...that was worth the risks he had been warned against.

| | V | |​

Toska was leaning against the railing, motionless in figure and frantic in thoughts, as the Leviathan was secured to her moorings and the exchange of passengers began.
He had been waiting eagerly for hours, since the sun had first begun its descent, but now the moment weighed heavily upon him, delaying the search for himself in the eyes of strangers.

The purposeful approach of footsteps was lost on his wholehearted attention to the looming presence of Antares, and the first word snapped his head around so quickly that a muscle in his neck painfully twitched along with his expression; a puzzled gaze falling onto the brunette woman.

Toska's feet pulled him back by half a step as he carefully attempted to reclaim some composure.

"I--I'm..."

His attempt plummeted toward failure, and his lack of an answer to such a simple question could have only painted him a fool, but the woman offered an amendment in an accent he realized was similar to his own.
Though her expression wasn't offering any hint of familiarity, Toska knew full well that he might not recognize such an expression for what it was anyway.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Willow. I'm called Toska."

For another time, he was stuck with the question of how he knew to lower his head, to angle slightly at the waist in a sort of bow, before straightening and meeting her eyes again.
At least she didn't seem to find the gesture strange, as a few other guests had, but he was still reluctant to make a decision on whether it was an appropriate greeting or not.

"Ah,"

he stumbled again, when trying to find the right way to disappoint a stranger.

"I might be from Antares, but I do not know."

He swallowed the clarifying phrase he knew he should say and was left without anything else to offer in its place: the noise of the docks was increasing behind him and an agitated, fluttery sort of feeling was slowly taking over his ability to focus.

"I may not be an ideal guide, but I have been advised to visit several taverns and brothels before the ship departs. Not...not for the...activities,"

he clarified lamely, drawn back into his body by the horrible heat of shame: he simply couldn't be oblivious to the fact that inviting a woman he had just met to multiple taverns and brothels wasn't an offer that decent folk would make.

"I only intend to search for something--someone, rather, that I have lost. Would you be willing to accompany me?"

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Aviator]

THE VAGABOND.

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Lizbeth

Jessup

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Wary of Strangers.

OUTFIT

Dress. Earrings. Boots.

LOCATION

the Roost; Antares.

MENTIONS

Calanthe

INTERACTS

Rivi. @eebeevee

THE END —
MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE.

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Someone said you was asking after me

But I know you best as a blagger
I said, tell me your name, is it sweet?
She said, my boy, it's dagger

CHAPTER FOUR.

It was the last week of October, and still, the city of Antares was like a spent lover—sticky and fragrant. The interiors of buildings seldom offered respite from this musky, musty soupbowl of humidity. The sun was setting in a lurid blaze of crimson, but the deplorable state of the windows inside of the Roost made it tricky to see happenings outside. The glass was ubiquitously either spiderwebbed with cracks or smeared with dark, mysterious liquid that in the summertime had a nasty habit of attracting flies. Whether it had come from the inside of a stein or a body remained a trade secret.

Cigarette smoke hung languid over tables and the bar, which at one point beyond the memory of anyone living had been polished but now was simply pocked with rings from dripping glasses. Despite the early hour, the Roost had already amassed a small crowd. Daydrinking was a popular sport in Antares, second only to drinking until the next day. Red-eyed patrons in moth-eaten tatters hung in leery clumps around the bar, resembling vultures crowding a warm carcass. Beyond grunted orders to the barkeep, few words were exchanged at this early hour; the denizens of Antares were largely nocturnal, and it wasn’t until after dusk had fully set in that the city’s feverish energy crackled to life. Or death, if you found yourself on the wrong end of a blade.

A musical chime like wind slipping through branches trickled through the tavern. Occasionally the jangle of a coin falling into a rusted mug created a wonderful, mercenary counterpoint. Today had been a rather lucrative day for the floutist; she estimated a whole ten coins had found their way into her little mug today. Guess I won’t have to choose between a pint and a brandy. We're living in high cotton tonight! thought Lizbeth Jessup, or as she was more commonly known at the Corsairs Kiss, Bizzy. Or by one particularly well-paying client, Elizeh, the spelling of which she had no idea. Until last year, she had called herself Lia, but after her departure from the Caesura—a traveling troupe of performers—the moniker seemed no longer to fit, like a dress she just couldn’t shimmy her hips into anymore. And there had been quite a few of those after she’d had her baby. Of course, when Lizbeth, Bizzy, Lia, or however she thought of herself on any given day, used “we” it was an old habit, because her baby Raine had been snatched away from her. Ironically, despite the fact that she woke up every day on a straw-filled mattress in a room she shared with fourteen other girls and went to bed with half as many men during a shift, she had never felt more alone in her life than she did at the Kiss.

Between songs, Bizzy—as they called her at the Kiss—lowered the flute from her lips and stole a glance out of one stained window at the darkening sky. She had to be at the Kiss for her shift at nine o’clock, but one of the most ingenious design features of the Roost was that, like many gambling dens, there was no clock to be found. Bizzy didn’t own a pocket watch, so she used the sky as a rough approximation of the hour, as was custom in the Canyon. Two more songs, she decided, and then she’d go cash in on that pint and brandy. Or, if she wanted to be daring, three more songs, and she’d have to guzzle her drinks so that they might go straight to her head. Over the year she’d been employed at the Kiss, she found that her ability to tolerate her clients and the madame of the house was in direct proportion to her level of intoxication.

She had just started to play “Peanuts for Monkeys”—a jaunty tune that was popular in the Canyon and among the first she’d learned—when the door opened, emitting a gasp of hot air. Regrettably, however, the humidity wasn’t the only thing that swept inside. As if in brazen defiance or sheer ignorance of the weather, a young woman swathed in heavy garments that Bizzy couldn’t put a name to clunked inside the tavern, her boots thumping on the unfinished wood. She was a tall thing, dark-haired, clad in a dress of tightly-woven fabric with tribal prints around the cuffs and hem. A cloud of white faux fur blossomed around her head. She must have just stepped off a boat from Umbra, or she was one of those tourists who was too put off by the possibility of being pickpocketed to go shopping in the bazaar for new clothes.

Bizzy scowled at the furry thing that poked its head out of the girl’s bag but continued playing. Not her business. Her leg was beginning to cramp, and she stretched it out, flexing her knee tentatively. There was a creak of wood, but her leg hadn’t come out of the socket of her prosthetic. Still, she’d have to tighten the straps before her shift. The walk from the Roost to the Kiss wasn’t far, but having to one-legged hop between the two made the distance infinitely longer.

With nothing else to occupy her attention as she played, she watched the Umbra girl like a map she might be holding upside down. She stood hesitantly, as if she might want a drink but couldn’t think of the name of a single girly cocktail she might be able to stomach. Just then, the door blew open again, admitting another overdressed tourist. This one, however, was all in pink ruffles, as if a Valentine’s Day bouquet had exploded. Long cornsilke tresses tumbled to her waist, not a hair out of place. Bizzy felt an irrational flash of jealousy, remembering an encounter just this afternoon at the Kiss. A client she’d courted had rejected her. He was pudgy and sour-breathed from whiskey, but money was money. That wasn’t the part that had hurt most, though. It was being told that he wanted someone younger and blonder, two traits that this newcomer encompassed in relation to Bizzy.

The cream puff marched to the bar, and within three minutes of her arrival, she downed a double Scotch and clocked another patron across the noggin. The few spectators who had been paying Bizzy’s music any attention scattered like leaves in a strong wind, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. Indignation burned through her. Although no one was listening, it took all her discipline to finish her song. She bit her lip, her blood singing. She had been about to wrap up for the evening, anyway, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that an outsider had stumbled onto her turf and was starting shit with long-time customers.

Across the room, Bizzy caught Roger’s eye, the Roost’s bouncer. He was more giant than man, of uncanny stature and bulk with a mind-boggling ability to materialize on an as-needed basis. If he stood perfectly still, Roger blended with the shadows, his black leather armor melding with the darkness until he was all but invisible. Bizzy had never asked him because Roger didn’t like personal questions, but she had the feeling that he used to neutralize targets for coin back in his day with utmost discretion, before his hairline had receded and his beer had gone to his belly. Still, halfway through his forties, Roger was an imposing sight. Anyone with a lick of sense would think twice before approaching him in a dark alley, armed or not.

He raised his eyebrows inquisitively at her. Bizzy gave a mute shake of her head and mouthed, I got this. Knowing that it would not be there when she came back, she scooped up her tin mug with its meager handful of coins and returned her flute to its banged-up, warped case. Trusting her hunch that the quick succession of overdressed arrivals was too conspicuous for them not to be together, she bounded up to the sober, dark-haired girl. The one dressed for subarctic temperatures with the albino-looking pet. She would be easier to reason with than her drunken companion, who seemed to consider greetings and physical assault interchangable.

The Umbra girl was still peering around like a kid in a candy store, too many options and unknown pleasures for her to decide on a single one. “E’scuse me, ma’am?” Bizzy said in a flat voice that was more a demand to be noticed than asking permission to interpose. She waited until the Umbra girl turned around. Her lips curved with the beginnings of a big, foolish grin, as if she was excited at the prospect of a new friend. Bizzy looked her dead in the eye, expressionless. “We don’t allow animals in here.” The girl’s smile faltered, and she glanced down at the ball of white fur poking its head out of her purse. “I wasn’t talking about your pooch.” Bizzy drew herself up, folding her hands in front of her. The Northern girl was taller than her. Thinner too. She wondered how many potential clients would pass her up to this sweet young thing.

“Do you know that girl?” Ignorant to the rules of decorum that proclaimed pointing as rude, Bizzy singled out the girl in pink. “That there highfalutin pretty-as-a-peach dollface over yonder? I reckoned you might, ‘cuz y’all moseyed on in at the same time. Anyway, if you do, you’d best have a tawk with her. The fella she hit is Ole Royce. He’s a regular here. His money goes farther ‘n yours or your girlie’s. The disturbance she’s causin’ is bad for bidness, you see. I wouldn’t wanna have to get Roger involved.” Bizzy once again pointed, indicating the big man watching the exchange with pointed intent. As if on cue, Roger’s face broke into a large, savage grin, revealing several missing teeth and a bloodthirsty eagerness to perform the more physical parts of his job description. “Y’all need to get tippin’ or dippin’. This bar ain’t big enough for folks just standin’ around. Or worse, makin’ trouble for the rest o’ us. Think you can do that, boo?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Naomiii_]

THE HANDMAIDEN.

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ARANYANI

MOOD

OPTIMISTIC DETERMINED

OUTFIT

handmaiden slay

LOCATION

ANTARES

MENTIONS

Rhian/Nemo

INTERACTS

sollie parhelion

THE KNIGHT BUS—JOHN WILLIAMS.

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"The trees told me about you."

SEASON TWO

Aranyani stood on the deck of the Levithan, her heart pounding with both excitement and fear. The vast ship stretched before her like a titan of the seas, its towering masts reaching towards the sky while dark blue waves lapped gently against the hull. The sails rustled in the wind, hiding knowledge that she was determined to learn. This was no ordinary vessel- like nothing Aranyani had ever seen before. She was used to luxury, working as a handmaiden for nobility for years, but this was different. It was the king’s flagship, a symbol of royal power, and now it was her place of work.

She couldn’t believe her ears when the great captain agreed to have her on board. As a handmaiden, her duties would involve attending to the needs of guests while occasionally serving the officers and crew. While she was happy to have work after so long, what really excited her was the opportunity for adventure. The sea breeze, heavy with the scent of salt and promises, tugged at her dark hair. The lantern light of Antares glinted off the water, casting an almost magical glow across the grand vessel. Her curiosity could not be maintained. There were so many strangers here, so many people from different lands with different stories. A part of her felt small amidst the towering figures of sailors, nobility, and academics, but she couldn’t help the spark of curiosity that bloomed inside of her like Sea Thrift- And just like Sea Thrifts, she will thrive in the salty breeze. She was informed that the ship would be docked in Antares for the time being, but she wasn’t interested in exploring the city. It was far more important to familiarize herself with her new environment so she could best serve her clientele. Admittingly, it may also be an excuse for her to avoid the port. It frightened her more than she’d like to admit.

As she walked towards the starboard side, she noticed a young woman, seemingly headed off the ship. At first, Aranyani wasn’t sure what it was about this woman that caught her attention. She was beautiful! But that wouldn’t be enough to catch the handmaiden’s attention. Was it the way her fancy blue dress contrasted with the dark wood of the deck? The way she seemed to move with grace? Still, it wasn’t any different from the nobles she had seen before- Ah! That was it! This woman seemed familiar in a way she didn’t quite understand. Aranyani had been staring; a bad habit she had since she was a child. Quickly averting her gaze, she looked down to notice a small leather-bound journal, just feet away from the familiar woman. She instinctively picked it up, and without thinking, flipped open the contents. What she saw took her breath away. The pages were filled with intricate drawings, diagrams, and equations. Math? No, science! Aranyani’s eyes sparked with curiosity but the rambling notes made no sense to her. They were beautiful, like a secret language she wasn’t meant to understand. She could ask the woman about it! Ah, but first, she had to return the notebook! This would be her first task as handmaiden of the Levithan! The thought made her smile, her heart filling with responsibility.

Aranyani approached the woman from behind, notebook clutched to her chest. Her arm reached out with the intention of tapping the woman on the shoulder. To the maid’s surprise, the woman sped up with a swift pace, almost panicked. Aranyani froze. Why is she running? She wondered, suddenly nervous. What had she done wrong? Her eyes watched as the mysterious woman’s dress fluttered like a sail caught in the wind. Aranyani couldn’t let her go, not without such a precious source of knowledge the maid now held in her hands. Not when she had decided this was first task as handmaiden of the Levithan! Her legs moved before her mind had the chance, and she ran after the woman.

Her breath was ragged as she gave chase, her flat shoes pounding against the stone street of Antares as she followed the woman off the ship. Don’t lose her, Yani, she told herself. Her determination to reach the scholar overpowered her fear of the city. Aranyani’s mind raced as she dodged various strangers and obstacles along the way. Her thoughts were a blur, but she couldn’t stop herself. The woman was fast, but down an alley, the woman stopped! Did she fall? Was she hurt? God, Aranyani’s lungs burned. “Miss! Please!” She called out, coming to a slow stop, panting harder than she expected to be. She held out the journal with one hand, the other resting on her knee to catch her breath. “Your journal…” She exclaimed breathlessly.

She then noticed the other stranger, still on the floor, one far different than the woman she had caught up to. This person was the opposite from familiar. He was fair skinned, featuring an otherworldly and unique look that she couldn’t quite place. Her eyes darted between the both of them. “Oh! Are you both okay?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[yokai.]

the heretic.

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Melchior

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

OUTFIT

market robes

LOCATION

bazaar -> alley

MENTIONS

n/a

INTERACTS

nemo, rhian, aranyani

CRUDE DRAWING OF AN ANGEL — caroline polachek.

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eternal return

yes, i gave you fire in your veins, but what will you do with it?

CHAPTER FOUR.

The last thing Melchior wanted to do in Antares was run. A hell of red and gold that seemed to hold no room for cognition, a culture possessed solely by bodily sensations; launching into its crowds without abandon might as well have been asking for a fist to the eye, a gun to the throat. Drawing attention to himself or the shadow-tinged anomaly at his side was not a risk he was willing to take, but surely there have been stranger things to walk the night among the decrepit blackened liver of Solas. If you overlooked the everpresent cloying scent of opium and the occasional severed limb, the Bazaar was not all that different from Zenith's own trade market. Melchior could, theoretically, barter and wrangle with the hungriest merchants over their wares without garnering much interest, as long as he said the right numbers and paid the coins to match.

That was, as long as a certain someone stayed glued to his heels instead of wandering off who knows where.

”You see, my companion is… feebly ill, and ergot is a vital part of the remedy needed to cure him,” Melchior said, gesturing to the silks behind him, wearing a grimace he hoped came across as pitiful rather than threatening. ”Care to bring down the price?”

The apothecary at the counter leveled an unimpressed look at empty air, shaking their head, ”...Your friend just took off running like the devil was behind them, so you might wanna consider your words a bit more, mister.”

Melchior raised a brow, turning, searching for familiar blonde hair and a shaky disposition, to no avail. All trace of Nemo was gone, having disappeared within seconds into the densely-packed throng of bodies perpetually moving from stall to stall. Confusion, first, then the cold fire of urgency. He was not panicking.

”...Excuse me,” he muttered, pocketing his coins and slowly weaving his way through the crowd like a fish struggling to move against the stream, head turning this way and that at any signs of disturbance. He was calm, save for the frantic look that pierced through his gaze as he suddenly couldn't recall the last time he'd fed Nemo.

Oh.

It was probably fine, right?

Breath coming in short pants, he hurried his pace little by little, ducking underneath gleaming swords on display, striding past thick sweet-smelling clouds of smoke. Why did Nemo have to disappear at night, when that… tenebral side of them often revealed itself, lunging out of their human shell with single minded fervor? No. No, no. He should think of this as yet another study, Melchior reasoned, to document what his subject had the capacity to do, ravenous appetite set loose. It would be irrelevant to think about the very possible bloodbath that could occur, the outcry that was sure to follow, so he tried to push the thought out of his mind as he very narrowly avoided the unsheathed dagger of a very disgruntled elderly woman he happened to shoulder past. Sharp things. Torches and pitchforks heralding yet another trial; not for murder this time, but for crimes against humanity, which was probably worse. Definitely worse.

He. Was. Not. Panicking.

Dark eyes finally snagged on three figures crowding around each other in an otherwise empty alleyway, and he halted, body sticking to the shadows as he crept nearer. Two women, both dark-skinned and dressed in contrasting levels of finery, sporting looks of concern as one of them held out a hand with the intent to help the person sprawled on the ground. Though their back was turned to him, Melchior would know Nemo anywhere. Relief seeped through him, but his work was not yet done. There was the pressing issue of image management yet to be tackled, and Nemo had, undoubtedly, regrettably, made quite the impression. It was just their luck that these ladies seemed like bleeding heart types, unfortunately curious enough to ask questions and unable to leave well enough alone.

Already dreading the idea of what he needed to do, Melchior stepped out from the dimly-lit sidelines, wearing a polite, if not tightly-lipped smile that widened as his eyes landed on Nemo.

”There you are! I was wondering where you'd run off to,” he laughed in exaggerated relief, arms thrown out to his sides to the rising of his shoulders. ”The Roost isn't this way, Ne–Noctis,” eye twitch. Subtle. Surely Nemo would get the hint at this point. ”How many times do I have to tell you?” He held out his own hand for them to take, another hand in another alley, but this time Nemo only blinked up at him, confusion plain on their face as they laid on the ground unmoving. Or not. Amazing.

Glancing up at the two women before them, Melchior tried for an apologetic shrug as he covered up the stumble with soft, huffed out laughter, ”You'll have to excuse my friend here, ladies. They're alright, just had a bit too much to drink as you can see. It's a miracle he hasn't cleared off his Samhain disguise,” he added for good measure, hand coming up to gesture at his own face to refer to the darkened veins strewn across Nemo's pale skin, visible even in the scant light. ”We'll get out of your way, now.”

Patience wearing thin, his gaze flickered down to meet Nemo's, not bothering to hide his displeasure for a split second before smoothing it over with a worried frown.

”What are you waiting for? Get up from there, and let's go already.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

THE HUNTSMAN.

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MAGNUS

MOOD

CAUTIOUS, RESOLVED

OUTFIT

Villain Arc

LOCATION

ALGOL SHORE, THE LEVIATHAN, ANTARES PORT

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

sollie Saar

MEMENTO MORI — NICHOLAS BRITELL.

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DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR

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

SEASON TWO CHAPTER ONE.

“I am Saar”

The woman took a step forward, an insignificant gesture given the length of earth that still yawned out between them, but Magnus’ breath hitched at the action.

Bodies milled past in search of an intact boat to provide them safe passage back to The Leviathan. Away from this death, away from the sea that called for it.

But it was not the sea, nor the monsters that threatened him with their call of nihility. It was this woman. The urge to close the gap further between them picked at his skin, countered by the overwhelming fear generated from her empty stare. Magnus hated her, wanted to know more of her, wished they had never crossed paths at all. She had said nothing significant to him, yet the cloak of shadow that leashed her was the same one suffocating him, too. He was sure of it.

“Come. I will escort you.” Saar beckoned with a wave of her pale hand. Lithe fingers--spotless even in the mess of blood and sand around them. Magnus looked down at his own knuckles. Crusted over with blood that flaked off in the breeze when he bent them ever so slightly. Would she flinch back at the violence signaled on his person? Could she tell what he was capable of, and if so, was she scared?

The bounty hunter took a step forward. The grinding of sand under the heel of his shoe sounded decibels louder than the crashing waves along the shore. That sound marked the moment that would seal Magnus’ fate. A step toward Saar, toward her mystery, rather than away.

“Okay,” He responded after what felt like hours of silence between them. He fell into step beside her, and they continued onward in silence to one of the returning boats.

Magnus swallowed hard. He closed his fist tight, crusted blood cracking into patterned veins across the pale surface of his hand. Something cold had injected itself into his limbs, making them pick up and down in jagged, disjointed ways. Yet he failed to wring his hands around the elusive emotion.

Saar turned back to him upon reaching the boat, her eyes so dark against the shore that Magnus swore he could see the shadowed image of his own reflection mirrored in them. She held her hand out to him. Ah--that was the emotion. Magnus took her hand in his own, the feel of them soft despite the bite of their cold. It was fear.

--

Magnus was getting weak. He could feel it like a cavity boring its way through the hardened exterior of bone. Rotten and crumbling inward.

The length of his trip aboard The Leviathan was beginning to line pressure between the tissue of his muscles. Each movement was stiff--forced. Blood would be spilled, he had been sure of it. Yet the heels he gnashed at spoke otherwise. He was a dog leashed in the yard, pacing with unspent energy while his coat burned black fire in the sun.

He stalked in his room, eye twitching and boots cracking against the flooring. Magnus needed to kill, and if he couldn’t do it here—he peered out of the small window in his room. The Antares port was alive and bustling with movement.

The Leviathan had pulled in just as the horizon had begun to swallow the sun. Orange licked across the sky in wide arcs as the day exhaled its final breath. He ran his tongue along the point of his canine. Night would be his soon.

The bounty hunter lifted his mattress, unearthing a long, thin blade. He picked up the sword, running a finger along the razor edge. Cold steel bit at the flesh of his index finger. He pulled his hand away, watching as bright crimson bloomed at the injury. With the soft heat of life it dripped down the side of his finger, landing squarely on the pristine edge of his blade. “Soon,” he whispered. “Soon you will cry with more than just my blood.”

Magnus wiped the edge of the blade with his sleeve, then sheathed it on his hip. If he couldn’t kill here, Antares would have to do.

----

It was night by the time Magnus finally slithered his way off the mighty Leviathan. The familiar cobblestone streets were a relief after the events of Algol--a bitter memory Magnus regretted having in his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been bested by a foe. Those monsters--even he shuddered at the thought of what they were capable of. Their saw toothed smiles, flecked with chunks of freshly eaten flesh, would linger in his mind for many nights yet to come.

The streets were lively in the port town as usual. Bars exuded a yellow haze, thick like syrup as it poured into the heavy smoke that enveloped the narrow alleys and side streets. Magnus was but a mirage against the shifting light and mingling bodies. Like a spider, he crawled with a silent prowl, fangs dripping with poison. Everyone here was guilty of some crime or another. By his hand alone, justice would be delivered tonight, even if undeserved.

Magnus’ eye twitched under the weight of his heavy set brows. The cut of shadow emphasized the vacancy to his expression. A hardened mask of apathy, but lurking behind it was something vile. A monstrous tendency of his to lash out when endangered. Injured dogs bit the hardest afterall. And although he hadn’t suffered physically, as he had admitted to Saar, my had he suffered mentally. What were you to do upon the realization that you were no longer at the top of the food chain?

To Magnus, the answer was simple. You kill.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[LowkeyLovingLoki]

THE AGNATE.

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VYLAN RAGNAR

RAGNAR

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

wary and weary

OUTFIT

here

LOCATION

Antares | Tavern

MENTIONS

Lexis

TAGS

N/A

who we are - hozier

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THIS PHANTOM LIFE

sharpens like an image
but it sharpens like a knife

SEASON TWO.

Beer. Mead. Ale. Red wine. Mulled wine. Beer. Mead. White wine.

Had a telepath been in the room, they might think that Vylan was an alcoholic; at least sixty percent of the thoughts he had while working at the tavern were alcohol-related. Perhaps he was thinking about it even more, today, being his last shift before he'd be boarding the Leviathan. Vylan's hand shook, a small amount of foam dripping down the glass and wetting his fingers. Vylan swore under his breath and served the beer, before grabbing a rag hanging from his belt and wiping his hand. He was far more nervous than he'd care to admit.

Firstly, he didn't even know if he was prone to seasickness, and it would be a huge inconvenience if he was. Plus, he wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd be doing on board. Would he just be scrubbing the poop deck? If so, he figured he might as well just jump overboard. He doubted there was much use, really, for a barkeep on such a ship, and Vylan didn't believe he was much good at anything else. He wasn't sure the point in going, really, and had gone back and forth on his decision a thousand times. One of the only things keeping him from staying right where he was was the promise he'd made to Lexis, as well as the rest of his family.

Vylan had a huge amount of respect and admiration for Lexis - so much so, that he didn't think he could handle the feeling of disappointing him by going back on his promise. By the same notion, Vylan was deathly afraid of fucking something up while on the Leviathan, especially considering Lexis' hospitality.

Taking a deep breath, Vylan turned back to the patrons at his bar, and went back to taking orders and serving. Whilst working, he could go on autopilot, block out all of the excess noise in his head about his life and his relationships, and just focus on orders and fulfilling them. Half the time, he didn't even take his full breaks, not wanting the free time to be stuck with his thoughts. Still, on a night like tonight, sweating behind the bar and ignoring the shouting of drunkards, Vylan could admit when he needed a smoke break. Glancing up at the amount of patrons still waiting for drinks, Vylan realised that that smoke break was probably still a few hours away.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[CrimsonInk]

THE RAVEN.

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LUCREZIA

CAMBRIDGE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

MAGNETIZED

OUTFIT

ANTARES FIT

LOCATION

ANTARES MARKETPLACE

INTERACTIONS

NPC AGATHA | DEVANA

TAGS

@erzulie

WHO IS SHE? — I MONSTER.

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I BELIEVE MR. GRAVES,

There are tremors around us, like the vibrations of a note of music - hidden music. Some may be more attuned to them than others, what do those people do?

CHAPTER FOUR.

Behind her was the feeling of someone’s presence. Their aura weighs the atmosphere around Lucrezia, the feeling so familiar to the cold of death lurking. Agatha’s alarming expression allowed her to look back at the woman who approached them. Lucrezia could feel chills run down her spine with goosebumps kissing her fair skin. What she saw before her was someone who towered over her with an overwhelming air of death surrounding her. Reason whispered danger at the back of her mind and to run, but reason was not her friend right now. Reason was hushed by curiosity who stood at the front of such a glorious being.

“This woman brought it to me,” the Umbrian vendor Agatha blurted, “I dare not to mess with omens.”

Despite the vendor behind her who seemed to show fear, this Zenith woman felt herself caught in a trance. Such an ominous appearance had almost made her breathless once again, but she couldn’t allow herself to be so unlady-like. Lucrezia’s lips curled up into an intriguing smile with eyes watching them in an observing manner. However it faded once they showed interest in the mask. Her words weren’t out of curiosity, they were out of something Lucrezia wasn’t used to. The gothic woman shifted a bit, standing her ground and looked deep into her eyes before speaking. She spoke much more softly from her throat still healing after the incident.

“Why, when we were stuck on the beaches of Algol. After my lovely dear friend, Dolores, brought me back and my attacker apologized, I went to go help other people when I stumbled upon it almost buried in the sand,” Lucrezia explained.

She watched the other carefully but found herself allowing judgements to come forth and fought against them. Her features softened and she continued to tell her tale.

“I’ve only come here with good intentions. To find the origins and its owner, but if it is you that is the owner of this mask, please take it.”

Lucrezia grasped the mask and lifted it towards the woman before her. Her eyes never wanted to leave them or what the mask meant to them.

“May I ask for your name?” she spoke so boldly, “ and the significance behind the mask? It is rather fascinating I may say. I don’t believe I have read so far into Umbrinian history to deduce its place. Perhaps…you can inform me?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Nifty]

THE SCOURGE.

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Dolores

THORNE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

what cha doin (menacingly)

OUTFIT

Just A Wee Splash Of Colour.

LOCATION

Cozy Leviathan (Deck Area)

MENTIONS

Madelina, Genevieve

INTERACTS

Madelina

TAGS

AnimeGenork

Sinner — Samara Cyn

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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 Four.

It’s not every day she gets to interrogate royalty, but when she does, certain precautions must be taken, especially when it comes to King Rowan’s darling daughter. Perhaps that is why Dolores stomped out of the room with a scowl and a deep disappointment that plunged into Solas’ deepest waters.

An irritable inkling tells the inquisitor that there is more to the royal than meets the eye. The princess is hiding something, and Dolores is pissed she wasn’t able to coax the truth out of her. Why was she put on the ship if she wouldn’t even be at least satisfactory in her specialty?

Innocence is a fickle thing. Throughout her previous line of work, she knew that lines were constantly blurred for the sake of the greater good. Madelina Volkova has wholly stepped into the dark side of the spectrum of justice whilst also dipping a toe into the light side. As Miss Thorne had previously experienced in the clutches of her mistrust, the royal has been forced to act maliciously out of pure fear. The scourge has ruled her actions as pure self-defence. However, with the lady’s hands submerged in thick, viscous blood, this is where innocence could be a capricious little thing.

Dolores Thorne is not a judge by any means. She is just the sabre of justice who merely obeys the beat of the gavel. Justice always prevails, as some would say. And Dolores is a firm believer in this. Some justice can be found without the deafening ring of a gavel, and sometimes justice is woven by the tender hands of fate. That belief only deepened as she continued to observe the princess in the days following the interrogation. It is clear the royal is silently repenting for her sins.

While the invisible weavers of justice have been punishing Madelina with thundering tsunamis of guilt, they have still failed to procure a small piece of justice for one more person: Genevieve Kalten.

Is it a coincidence that the stowaway who was pursued by mysterious, white-cloaked individuals was found dead in the grey waters of Algol? By a royal, no less. Is the princess some sort of assassin trained by the King himself to eliminate anyone he deems a threat? How could a girl with golden eyes even be a threat to royalty? Unless she is the princess’s secret sister who threatens her claim to the throne—

Dolores has an overactive imagination.

Genevieve Kalten, despite her short introduction, was enough to soften a sharp edge in Dolores. The executioner wasn’t sure if the golden innocence in her eyes lulled her senses to dull or if it was the way the woman held her hand boldly. At some point after Genevieve’s death, Dolores knew something was occurring within her. Something odd and foreign.

Was it the inadequacy of failing to protect a complete stranger that left her feeling empty? No, Dolores didn’t know the individual well enough to feel inadequate about her abilities. No sorrows must be exchanged over a brief meeting between strangers. Yet, why did it feel like a velvet thread of fate had been snapped from her flimsy grasp? Why did it feel like she had been robbed of a potential friend? Dolores promised Genevieve protection and complete confidentiality regarding her secret. And yet, why did that secret feel heavy in her heart?

Just who the fuck are those sheet-wearing figures? Curiosity and anger curled along one another as the question sank deeper than she thought.

She is now finding secrets to be a somewhat irritable thing. And yet, Genevieve’s secret will remain sealed behind her lips. The silent temptation of Madelina’s royal secret will eventually come to light. Whether it is touched by her ears first or not, it won’t matter as long as Dolores is undoubtedly determined that the truth will be revealed and justice will prevail.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·​

Though the scourge did not attempt to speak or interrogate the princess throughout the rest of their voyage, she did make an effort to keep a close eye on her. Now that a few weeks have passed, her observations of the royal’s routine have proven one thing: the princess was left with a fractured mental state that would make the great Sigmund Freud weep. It made Dolores almost flinch in sympathy. Almost.

As twilight kissed the sky with its midnight purple and navy blue hues, her heels clicked near a figure who seemed to be mindlessly walking near the ship’s railing. It overlooked the city of Antares. Beneath the starless sky, its amber lights lit warmly, a pathetic attempt to lull a distrustful individual such as Dolores Thorne into a sense of safety. Even from the docks itself, the scent of drugs, sex, alcohol, and perhaps even blood pirouetted along with the salt of the sea.

Dolores would be a fool to step into the debauched land of Antares. It is a lawless land that follows no code of honour; the location’s values are enough to make the executioner cringe away from its very soil. The place screams trouble; the woman is highly doubtful that the crew and its guests would stray away from trouble. She could only hope it would be a miniature one, like a tavern brawl with some randoms. God forbid a peaceful and trouble-free voyage nowadays.

She traced the lines on her corset as she absentmindedly watched the princess deep in thought. The longer she observed, the longer her mistrust simmered to the surface.

She’s not thinking of running, is she?

“Lady Madelina,” she says firmly and icily. If mere voices could freeze a person, she may have teleported the princess straight to Umbra. “Are you thinking of leaving the ship?”

It is a question of genuine curiosity mixed with a sharp reminder: run and she will chase, though the former is lost within the latter’s overwhelmingly obvious intent. Dolores does not like the idea of Madelina leaving the ship. However, she is curious about where the princess would go in a place such as this. Her umber gaze lazily drifted to the rugged scenery behind her, a city for stealthy thieves, twisted crooks, gold-digging whores, and crafty little liars. Perfect for a particular woman whose intentions and motives remain to be unclear.

Is she thinking of meeting someone here? Perhaps it was one of those white-cloaked figures that terrified Genevieve so much. Is she thinking of collecting the money they promised?

An itch deepened.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[parhelion]

THE MARIONETTE.

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NEMO

THE
MARIONETTE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

what the actual f-

LOCATION

Bazaar Alleyway

MENTIONS

Melchior, Rhian, Aranyani

INTERACTS

Naomiii_ , sollie , yokai.

SOMETHING WICKED— STARSET.

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HOW CAN I TELL-

if this is the ending?
Out of myself it began evolving
I am not well, repent, I'm guilty!
How can I tell if the sky is falling?

SEASON TWO.

Nemo found themself meeting abruptly with the ground again, a soft cry startling from his lips by the sudden unexpectedness of it. The sound itself startled him more than the physical impact, though the sting of crashing down left their bewildered eyes watering. They blinked. Once, twice, again.

A harsh, shuddering cough of breath echoed in their ears, repeated distantly, startled them. It took him a beat longer than it should have to recognize the reason why he'd fallen again. A beat longer to process the words asked of him and the wide-eyed gaze on him. As always, their gut instinct reaction beneath any sort of appraisal was to shrink away from it, reminded anew of the rot within them.

Rot that had always been present, but there had been a time when the taint of it hadn’t manifested visibly enough on their skin to repel others. A time where the revulsion he himself saw in his own reflection wasn’t mirrored in the eyes of others. If beauty was in the eye of the beholder, there was a reason that people generally darted their gaze away from him now.

So why wouldn’t she look away? Why did she have to look at them like that?

Pity. Worry. Curiosity. Whatever it was. Regardless of what nuances the stranger’s expression might have carried, it all had the same effect: Nemo found himself wanting to be very, very small. He stared wordlessly at the offered hand, her flesh oozing dark blood from her own scrape against the cobblestones. Was he hurt too? Quite possibly— worse for wear was he who had lost his way chasing in the wake of vermin. But he was used to pain. He could ignore the sting of it. Had gotten quite good at it, in fact.

And besides, that wasn't quite the question she was implying. Not when she looked at him like that, wide-eyed and wondering.

“It isn’t contagious. It’s sin,” they whispered reassuringly, or tried to, but the words didn’t quite come out as much more than an exhale of air. They opened their mouth to try for more words to explain, but only managed to startle anew. Nemo’s head snapped in the direction of the newest stranger, lips parted in a dazed expression as they slowly blinked, dragging their gaze between the two of them. Was this the will of the stars? Chance encounters in strange places, the machinations of some celestial will far greater than theirs? Muggy, darkened Antares hid the stars beneath cloud cover tonight, but the stars were divinity, and divinity watched always.

They studied the breathless stranger immediately in front of them first. Broke her down into base shapes, conceptualized, like the way they’d study something to draw it, as if that could help them pull reason to this meeting. The gleaming blue and gold highlights of her jewelry, the ruffles of the shawl that hugged around her cornflower blue dress. An elegant dress that, while slightly dirtied given the collision with the alleyway’s filthy ground, hinted towards an upper class upbringing that probably required things like respect and etiquette and fine manners, an adherence to all the rules that they’d been taught once, in a different life entirely.

All the rules that were largely forgotten now—the shady drug deals in alleyways that made up the majority of their socialization under Mel’s care weren’t exactly the place for higher class etiquettes. Neither Melchior nor the idiots he scammed into buying his elixirs ever bowed to each other.

The other woman wore simpler attire. Less flashy, composed of a different sort of dignity than her counterpart. Equally strange to see. Didn't seem to fit in this place. If the stars had some meaning for this, they couldn’t pick it out of the hum in their head or the terse awkwardness of being ogled at like some creature in a cage.

Why were there so many girls in the alleyway? Didn’t they know that the alleyway had rats? That it was dark and one had to be careful of the ravenous things lurking in the dark because shadows were a consuming force, if left unchecked by light.

A hungry force. The darkness was always hungry.

Nemo swallowed hard, choking down the bitter lump in his throat. He didn't move.

More shadows, flickering on the wall against the low light, signaling a new approach. More footsteps resounding on the uneven stones, a voice that their disorganized mind recognized instinctively, though the words themselves didn’t make much sense. Roost? Samhain disguise? What was he on about? They hadn't had anything to drink. He should know that. They'd been following him just minutes ago.

It was only when Melchior’s gloved hand was pulling away from in front of them that their brain caught up enough to realize that they should have reached for it as they caught the flash of irritation that wiped across the scientist’s sharp features. Nemo flinched. Pulling his arms tightly around his trembling frame, he slowly pulled himself to his feet. To show that he was as cooperative as ever. Or remorseful. One of the two.

“Don’t be angry with me,” he breathed, topaz eyes fixed only on his dark-haired heretic. He furrowed his brow, taking a tentative step forward. Somewhat oblivious to how his words might sound to the other two, he clarified absently, "I didn't mean to run away. I didn't go to any roost. I only went here."

A beat. A pause. Maybe Mel had said rooster. Their mind was quieter here, but that didn't necessarily mean it wouldn't play tricks on them. So to clarify, they softly explained, "I didn't eat any rooster. I haven't even seen any roosters tonight. I didn't know I was meant to look for roosters, if I was." Not that they would mind rooster. Chickens were probably slower than rats. Should they tell him they chased a rat? Would that make him angrier with them than he already was?

Preoccupied pondering, his foot caught on a rut in the uneven cobblestones as he took another step. In trying to catch himself, he overcorrected instead, deciding as he knocked once more into a stranger he didn't know--although fortunately the other one this time--that if this was the divine will of the stars, they were being cruel to him tonight.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[sollie]

THE CHAMELEON.

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NINA MOLOTOV

MOLOTOV

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Eager!

OUTFIT

outfit here

LOCATION

ANTARES | Deck of the Leviathan

MENTIONS

Willow, Toska

TAGS

lyn. Shadow

hello - the cat empire

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BE CUNNING

And full of tricks.

SEASON TWO | CHAPTER ONE

Nina was a woman in need of a vice. And soon. The rocky ocean voyage of The Levithan had shaken Nina to her core, and due to her technically illegal boarding onto the ship, she did not have the same luxuries as the other passengers, hunkering down with that stupid cat below the torn surface, shoved between barrels and crates, perpetual damp and perpetual miserable. Though she’d escaped the king's grasps, her living conditions were subpar and they were getting any better. Where was this stupid ship going anyways? All she’d experienced was sea sickness, a bad storm, and a hallucination of a spooky shore. Or perhaps that was a dream? Regardless, she could not stand another moment tucked beneath the surface of the ship. She craved the light.

Antares wouldn’t bring her any closer to the light, but it could provide her what she knew it provided so many sailors: booze, babes, and beds. Maybe the bed wouldn’t be used for sleeping, but a bed was bed, whatever the activity it was used for. The pirates didn’t know luxury, but they knew how essential a plush bed was to certain things. Even if she tossed some coin to an innkeeper in the illusion she was to bed someone, she’d actually just nap through the repairs the Levithan needed.

Snatching the rotund cat up, she held Whorton to her chest, slowly making her way up to the deck.

The ship was worse for wear, and the passengers were too. The lucky few that had stayed on the ship were still shaken up from the storm and Antares wasn’t exactly the haven they were looking for. The posh maidens would clutch their pearls before unloading into the streets of Antares. But this place…? Well, Nina thought she could get used to it. Criminals ran this place. This was a pirates den of sin and lawlessness. Maybe she could slip off the Levithan, find her port here? She’d need to test out the amenities first.

Nina creeped closer to chittering passengers, hoping for information that would lead her in the direction of some booze. Anything to cut the edge off of the tightness that was collapsing her chest. The man was strange, a mix of constant bewilderment and oddity. He looked confused about his very nature on this Earth. The woman was posh, beautiful and pampered. She looked irritating. Fun.

Smiling that beautiful smile from ear to ear, she approached the bewildered passengers, weaseling her way in between them. “Hello gorgeous people.” She smiled, winking towards the woman and offering a slight quirk of her eyebrow to the man. “I hear you all are looking for some fun out in Antares. Did you fun is my middle name?” She offered with a charming smile. “My name is Nina Molotov, but my friends just call me– Fucking hell.” She ship swayed in the Ocean, throwing Nina off kilter and stammering her attempt at swaying her new companions.

“Now who are you party people?” She shook her head, slinging arm around both strangers necks. “Who cares! Let’s hit Antares before Antares hits us?” With some force, she guided her companions towards the dock. “Now I heard handsome over here talking about knowing the best spot for tavern and brothel? Care to show a lady like myself how extensive your knowledge of Antares goes? And little bit over here can join us too.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[sollie]

THE MUTINEER.

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SAAR ENNES

ENNES

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Hungry

OUTFIT

here

LOCATION

Antares | The Bull and The Bear Inn

MENTIONS

N/A

TAGS

arsonist's lullaby - hozier

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DIVINE VIOLENCE

All devotion turns violent.

SEASON TWO | CHAPTER 1.

Standing on the bow of the ship, the horrible place came into view. Like the bottom of a fire pit, Antares stood like soot against the gray sky even as the sun set behind her. Clouds of billowing smoke rose from the structures in Antares, polluting the sky with blackness that tainted the already tainted city. Nothing good came out of it, and even as they approached in necessary fashion, she chided Lexis against it. Her word held no weight against the Captain and she feared in some capacity he was right– Antares was the only option to have the Levithan fully repaired. But his ideas had been brash and idiotic thus far, leading them into the jaws of Algol and now they were docking at the beast of the belly.

Saar couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in Antares. In her memory, it was only streaks of red and anger. If the Red Baron were to find her identity, find her person… he would ring her neck in an instant. She’d purified Antares to the point of cutting into the Red Baron’s elite force of sinners and that wouldn’t do. Still, she was under a proper Captain, and no one knew her face, no one knew her name. The Blood Warden remained dormant in her body, but she held the key to unlocking her. Her identity remained sealed in her own mind.

Her fingers twitched with desire.

The smell of the port city reminded her of too much. It clawed at her spirit like a hungry dog devouring the carcass of something rotten and putrid. It baded her to break her facade and serve only the cosmos again. After all, this was the birth city of Saint Ilja. This was her righteous reminder of her holy cause.

Something divine beaconed her towards Antares. She gazed from the bow at the cobblestone roads that lead into the den of sin. For a moment, she thought she saw the image of a mother and a daughter, red running through the divots in the road, staining the already dirty stone with an even darker red color. She looked at her own hands, pale and lithe in nature– though they were not clean. They were red. Bright red tainted her fingertips, her palms, running through every groove of her hand, and dripping down her sleeves.

Hands turned into fists and swift motion replaced the red skin with black fabric, pulling a glove tightly over her tainted hands. The heat of her dagger burned at her hip. Her skin crawled with the desire to get off the ship.

And so she did.

Slinking past crew, past passenger, past sailor, and pirate alike, she found herself along the cobblestone paths that had taken the life of her mother, of her Saint. The sinful streets called to her like a siren song, beaconing her to plunge her dagger in a worthy sinner in need of retribution and rebirth. The city sang her name, begging for penance, begging for mercy. She had no more mercy in her heart.

Mind blinded by bloodlust, she pulled the darken hood up, secured the scarf around face and faded from Saar Ennes, First Mate of the Levithan, friend of all to The Blood Warden. Anyone so misfortunate as to step in her path would meet the wrath of her dagger.

–

She stalked the crowded streets of Antares, slithering like a snake through water. Her eyes were dark, piercing in nature, and hungry to meet the eyes of some unworthy bastard. But the streets were too densely crowded. This was unlike her hunting nature– She felt a familiarity return to her the deeper she went into Antares. She needed to hit something hard. And so, she slithered her way into the nearest tavern, The Bull and the Bear Inn.

Daryne Remington. Swin Ashwood. Cassian Damaris. Ryland Eastron. Beatrice DuVall. Orla Finch. Isla Greer. Thomas Eddington…. The list could go on forever. These were the names of those who perished at The Bull and the Bear Inn. Treacherous beings whose souls were able to be merged back with the Earth, their bodies finally purified from the decades of wickedness they’d been living. How many more souls would she need to guide back to the cradling embrace of the universe? Her time was limited, she had to choose wisely.

But in an instant of divine fate, the universe decided for her.

A large man, much larger than herself, much rowdy than herself, much more vile than herself, tumbled from the bar into Saar, sputtering curses. “Watch where you’re going bitch!” The man spat at her. She felt the beads of spit spatter to her face and with a swift glove hand she removed the spit, dark eyes marking their target. The man's calloused hand shoved the woman out of the way, causing another tumble backwards.

“Excuse me, sir.” She said solemnly, eyes batted up at him. “I thought you’d been served an escort.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[sollie]

THE SCHOLAR.

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RHIAN LLYR

LLYR

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FREAKING OUT DAWG

OUTFIT

here

LOCATION

Antares | Alleyway

MENTIONS

Nemo, Aranyani (unnamed!)

TAGS

parhelion Naomiii_

late bloomer - the secret sister's

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DREAM

And the unfair proximity I am to it.

SEASON TWO.

Soft eyes took in the appearance of the young stranger, concerned only for his physical well-being– not necessarily concerning herself with the obviously concerning alterations of his veins. Perhaps this young man had indulged in the lifestyles of Antares– were these the effects of drugs that circulated throughout Solas? She’d only read about a few in a textbook or two but never had she witnessed the effects on a living person. Still, altered by substances or not, it was Rhian’s clumsiness– and fear– that catapulted them to the ground.

“Please, we must see if you’re wounded…” She allowed her hand to stay outstretched, waiting for him to accept. She feared he would not– he looked horrified in a way that was strange and unlike and normal anxiety of the social type. This man could not be fearful of the public, though perhaps her specialities never lied in diagnosing the human psyche. And as though a sudden cacophony of sounds and pants, the pitter patter of her once pursuer caught up to them. That woman– though she no longer held the malicious intent that Rhian swore she once held.

Her eyes were soft and kind, gentle and sweet. And held something very important– her journal. “My gracious–” She gasped softly, now focused on her journal– distracted by a third participant, the antsy feeling in her core began again. This man… well she could not count him as kind or wicked. The dark haired woman could be a wicked person… but her heart shined pure. Even to a sensible woman as Rhian, who found she had a great ability in reading persons, could tell that this man held something else beneath his surface.

And so, disregarding the journal, the woman found herself instinctively in front of the person she’d knocked down.

“He does not seem inebriated.” Rhian stated defiantly. “Perhaps we should smell his breath and see?” Rhian offered to the woman, hoping that these strangers would give her aid if the shadow that approached them wished to consume them with his darkness. “Come, let me help you up…” She lowered her voice, offering a warning glance at the stranger. “You don’t have to go with that strange man if you do not know him.” She whispered his way.

The person was pulled up regardless, and Rhian’s concern only grew at his seemingly trembling form. This creature, however ailed by sickness or mortal weakness, deserved care and attention and his caretaker, the darkness that clutched him, did not seem adequate at providing that care and attention. “He fell. He is likely injured.” Rhian told the Darkness. “He needs to see a doctor. A physician of some kind. Are you prepared to escort him?” Despite her demands, her own hands still produced that blood. Her heart pounded dangerously fast in her chest, it ached with ever percussive blow to her rib cage. She felt breathless despite standing still.

The pale being, yet another commotion, seemed off kilter in his footing and before Rhian could catch the either of them, they and she were on the ground yet again. A glare struck the Darkness, though she quickly watched as her journal was tossed aside and down, resting nearly half in a puddle with pages, diagrams, notes upon notes were bound to get picked up and carried off by the wind. “My journal…” She whispered, eyes wide as she rushed from the scene of falling to scoop the leatherbound book, ever precious to her heart, up and protected from Antares.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[lyn.]

THE ONLOOKER.

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WILLOW

FARCHILL

MOOD

CURIOUS, HUNGRY

OUTFIT

adapted accordingly

LOCATION

LEVIATHAN DECK > ANTARES STREETS

MENTIONS

Toska, Nina

INTERACTS

Shadow sollie

NOCTURNE — LAUFEY

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LADY JANE

sits on the side, watching life go by.

CHAPTER FOUR.

He moved with familiarity, bowed his head like she’d seen before, yet rose awkwardly as if a new person. His voice remained familiar, but the words that left his mouth lacked the assuredness he had before.

Toska, a name she’d never heard before, befitting of the person in front of her, maybe. An odd name nonetheless.

Any other questions she had were answered by Toska’s stumbling responses. "I might be from Antares, but I do not know." Interesting, if Willow was not aware of her past, she would make it a point to keep it a secret. She had met far too many people willing to take advantage of others, were she ever to fall under the control of another person again- may a god strike her down.

It was a comfort to know that Romello wasn’t pretending to not know her out of spite. The following questions gave Willow the confidence to continue drilling. He did not have his guard up. He was just lucky she had no ill intent.

Willow intended to reject the invite. She had already resolved to not step out onto the dangerous roads of Antares. And to do so with the company of a man who struggled over his own words did not fare for safe travel. Perhaps she could convince him to stay instead.

She folded her hands in front of her. “Who-”

Willow took a quick step back as a woman wedged her way between them. She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle the startled hiccup that escaped her- a trait that haunts her every waking moment.

The woman, Nina, spoke with a natural confidence those in higher society lacked. Where most words exchanged were rehearsed, Nina spoke swiftly. Where every conversation exchanged began with an end target in mind, it seems Nina only needed a guide– or perhaps she was just bored.

Before any more introductions were made, the shipped swayed- and in a matter of moments Willow was forced off the ship with an arm around her neck. She would mistake the action for intimidation if she hadn’t already seen many people sling their arms around each other before.

Willow stepped her way out of Nina’s hold, coughing into her fist as she regained her composure. They were still walking, and she had to accept that if she was going to get any more information from Toska, she was going to have to join.

“Nice to meet you, Nina. My name is Willow.” She offered, placing her hands in front of her stomach as they began walking.

She kept one ear on the people next to her, and the other to the surrounding citizens. It seemed she got lucky when she first arrived to the Leviathan. Her guide must have taken her through the less busy streets.

Now, however, it is completely packed. Every step Willow took was accompanied by a shout, a slap, glass breaking, people laughing. It was chaotic- and stressful. Though she hated joining those packed noble events, the knowledge she knew everyone there was a comfort. She knew what to expect. Here, however, there was a shock at every turn, and she knew no one. The man next to her used to be one of the few solace during those harrowing times. Now he was nothing but a stranger to her.

Nina did not seem too perturbed. Perhaps this was the way most people lived when they weren’t locked away.

The smell of food caught Willows attention, and she suddenly remembered why she had left her cabin in the first place.

Perhaps that was something she could look forward to in Antares. She expected to taste all kinds of new delicacies in her travels. No doubt the food in this place is largely different to the food in Zenith. The food there was delicious, but it was repetitive.

“I’d assume the place we’re going to has food as well?” She asked, finally turning her head to her companions. “Or perhaps we can stop for some street food? I’ll admit I am not familiar with any food outside of my hometown, so some guidance is needed.” Street food was something she has not had before. Maybe more can come out of this walk, after all.

“You said you were searching for someone, Toska. May I ask who it is?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE CAPTAIN.

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LEXIS

THE CAPTAIN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

SCHEMING !!

OUTFIT

THE CHEATING COAT

LOCATION

THE LEVIATHAN

MENTIONS

MALTY, MADELINA, RAYNA.

INTERACTS

lyn.

TRAVELIN' MAN — DEAD POET S.

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WHEN GOD TOOK

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

CHAPTER FOUR.

First, recall that everybody’s fate is a predetermined loop. They live and they are always going to die, and the chief difficulty is to remind oneself of it like a prayer to prevent any sympathetic interest in becoming their friend. Us and Them, Captain and Crew, there carves a vast divergence between the sovereign of a mythos-making ship who must have all the answers, and the coldly inarticulate spectre who likes to exist unseen like a liminal space.

His whole being calls for the latter, packs of aristocrats snap for the former.

Secondly, it is easy to learn after the first decade growing up in a location like this, that there is no such thing as a harmless human being. Raised never daring to speak or step too loud, always well-trained not to reveal any reaction that can be mistaken for animus, seamless as he is quiet to counter betraying the incessant mangle of his thoughts.

Thirdly, Antares is a foreign body not because of his time away, but because being born here does not absolve one of the numerous dangers. There is land and there is water, but at a port where booze runs as freely as it does in Antares, it can be easy to mistake one for the other. Both reside under the vertical glare of the sun and both are easy to drown in.

Gloam slides across the equator to ensnare the furnace red sky in blackened foil, and the port sounds out across the water with caterwauling drunks. A location like violent alchemy, it is not a choice Lexis had made easily; with crew sieved of water and the damage of her hull knitted with only temporary solutions. He is not willing to bend luck to a snap that they can reach their destination without the respite of land.

It is a gamble weighed on mutual destruction, hollowing her side with the aperture of gunfire and hallowing the waterfront of Antares like a smoking grave. In all this excess, the first to maul is the first to be praised, and he must pocket the uncertainty like a thorn in the mouth that they will be carried through unharmed.

It is a place where he’d argue the worst is unlocked within man, a ravelling instinct that only wants to lie and drink and kill. He has never shared in these values, fellow Antarians with no purpose beyond serving their platters of violent greed. The kicked up dust of a rogue fist-fight, labyrinthine alleys that bubble with red, nails a moist alcove for soot and grime.

By default it has only ever been safe to assume the worst of people; both here and abroad. Madelina serves a humble reminder of such, and her murder at Algol is an issue he is yet to resolve. Distractions around the ship thaw the guilt that held the captain with a prim dryness, softens the tender regret for his knave shot at Maltke. He has never misfired on one of his own before and he won’t bear the repetition of it, has kept the gun untouched in his room since the event and put restrictions in place for adequate weapon storage.

The ship eases into port and Lex watches steadily, finally a small victory after how it felt to have the earth crumble out beneath them. Can play a game in which no one ever dies, but that is a leisurely folly he cannot afford. He does not know the correct words for the dead and the grieving after he has spent all of them directing the living.

And he has spent too long directing his attention from everywhere but this piece of parchment.

Silence stretches in the captain’s quarters as he listens to the hum of people outside. Those disembarking the ship for Antares and those lingering on her safe decking.

It was inevitable really, given what had happened at Algol, that a report would be due.

That dark and infected land like a gash of evil was left behind, but the feelings that had haunted the crew back to this floating coffin were snarled and ungovernable. It’s absurd to retell, the Haven Inn and the Innkeeper, the tea and the fighting, the bullet he shot into the meat of Maltke’s shoulder.

Lex stares at the parchment that is still empty save for several attempts he’d scratched out with conflicted vigor. It's an eternal struggle he has always faced, finding the right words, but it feels especially difficult with the topics of murder, crew attacking each other, and his own trigger-eager infraction that may lead to dismissal of his position.

There is barely a noise when he balls it up in a hand, and stands from the desk to seek procrastination outside. Opening the door is a miasma of both sour regurgitated acid and sweet gunpowder, noise crushed back into him like a strong current. The pulse of Antares is loud, and he watches the dock from the railing like a monumental statue. Perhaps cold as one too, composed with the regular courtesy of frigid stares.

It does not concern him that his features may be mistaken so easily for judgement, it does not concern him because he does not realize his face is akin to a cement slate. There are better things to worry himself with, things that are worth the anguish and dread.

Algol, for one. Cruel little lobsters. When you turn a corner and almost walk into someone and must dodge back and forth until you break harmony and can pass.

Deception from human beings.

Something taps his shoulder and he stiffly turns to heed whoever calls for attention. Finds nobody, a ruse, and turns to find the culprit standing proud and waiting. Her smile is moon-bloomed like an evil carcass and Lex is reminded of the frightened apprehension he’d initially had for the woman.

“Miss Mallor,” he greets as prosaic as ever. Now what remains is an inkling he might identify as trust one day. But for now?

For now she had deceived him.

Lex was going to put a live lobster in her room.

Lex was not going to put a live lobster in her room. He would find other methods to return this shoulder-tapping gambit.

Rayna was a social one, and he finds himself envious that she is able to speak and corral so easily with the others. Reminds him of Maltke and that ease to speak, to be heard. Also reminds him of how he blatantly shot the guy.

Let’s ignore that for now. After all, Lex is here to procrastinate.

He follows the not so subtle encouragement of her motioning head. He has tired of both nightlife and daylife in this port, and considers himself too old to enjoy these adolescent delights. His mature plan for tonight? Why, an outstandingly good crew member like himself was much too occupied with his work. He would pace the deck for an hour and maybe achieve a sentence on his report.

“I was going to cheat at card-games.”

Okay. You’re not meant to admit that.

An interval of silence from the man that can be identified as regret, he remembers it is not something his position should be engaging in.

"But upon further consideration in our discussion, I have determined that such an action would be highly immature."

Lex turns his gaze back to the port of Antares, watching crates of supplies be herded onboard and the streams of people stumbling along the waterfront. He may have declared evasion to the idea, but there is an unspoken something radiating from him.

An “… unless”.

With a cleared throat he slowly reaches into the sleeve of his coat and withdraws a deck of cards. He splits it and silently offers half the stack towards Rayna without looking at her.

Her arrival poses not only an extra excuse for him to step off the ship momentarily, but the opportunity to ask the woman for family advice. Not because she is a woman, he would ask the same of a man, but someone who is good with people must have important sentiments on how to navigate the emotional complexities of a mentally ill cousin.

Vylan would be boarding before dawn, and Lex had not prepared any script on how to welcome the boy.

Hello. It is a pleasant emotion to see you. I shot someone recently and I hope I will not do the same to you. Enjoy your stay.

Now with Rayna who has conveniently invited herself to attend Antares with him, they can form a strategy together. And maybe cheat at card games.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[CrimsonInk]

THE PALADIN.

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ADRIAN

BISHOP

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

EVERYTHING IS FINE (NOT)

OUTFIT

MUST PROTECT THY SELF

LOCATION

HELL (ANTARES TAVERN)

MENTIONS

NPC'S

INTERACTIONS

VYLAN

TAGS

LowkeyLovingLoki

STRESSED OUT — TWENTY ONE PILOTS.

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Morality cannot be legislated

but behavior can be regulated. Judicial decrees may not change the heart, but they can restrain the heartless.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Filthy. That was the first word Adrian thought the moment he set foot off the ship. He detested pirates and Antares as a whole. The King should take desperate matters and desecrate the place. Make it a place where it is decency and not….whatever this was. He shuddered at every local looking his way, held his breath to not smell the feces or nauseating smell of regurgitated spew from their stomachs, and with the will of the stars themselves tried to behave. No oaty behavior allowed in a place unfamiliar and dangerous.

While he did not believe, or want to believe, his dear sisters were here loitering around he had to be sure. Many thoughts ran through his head, all unpleasant and unwell thoughts that made his heart race from the unknown.

What if they were kidnapped?

Trafficked?

Robbed?

Beheaded?

The last one got to him fast and Adrian could feel his heart drop with something starting to rise from the acid of his stomach. Without a second thought he turned his head away to the side and began to heave whatever contents that came out from his oral cavity. Only the consequence of not looking where he was spewing ended with him spilling it on a woman. A high-pitched scream cursed his ear drums as he looked back up at the woman before him.

“Madam, I am terribly sorry-”

“You fucking bastard!” she screamed, raising her hand and slapping him with a force to send him across the street, “bloody drunks, the lot of them.”

She left, cursing the air as he hovered over his knees in misery. Blinking he wasn’t sure what he just experienced, but he disliked the pain he felt on his cheek and his nerves rising every second he was here. He needs something to drink. Yes, a drink. It shall calm the nerves and allow him to reassess the mission he was out here for. Eyes searched and there it was before him. A tavern. Thankfully his legs were moving faster than he could process his surroundings, allowing the mind to pace itself entering through the wooden doors. His eyes wandered seeing familiar faces from the ship, but his current thoughts were towards the bartender. The sluggish body language told him he was on autopilot, a feeling he knows well from his earlier years. Finding a seat at the bar he cleared his throat before raising a hand.

“A glass of red wine, good sir,” he kindly asked the bartender, “busy morning?”

Ah yes, small talk. Something he wasn’t good at, but he must now use the skill to butter up the bartender. The moment he sees an opening, he’ll ask about his sisters. For now, he must be patient with how he intends to play this game of social interaction.

♡coded by uxie♡