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Fantasy π‘πŽπ†π”π„ 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 β€” THE STORY

Characters
Here
Other
Here










THE PERFUMIST.






























scroll


CALANTHE
















































MOOD








WOOOO LICKAAAAAA
































LOCATION








ANTARES DOCK -> THE ROOST

























MENTIONS








RAT & NPC




















INTERACTS


Gao Gao











































Johannes Brahms - Hungarian Dance No. 5.
































































































































scroll












"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.



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










The Drowned






























scroll


Toska










"??"








...






























MOOD








Confused, distracted





















OUTFIT


























LOCATION








Disembarking the Leviathan























MENTIONS








Willow Farchill, (briefly) Rayna



















TAGS








































La rΓ©volution - Saycet



































































































































scroll










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?"




























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE VAGABOND.






























scroll


Lizbeth






Jessup








γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








Wary of Strangers.























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








the Roost; Antares.

























MENTIONS








Calanthe





















INTERACTS








Rivi. eebeevee eebeevee





































THE END β€”
MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE.

































































































































scroll












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 loverβ€”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 Caesuraβ€”a traveling troupe of performersβ€”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 β€œwe” 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, Bizzyβ€”as they called her at the Kissβ€”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 β€œPeanuts for Monkeys”—a jaunty tune that was popular in the Canyon and among the first she’d learnedβ€”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. β€œE’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. β€œWe 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. β€œI 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.

β€œDo you know that girl?” Ignorant to the rules of decorum that proclaimed pointing as rude, Bizzy singled out the girl in pink. β€œThat there highfalutin pretty-as-a-peach dollface over yonder? I reckoned you might, β€˜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 β€˜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. β€œY’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?”



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 
Last edited:










THE HANDMAIDEN.






























scroll


ARANYANI
















































MOOD








OPTIMISTIC DETERMINED

































LOCATION








ANTARES

























MENTIONS








Rhian/Nemo













































THE KNIGHT BUSβ€”JOHN WILLIAMS.
































































































































scroll












"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. β€œMiss! 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. β€œYour 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. β€œOh! Are you both okay?”



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










the heretic.






























scroll


Melchior












γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








πŸ˜„




















OUTFIT


























LOCATION








bazaar -> alley






















MENTIONS








n/a


















INTERACTS








nemo, rhian, aranyani
























CRUDE DRAWING OF AN ANGEL β€” caroline polachek.







































































































scroll






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.”


























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE HUNTSMAN.






























scroll


MAGNUS
















































MOOD








CAUTIOUS, RESOLVED























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








ALGOL SHORE, THE LEVIATHAN, ANTARES PORT

























MENTIONS








MENTIONS !!





















INTERACTS


sollie sollie Saar











































MEMENTO MORI β€” NICHOLAS BRITELL.































































































































scroll












DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR








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





























































SEASON TWO CHAPTER ONE.



β€œI 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.

β€œCome. 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.

β€œOkay,” 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 hereβ€”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. β€œSoon,” he whispered. β€œSoon 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.



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE AGNATE.






























scroll


VYLAN RAGNAR










RAGNAR








γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








wary and weary























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








Antares | Tavern

























MENTIONS








Lexis





















TAGS








N/A





































who we are - hozier
































































































































scroll












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.



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE RAVEN.






























scroll


LUCREZIA






CAMBRIDGE









γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








MAGNETIZED























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








ANTARES MARKETPLACE

























INTERACTIONS








NPC AGATHA | DEVANA





















TAGS








































WHO IS SHE? β€” I MONSTER.
































































































































scroll












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.

β€œThis woman brought it to me,” the Umbrian vendor Agatha blurted, β€œI 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.

β€œWhy, 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.

β€œI’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.

β€œMay I ask for your name?” she spoke so boldly, β€œ 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?”



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 
Last edited:









THE SCOURGE.

























scroll


Dolores





THORNE







γ…Žγ…Ž


























MOOD







what cha doin (menacingly)



























LOCATION







Cozy Leviathan (Deck Area)



















MENTIONS







Madelina, Genevieve

















INTERACTS







Madelina




































Sinner β€” Samara Cyn



































































































scroll








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 throneβ€”

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.


Β· Β· ─ Β·π–₯ΈΒ· ─ Β· Β·​


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?

β€œLady Madelina,” she says firmly and icily. If mere voices could freeze a person, she may have teleported the princess straight to Umbra. β€œAre 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.

















































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 





THE MARIONETTE.















scroll

NEMO






γ…Žγ…Ž















MOOD




what the actual f-











LOCATION




Bazaar Alleyway











MENTIONS




Melchior, Rhian, Aranyani






















SOMETHING WICKEDβ€” STARSET.
































































scroll






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 possiblyβ€” 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.

β€œIt 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 nowβ€”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.

β€œDon’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.





























β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE CHAMELEON.






























scroll


NINA MOLOTOV










MOLOTOV








γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








Eager!























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








ANTARES | Deck of the Leviathan

























MENTIONS








Willow, Toska













































hello - the cat empire
































































































































scroll












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. β€œHello gorgeous people.” She smiled, winking towards the woman and offering a slight quirk of her eyebrow to the man. β€œI hear you all are looking for some fun out in Antares. Did you fun is my middle name?” She offered with a charming smile. β€œMy 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.

β€œNow who are you party people?” She shook her head, slinging arm around both strangers necks. β€œWho cares! Let’s hit Antares before Antares hits us?” With some force, she guided her companions towards the dock. β€œNow 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.”



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE MUTINEER.






























scroll


SAAR ENNES










ENNES








γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








Hungry























OUTFIT








here























LOCATION








Antares | The Bull and The Bear Inn

























MENTIONS








N/A





















TAGS














































arsonist's lullaby - hozier
































































































































scroll












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. β€œWatch 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.

β€œ
Excuse me, sir.” She said solemnly, eyes batted up at him. β€œI thought you’d been served an escort.”



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE SCHOLAR.






























scroll


RHIAN LLYR










LLYR








γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








FREAKING OUT DAWG























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








Antares | Alleyway

























MENTIONS








Nemo, Aranyani (unnamed!)













































late bloomer - the secret sister's
































































































































scroll












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.

β€œPlease, 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. β€œMy 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.

β€œHe does not seem inebriated.” Rhian stated defiantly. β€œPerhaps 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. β€œCome, let me help you up…” She lowered her voice, offering a warning glance at the stranger. β€œYou 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. β€œHe fell. He is likely injured.” Rhian told the Darkness. β€œHe 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. β€œMy 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.





























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE ONLOOKER.






























scroll


WILLOW






FARCHILL









































MOOD








CURIOUS, HUNGRY

































LOCATION








LEVIATHAN DECK > ANTARES STREETS

























MENTIONS








Toska, Nina





















INTERACTS








































NOCTURNE β€” LAUFEY
































































































































scroll












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. β€œWho-”

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.

β€œNice 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.

β€œI’d assume the place we’re going to has food as well?” She asked, finally turning her head to her companions. β€œOr 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.

β€œYou said you were searching for someone, Toska. May I ask who it is?”


























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 





THE CAPTAIN.















scroll

LEXIS



THE CAPTAIN




γ…Žγ…Ž















MOOD




SCHEMING !!
















LOCATION




THE LEVIATHAN











MENTIONS




MALTY, MADELINA, RAYNA.










INTERACTS




















TRAVELIN' MAN β€” DEAD POET S.
































































scroll






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.

β€œMiss 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.

β€œI 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 β€œβ€¦ 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.






























β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE PALADIN.






























scroll


ADRIAN






BISHOP








γ…Žγ…Ž























MOOD





EVERYTHING IS FINE (NOT)



























LOCATION








HELL (ANTARES TAVERN)

















MENTIONS




NPC'S










INTERACTIONS




VYLAN


























STRESSED OUT β€” TWENTY ONE PILOTS.
































































































































scroll












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.

β€œMadam, I am terribly sorry-”

β€œYou fucking bastard!” she screamed, raising her hand and slapping him with a force to send him across the street, β€œbloody 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.

β€œA glass of red wine, good sir,” he kindly asked the bartender, β€œbusy 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.



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE AGNATE.






























scroll


VYLAN RAGNAR










RAGNAR








γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








who is this man?























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








Antares | Tavern

























INTERACTIONS








Adrian













































who we are - hozier
































































































































scroll












THIS PHANTOM LIFE








sharpens like an image
but it sharpens like a knife





























































SEASON TWO.

Slinging beers along a bench to those that would consume them was not something that anyone, really, would consider a talent, but Vylan was pretty damn good at it. Nevermind how sticky the bar top got - it sort of had an eternal stickiness that would never go away, no matter how much you scrubbed and scrubbed at it. Vylan had mastered the art of doing his job without ever really having to touch it.

One patron stood from the bar, another sat down. Vylan glanced up briefly, looked back down to his pouring, then looked back up quickly. The man in front of him, dressed impeccably in a stunningly blue outfit that was likely worth more than the tavern itself, had just called Vylan 'good sir'. Good sir. Vylan could not have hid his surprise if he tried. The discomfort of the man was obvious. This was not where he belonged, certainly not somewhere he frequented. High society came to the tavern every now and then, sure, but if they wanted to get wasted and be unruly, they usually at least dressed the part, and were certainly not calling Vylan 'good sir'.

"Sure," he muttered, unable to fight the smile that turned the corners of his lips up. He grabbed a wine glass - the cleanest he could find - and his finest red wine, which was the same as all of the others. "No busier than usual."

As he slid the glass of red towards the man in front of him, he couldn't help himself. "Not from around here, are you?" He asked, leaning his (clothed) elbows on the bar whilst there was a break in serving.


























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE COOK.






























scroll


Lara










Crane








γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








none of your business























OUTFIT








same as above























LOCATION








Antares markets

























MENTIONS








Aurelian Fiocchi, Knox Hood













































lara's song
































































































































scroll












why are you full of rage?








because you are full of grief.





























































SEASON TWO. CHAPTER FOUR.

Lara had never been to Antares, that was true enough. But she’d been to plenty of markets- even some of the seedier ones in Zenith- and the woman had been around long enough to know when she was being scammed.

β€œAnd how is your grandmother,” she asked the merchant, after having tasted a few pinches of the spices he was selling. He’d been very reluctant to let her try them, but had relented when she began to leave.

β€œMy grandmother?” He seemed confused by the sudden turn in the conversation. β€œShe is well, thank you, though her eyesight is poorly-”

β€œIf she were dead, she would still have more kick than this cumin,”
she told him blankly. β€œBring out your good spices.”

β€œThese are my finest spices! You insult me, madam, to insinuate-”


β€œEither these are the only spices you have, in which case you are being hustled by your supplier and are a poor excuse for a spice merchant, to not even know what is fresh,” Lara told him with narrowed brown eyes. β€œOr, you are trying to hustle me, and are a poor excuse for a spice merchant, to now even know when you have an actual cook in front of you, looking to buy in bulk, instead of some tourist.”

He did look a bit more interested when she said β€˜in bulk’ and a woman in the stall next to the spice merchant cackled, saying something in a foreign language Lara did not understand, but could guess the gist of.

Lara waited, her penciled in eyebrows raised impatiently. She had on a simple enough outfit of dark pants and a light weight shirt, worn under a dark brown and slightly beaten up leather duster that didn’t reach the tops of her knees and seemed a bit oversized around the torso.

Beneath the coat were a few knives, just in case. She didn’t intend to need them- and didn’t have much idea of what to do with them, if she was honest- but Antares had a reputation as a dangerous place for a reason.

After a little back and forth with his neighbor, the spice merchant sighed.

β€œI can see you are a woman of… Discerning taste. Come, I will take you into my shop and I will show you things that I hope are more to your liking,” he said, gesturing at the small wooden building that lurked behind the fading colored awnings and swaying lamp lights of the market street.

β€œNo, I don’t think so,” Lara said firmly, and a bit loudly, drawing the attention of a few onlookers.

β€œYou will bring them out here to me, so that I may assess them. I would like to sample your cumin, your saffron and your cardamon to start,” she listed.

She never accepted invitations into more private spaces when she did not know the inviter, especially when shopping. In the worst case situation, it was a ruse to get her alone and perhaps cut her purse in close quarters. Middling, it was a ruse to get her into dimmer light where she could not see the quality of what she was buying quite so well. Best case, it was so that other shoppers would not see what other goods the merchant might carry.

β€œMadam, please, you are being too difficult, it will be much easier to show you if-”

But Lara’s look of displeasure offered little room for debate.

β€œI would like to sample your cumin, your saffron and your cardamon,” she said again. β€œTo start.”

He relented, and brought out what she had listed. It was good quality, which is what she had expected.

She’d asked several cooks at different restaurants what spice vendor they would frequent if money was no object. A majority had recommended the same place- Zestariah’s & Co. She’d found the vendor and gone into the shop, observed the bright lights and professional signage and multiple people staffing the shop even late in the night and the fine location, and decided their overhead cost must be high indeed.

Lara’d taken a close look at their boxes and barrels, and had wandered the market streets until she found their match, and ended up here. Mik, as the fellow called himself, used the same supplier, but had a much shabbier set up and much cheaper prices.

It was the Captain’s money she was spending, but she couldn’t resist trying to get the best deal.

After all, if she saved money on spices, she could buy some fresh herbs and other things she liked to have around the kitchen- The staple items like sugar, flour, dried meat, potatoes and whatnot were all being loaded onto the ship now as part of a standard resupply, but she’d told Hood that some purchases a cook had to make herself.

And Fiocchi wasn't going to do it. She was going to have such a talking to that boy once he finally emerged from his hiding place. It was true she could have gone to find him- it wasn't like the location of his cabin was a secret- but if he couldn't be arsed to tell her what was going on, she wasn't going to make an effort to find out.

Now that they had a better understanding of each other, she and Mik got along well enough. He asked what sort of meals she generally made, and offered a few suggestions of his own that she found reasonable enough. He brought out more spices and even some dried herbs for her to sample as well, and as she had promised, she ordered in bulk.

β€œI will pay you a quarter of the cost now,” she told him once they had decided on what she was buying. β€œAnd the rest upon delivery to my ship.”

He looked aghast. β€œMadam, you cannot expect me to make such a bargain!”

β€œYou do not trust me?,”
she said with the faintest hint of a smile on her face.

β€œWith my life and with my heart,” he said smoothly. β€œBut I have business to run! My other customers will hear I have a soft touch for you, and all expect such treatment,” he explained with a shake of his head, as though this were a real concern he held.

β€œMy policy is two thirds upfront, and the final third upon arrival,” he told her firmly.

β€œHalf now, half tomorrow morning, no delivery fee,” she counter offered. β€œI will personally oversee the delivery, and if I find any of the spices have been substituted for what you sell to your tourists… ”

β€œYou insult me!,”
he told her, more affectionate now than truly offended.

β€œHalf now, half tomorrow morning,” Lara repeated. β€œAnd we will pay your delivery fee and a half- A separate payment, directly to whoever brings it.”

Mik considered- She had agreed to buy quite a lot, and it would be a mistake to miss a sale over when he got the money.

β€œThat is a deal, then,” he agreed, and they shook on it.

At the bottom of the long order form, she wrote the delivery instructions with the ship’s docking location, berth and name.

He peered at what she’d scrawled, and his eyes widened.

β€œYou are on the Leviathan?,” he asked in shock, loud enough to draw the attention of the neighbor woman and perhaps a few other passerbys.

β€œSorry,” he said, adjusting his volume so that only they could hear the conversation. β€œI mean to say- You are on the King’s ship?”

β€œIs that going to be a problem?”

β€œNo, no, not for you and me,”
he reassured her. β€œBut- It was foolish of your Captain, to dock here,” he advised. β€œThe King and his navy are… Not very popular.”

β€œI’m aware, yes,”
Lara said evenly. He seemed worried about her now.

β€œKeep that information to yourself,” he advised her. β€œIf you have other shopping to do tonight- Perhaps just write your docking berth for delivery? You never know who might hold a grudge.”

β€œI will,”
she said, after consideration. β€œThank you,” she even allowed. β€œAnd I do have more shopping to do- Could you recommend me someplace to buy fresh herbs?”

He beamed, and readily offered directions to a place belonging to a friend of his. β€œTell her Mik sent you, and she won’t give you no trouble,” he promised, waving goodbye.

Lara waved back, and started off into the stream of the crowd again. It was easy to disappear into the throng of people, and easier still to not notice who was around her. But all the same, Lara began to feel a sense of… Unease.

She stopped to feign interest in a stall of knick knacks, glancing in the mirror it held so she could see behind her.

Had those two tall men dressed mostly in black stopped when she’d stopped? Or was it just coincidence?

She resumed her walk, perhaps a bit more purposeful. The directions Mik had given her hadn’t been too difficult to follow, but then had been when her mind had not been distracted. She chose left, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the red cravat of the first one and the scarlet feather in the second’s cap both turn left as well.

Shit.

She took another, quicker left, ducking between stalls into a narrow alley in the hopes she might be wrong about her new tail, or that they would lose interest if she proved even slightly too troublesome.

Lara came out from the alley into a wider way, and nearly sighed in relief when she looked behind her and saw no one there. She might have turned right, but a carriage came hurtling down the cobbled street that direction, and to her left- Her nose nearly bumped into a thick chest strapped in black leather.

He laid a large, calloused hand on her shoulder, spinning her in a half circle so that she could see the way she had come, and could only guess what was behind her based on her half second glimpse. A dead end alley, she was almost certain.

β€œTraveling on the King’s ship, are ya then?,” the man said, slowly taking a step forward. She stepped back, widening her stance a bit.

β€œDon’t suppose you’ve got any of the King’s money on ya, do ya?,” the second man drawled, his voice low and mocking.




























































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THE HANDMAIDEN.






























scroll


ARANYANI
















































MOOD








VERY CONFUSED

































LOCATION








ANTARES - Bazaar Alleyway

























MENTIONS








Rhian/Nemo/Melchior













































RESTRAINTβ€”RAMIN DJAWADI.
































































































































scroll












"The trees told me about you."






































































SEASON TWO


The alley was dark, grimy, and reeked of something foul. Aranyani became aware of the unpleasant surroundings only after she managed to catch her breath and straighten up. It seemed she had stumbled into a situation that left her feeling uncomfortably out of place. Without thinking, she gripped the journal a little tighter. Three strangers stood before her: one familiar, one unfamiliar, and now, a new face who felt… different. His complexion mirrored the man on the ground, though he appeared more composed, more put together. Yet, there was a charm to him that seemed friendly enough, but even Yani could sense the tension in the air.

Nenoctis? Noctis? The unfamiliar stranger now had a name, thanks to this new figure. According to him, Noctis was drunkβ€”though Aranyani had little knowledge of alcohol beyond the occasional sip of wine she’d seen her former lord take. It seemed like a plausible enough explanation. She’d heard that drinking could make people ill, but could it really affect someone’s complexion like this? Noctis looked far worse than any drunken stupor should leave behind.

Relief washed over Aranyani when it seemed like everyone had found what they were looking for, but that feeling quickly shifted to concern as she noticed Noctis’ reaction. Was he afraid of this man? Were they not friends? Before she could fully process her thoughts, the familiar woman beside her stepped forward, positioning herself between the two men.

As the familiar woman stepped forward, Aranyani watched her with a growing sense of unease. The woman’s eyes were sharp, yet anxious, as she confronted the third figure, her questions pointed, demanding to know his connection to Noctis. Aranyani could feel the tension in the air, thick and palpable, as if every word exchanged carried weight. Her mind racedβ€”what was happening here? The sudden shift in the woman’s demeanor, the way she placed herself between the two men, suggested something deeper than just a casual interaction. Aranyani felt an unfamiliar anxiety settle in her chest, a gnawing discomfort as she tried to make sense of it all. Was there more to these people than she’d first assumed? Her gaze flickered between the strangers, each of them holding secrets she couldn’t yet uncover.

Aranyani’s gaze dropped to the woman’s hands, where blood stained her dark skin. She tucked the journal under her arm and reached into the pocket of her apron for sewing supplies and extra fabric. It wasn’t idealβ€”certainly not gauzeβ€”but it would have to suffice to keep the wounds clean until they could get proper care. Her eyes darted down for only a moment to make sure she was pulling out the right materials, but that brief lapse was enough. A sudden force knocked into her, and with a sharp, high-pitched yelp, she collapsed to the ground with the sickly Noctis sprawled on top of her. The journal, which had been tightly clutched under her arm, now lay discarded on the ground.

Her eyes scanned frantically for it, and she gasped when she spotted it half-submerged in a dark puddle. Her priorities shifted in an instant, and she pushed Noctis off of her with surprising force fueled by nerves, quickly sitting up and gathering the discarded papers. The edges of the delicate sheets crinkled in her grip. The pages were smeared with dark marks, some of which had bled from the puddle beneath them, and she felt an irrational pang of worry at the thought of losing any of the scientific contents, especially since it wasn’t hers to begin with. The realization of what she had done hit her and she screamed once again, high pitched and quick. She looked back at Noctis. β€œOh, I'm soβ€” so sorry! Are you alright?” Aranyani’s voice was soft but laced with urgency, her eyes never leaving Noctis’ pale face. β€œYou’re in no condition to be—” She hesitated, glancing at the others before continuing, β€œβ€”to be involved in whatever’s happening here. I-I'm sure we’ll figure this out, I'm sorry!.”

She was unsure whether she could move without making things worseβ€”without making them feel threatened or more unstable. The weight of the situation felt heavy. Her heart raced as she tried to balance the urgency of saving the journal with assisting the person before her, torn between the need to act and the fear of making the wrong move.



























































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THE ABEL.
















scroll

Ephraim



PROKOPIOU




γ…Žγ…Ž















MOOD




ENTHUSIASTIC











OUTFIT













LOCATION




ANTARES BAZAAR












MENTIONS




KOHEN










INTERACTS




















RICKY MONTGOMERY β€” CABO.
































































scroll






Because empires will rise and fall




Like tides and I'll live through it all
But it won't mean a thing without
YOU.




























CHAPTER FOUR.

Ephraim was so excited about traveling with his brother that he didn't notice the number of eyes lingering on his suitcase, which was packed to the brim with every little thing he thought they might need. Had he gone overboard? Maybe, but he couldn’t help himselfβ€” this was the first time in a long while they’d had just for themselves.

It was only until a few years ago that he managed to break away from the confines of Valdioro and the capital, but even then, the lower districts of Zenith were nothing like the vast, unfamiliar world that the brothers were about to step into. For Ephraim to be able to snag tickets for both himself and Kohen to board the Leviathan was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; not just because of the high demand, but also because there's finally a way to start their relationship over again. Back to a simpler time where they used to spend their days outside, crouched in the dirt, watching bugs crawl or flutter and chasing each other through the woods.

However, Ephraim wasn't exactly thrilled about the fact that the Leviathan had to dock in Antares of all places. Of course, traveling around Solas with Kohen meant that there were going to be places they had to go that weren’t ideal, but Antares? That port was riddled with booze, pirates, and opium, and its reputation was enough to send a shiver down anyone's spine. For a royal vessel to make a stop here seemed almost sacrilegious, given the crown's abandonment of the harbor and the failed attempts to reclaim it.

They might've came from a village known for its mines, but getting stoned or hammered wasn't the type of "family bonding" Ephraim had envisioned. That's why he chose to drag Kohen into the one place in Antares that was even slightly safe: the Bazaar. Since there was a high chance they won't be coming back here for a long time, what better way to make the most of their time by exploring its wares? Though he heard rumors of some vendors acquiring their goods through underhanded tactics, Ephraim convinced himself that not everything in the Bazaar could be tainted. Surely, among the questionable items, there had to be something genuineβ€”something worth remembering this stop by.



"You just gonna stand there or what?"
the vendor asked, his voice rough like the sand that littered the port. He leaned forward, a hand resting on the edge of his stall.
"Either you buy it or not. I don’t have all day."


Ephraim snapped out of his daze, his fingers still lightly grazing the edge of a jewelry display box. It was crafted from dark wood with smooth, polished edges, and topped with clear glass that had caught the faint light from overhead. Though the display box wasn't what he had in mind for Kohen's gift, it wasn't like there were any available frames in the Bazaar. Most of them were already filled with artwork, both real and counterfeit, and the few that remained were either chipped or outrageously priced. Not wanting to disrespect his fellow artists by taking out their paintings, he decided the display box was the best option.

"Sorry!"
Ephraim blurted out, quickly retracting his hand from the smooth surface.
"Let me just get something over here..."


He was about to reach for his suitcase until he stopped himself. It took an hour for him to hold the straps together alone, and the last thing he needed was for it to burst open for everyone to seize. Instead, he rummaged through the pockets of his overalls and pulled out a small, drawstring pouch. The soft clink of metal sounded as he loosened the string and tipped the pouch slightly, revealing a handful of rings he crafted. They were actually prototypes for a commission he'd completed months ago, but he'd held onto them for a rainy day, never quite satisfied with the finished product. Now, they seemed like the perfect thing to barter.

"How about these? I made them myself,"
Ephraim said, offering the pouch toward the vendor. They weren't the most extravagant pieces he made. but considering that he only needed an empty display box, this was more than enough.

The vendor's eyes narrowed as he looked over the rings, his fingers brushing the metal lightly. Ephraim could tell the man wasn't overly impressed, but there was a flicker of interestβ€”maybe it was the quality of the material or the intricacy of the carving. After a moment, the vendor grunted, clearly weighing the value in his mind.

"Not bad,"
he muttered, his voice still rough.
"Fine, I'll take 'em. You can have the box."


Without skipping a beat, he snatched his purchase and turned to Kohen, already tugging him along through the bustling marketplace. The crowd surged around themβ€”shouts of vendors hawking their goods, the smell of spices and incense hanging in the air. As they passed a stall filled with colorful fabrics, Ephraim spun around, walking backward with a wide grin.

"Here, this one's for you!"
Ephraim chimed, passing the display box over with his eyes eager for his brother's reaction.
"I know that there probably aren't going to be many bugs in the ocean, but I thought it'd be nice if you can still add to your collection once we land somewhere. Hope it'll suffice."






























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THE AMENDED.






























scroll


RAYNA






MALLOR









































MOOD








EXCITED, NERVOUS

































LOCATION








LEVIATHAN > ANTARES STREETS

























MENTIONS








LEXIS, KNOX





















INTERACTS








































KING AND LIONHEART β€” OMAM
































































































































scroll












PAST THE WANDERING EYES








of the ones that were left behind.
though far away, we're still the same,
we're still the same, we're still the same.






























































CHAPTER FOUR.

β€œI was going to cheat at card-games.”

Huh?

Rayna remained silent, startled at the words that left the Captain’s lips. She expected some pushback, some insistence that he needed to stay and oversee repairs, or read a bunch of papers, or do whatever the hell he did cooped up behind doors. Instead, he seemed to have already intended to leave the ship.

Where was Lexis from again? Did he ever tell her? It was unlikely. Trying to get information about him was exhausting when he thinks β€œWhat’s your poison?” is an actual question about poison. That, and he clearly did not like Rayna when she first joined.

But look at them now! He’s willing to share his want to cheat at card games with her! They’ve come so far! Hell yeah, Rayna was ass at cards, but if he was willing to, of course she would-

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

Ah.

Rayna’s shoulders dropped, disappointment, and then a realization at the silence.

β€œYes, and that’s what I am. Mature.” She grined and took the cards from him. β€œI am also good at keeping secrets.”

Confident that he would follow, Rayna spun on her heel and practically skipped off the ship. All caution thrown to the wind when she looked back and saw Lexis behind her. Success!

β€œI’ll admit, cards aren’t my strong-suit. So any support you can offer is much appreciated.” She flashed a wink. β€œIf you need to win a game of darts, however. I’m your girl.” She tapped the belt slung on her waist and pulled out a golden dagger. β€œGot a lot of practice with good ol’ Tucker when I was younger.”

She re-sheathed the weapon as she weaved through the crowd. The motions were natural to her, easy. If she really wanted, she could slip back into the day-to-day life of Antares with no problem.

The thought made her uncomfortable, an unsettling reminder of who she used to be, who she didn’t want to be anymore.

Terry Dela was just a short walk from here.

Rayna’s stride slowed as she turned to face Lexis. Walking backwards, she lifted her hood up to cover her face. The warmth of the night countered by the cold rush of fear that ran through her at the reminder that she wasn’t supposed to be here. Ah, but she was here with the Captain. What could go wrong!

She cleared her throat, and flashed Lexis a smile.

β€œHow about a bet? First person to make…” She pretended to count on her fingers. β€œLets say, eighty Solari while playing games, wins. Loser… buys the winner something nice-”

A pause. What would the Captain consider nice? What if he bought her a ship in a bottle or something? Ugh, she enjoys ships, but just the thought of Lexis approaching her with that left a shiver down her spine. Get more creative, brain Lexis!

β€œNo, loser buys the winner whatever they want from the Bazaar. Only if you’re on board, of course.”

If it were Knox, she’d offer something else. The loser does whatever the winner wants for the day. It would end badly, for sure, but it would be worth it. Rayna had an inkling that if she dared the Captain to do something as small as just walking around the ship in pyjamas- she’d be hated for the rest of her time on board.

Casinos were too easy. Most of the men there were idiots who’d fall for whatever traps the Captain set up for them. No, Rayna would have a better advantage at a Tavern. Drunken men might make mistakes on card games, but their aim with darts was so shit that even a blacked-out Rayna could win against them.

Rayna brought them to a place named The Awful Barrel, not as popular as The Roost, but in Antares any place that had drinks had visitors. And most importantly, Rayna scarcely ever came here when she lived in Antares, so the chance of being recognized was slim to none.

β€œDon’t judge it by the name. I’ve heard they make a mean bean soup.”

Part of the reason Rayna never came was because she hated bean soup. Lexis didn’t need to know that.


























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 






The Shaman.















scroll

Rivi



Kolt




γ…Žγ…Ž















MOOD




excited lil baby











OUTFIT














LOCATION




Antares; The Roost












MENTIONS




Lizabeth & Calanthe
























no one noticed β€” the marias






























































scroll






New Beginnings




always open to new outcomes that no one really wants.































Chapter Four

Nerrivik perked her head in a circle as she glanced around from her spot at the entrance of β€˜The Roost’, yes she was expecting a handful of people but this was more than she predicted with only a couple of minutes of entering. Taking her time to fully take in her surroundings as the scent of alcohol was still stinging her sense of smell, she kept her posture upright and made her way through the scatter of tables and chairs that were occupied by men and women from all walks of life.

The music was loud, but too loud for her liking but then again, she lived in the forest her entire life, any sudden sound would be considered loud for her. Nerrivik kept her thoughts to herself, her eyes scanning the room and at the same time, avoiding eye contact from the sullen stares that were already starting to gather towards her. Some individuals slowed their speech to take a moment to sneak a look at her direction.

Feeling a sense of anxiety felt just a bit from the eyes being on her, creating a small voice in her head that soon enough to kick her overthinking into action. Only for it to grow a bit louder than the usual tone she was comfortable with hearing. β€˜It will pass.’ Her own whisper in her head which seemed to deafen the other voices in her head.

Now fully face to face with what she assumed to be the bar, Nerrivik’s eyes widened at the sight that was now presented for her. Her tribe weren’t drinkers or to her, seemed to truly understand the reasoning behind drinking alcohol as it just creates more harm and damage to oneself but she has noticed that the outsiders were big on it and even drank to the point of making mistakes and… stupidities that they would otherwise do without it. Though she did want to fit in so ordering one couldn’t be too much of a pain right?

Her attention fully drew to the endless opportunities that were laid before her, yet what was she supposed to order? Were there names for these things? A way to ask without seeming too native to these reckful folk?

Nerrivik’s mind was stuck, all she knew to order was food and regular drinks that already had a name to them. She could always just say β€œGive me a mug”, that's what she seems to hear a lot of the sailors back in Umbra’s saloon call out for.

Soon enough her attention would be drawn to something, well someone else, hearing a voice call out towards her or at least she hoped it's to her. Nerrivik took a glimpse over her shoulder to come into view of a woman that had a smaller stature than her. In Nerrivik’s eyes, she looked quite cute, with her brown hair that framed nicely down her face with a fringe that fell perfectly over her forehead. Not being about to look away as this was the first person to actually come up to her.

β€˜Someone to talk to!’ She excitedly thought to herself, her smile becoming very apparent but before she could greet the woman, the woman continued to speak.

Her smile now downturned, her eyes looking down at Evio who was still peeking her head out of her bag. Fearful of what she would have to do if she was to allow her with Evio, there was not a chance she would leave her baby out there, who knows what would happen to her.

Would they kidnap her? Sell her away or worse, No she would much rather not think of that outcome at all.

Though the following comment just made her more confused with her given situation, Nerrivik stayed silent as her eyebrows formed together, her head tilted to the side slightly as a way to show that she was trying to understand what the woman meant by that before looking into the direction of who exactly this woman was talking about.

Her eyes were met by the most color she’s seen here since stepping foot off the boat from Umbra, being invited by the view of a blonde girl in an explosive pink dress that was clearly arguing with a man. Nerrivik blinked a couple of times before snapping back into her senses and turning her head slightly back to the woman.

β€œOh her.”

Turning back to take another glance from the girl’s dress and starting to think of compliments to not be seen as judgmental,

β€œIt's cute. Very… pink?”

She replied, her head still in the tilted form from before as she threw out another questionable compliment to make up on the spot.

β€œI could try to talk to her but,”

Time took a slow turn, she thought to herself if she should even get herself involved in any way with this but knowing that this could go one of both ways, solving and getting something out of it such a crew to be a part of or making things worse and somehow being dragged into something far worse that meant the human eye. 50/50.

Was she going to risk it though?

Taking a deep sigh out, Nerrivik already knew what she was going to do anyways even before she thought out her choices.

β€œI’ll talk to her and uhm, give me a mug of whatever you have, please!”

Her voice rang out as she hurried her way towards the pink dressed girl that was surrounded by the crowd.

Already mentally preparing a list of sentences and words to address this pinkie but noting the way she’s slightly slurring her words and her light movement, it was clear to tell this girl was intoxicated. Who knows how much she drank.

β€˜Maybe I shouldn’t do this? Maybe this wasn’t my place to jump in and help?’

Nerrivik’s thoughts started to stir in her mind but it was far too late now that she was face to face with her. She cleared her throat and awkwardly smiled at the girl, hoping it didn’t come off as a creepy way or still make this worse than they already were.

β€œHi, Love your dress. Just wanted to check in what was going on here? You know, making sure YOU are okay.”

Emphasizing β€˜you’ to show that she only cared by what this girl was feeling and honestly could care less about the man. By the way he looked, Nerrivik would even want to be around this man even with a 10 foot pole but nonetheless, she kept her attention on the girl.





























β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 










THE HORN.






























scroll


Macklin






Lowe








γ…Žγ…Ž






























MOOD








Steely Determination.























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








Antares Bazaar.

























MENTIONS






























INTERACTS








Lara jones573 jones573





































BACKBONE β€”
KALEO.

































































































































scroll












So tell me what you want








And I'll give you what you want, baby
'Cause, baby, for your love
I'll do whatever you want.





























































CHAPTER FOUR.


Sir Macklin Lowe looked polished but sharp, like a well-kept knife as he sliced through the frenetic activity of the Antares market. The sun was hovering low on the horizon, and a fraction of the vendors were packing up their wares so that their nighttime counterparts may relieve them. The juxtaposition of emotion in him was a little unsettling; like the other districts of Antares, alcohol-soaked and trash-strewn and overloud with the noise of amateur buskers, he felt like he should have disdained the market. Yet as his gaze swept over a rainbow of colors and he breathed in a heady mixture of spices, he had to reign in the impulse to dart from stall to stall and absorb it all. A bare-chested vendor who claimed that his woven rugs could fly. A woman in a blue shawl with an array of charcoals drawing the likeness of paying clients. A man with a curling moustache selling antique weaponsβ€”Macklin found his eye drawn to a long, hose-like length of bronze that spewed green fire that couldn’t be extinguished with waterβ€”for outrageous sums. The mouth-watering aromas of fried fish and garlic potatoes. A small army of clocks with asynchronous ticks and chimes creating a melody of organized chaos. Macklin felt like he easily could have spent a week and several purses and still not experienced everything the market had to offer.

Alas, his time was not his to spend as he pleased. He was on a mission for the King and Queen, and the job always came first. His mission was a time-sensitive one, too, because the ship that King Rowan had authorized him passage on was due to depart inβ€”he consulted his pocket watch for the fourth time in fifteen minutesβ€”nine hours and twenty-three minutes. And he still had yet to acquire the white widow dahlia rumored to have healing properties that might just cure Queen Sharvi’s illness and save her life, or at least slow its progression. According to his research, the unripe seed pods of the white widow contained a powerful cocktail of alkaloids that not only relieved pain, but facilitated apoptosisβ€”cell deathβ€”in corrupted cells. And Macklin had been extracting, purifying, and chemically modifying substances from plants long enough that he’d been entrusted to prepare the alkaloids in a form that could be consumed by the Queen once the flower had been acquired.

However, the compounds within the dahlia were horribly strong, and from experiments that had been conducted so far, it had a tendency to overwhelm the nerve cells of the rats it’d been tested on until they eventually died of cardiac arrest or respiratory failure. The only instances in which the rats hadn’t died were when the dahlia had been cut with bleeding heart, a plant that only grew in springtime in most locations in Solas with the sole exception of Siroc, the climate of which provided the conditions for a year-round harvest. The bleeding heartβ€”named for its shape and vivid colorβ€”wasn’t as experimental or ridiculously rare a find as the white widow dahlia, but it necessitated a trip to Siroc. Which was, to say the least, a massive inconvenience when the Queen’s condition was accelerating by the month. The best physicians’ estimate was that she had less than a year to live. Time was of the essence; no one could afford to wait until springtime. Acquiring the bleeding heart was the reason that Macklin was departing for Siroc aboard the Leviathan at daybreak.

His hamstrings feeling pleasantly sore from kickboxing training last night and his abdominals not yet feeling the tightness from his morning workout, Macklin continued through the market, resisting the pull to investigate every trove of foreign treasures he passed. Unlike most of Solas’ major cities, he’d only ever been to Antares twice before. Both of those times had been on the King’s orders, and neither of those times had ended in particularly peaceful negotiations. Shortly after his second visit, a small fleet of warships flying under the Carmine Corsairs’ flag had tried to retaliate on the Zenith navy. Macklin had been part of the small team of tacticians roused from their bedsβ€”or in his case, his conservatory, because he hadn’t been asleepβ€”at an ungodly hour to devise a defense. All of the invading ships had been sunk or overtaken, and Macklin had boasted a new medal when he’d attended the hanging of the captured Corsairs pirates. For this reason, it was of paramount importance that he keep a low profile and limit his interactions as much as possible until he boarded the Leviathan, which he intended to do as soon as he got his hands on the dahlia. If you get your hands on the dahlia, whispered a cynical voice in a dark corner of his mind. Macklin silenced the voice. Failure was not an option. He would do whatever it took to save Queen Sharvi’s life.

The doubt pressed on him, frayed his nerves and made his chest feel tight. He’d been perusing the massive markets for almost three hours, and still no sign of the woman he was looking for. The only woman he could think of who might have the panacea he sought. What if she’s not here? What if she’s already gone for the day, and you’re too late? Dark waters threatened to close over him. He couldn’t leave for Siroc until he had the dahlia, and a boat staffed by the King’s men would be the only one that Macklin would be welcome aboard. If he was killed by a crew with a vendetta against a Zenith war hero, Queen Sharvi’s chances at recovery died with him. Macklin felt like he was playing a chess game against time inside his head. For a tactician, he’d always been bad at chess.

The dying sunlight winked off of several dozen facets on his heavily ringed hand as he withdrew a long, slender pipe from a long, slender pocket on his coat, tailored for that express purpose. He ducked into an alcove as to not disrupt the flow of traffic as, with quick, expert motions, he deposited a pinch of golden-brown powder into the bowl. He lit it up and took three slow, greedy inhales, filling his lungs and holding his breath, savoring the sweetness until only the faintest of clouds escaped his nostrils. It tasted like burnt sugar, and it felt like the only kind of salvation he was interested in. Cruder strains were commonly sold on Antares’ dark street corners, but Macklin had fashioned this particular recipe himself from the myriad specimens in his conservatory.

When he emerged from the alleyway, the ever-present pain in his ribs where he’d once been skewered with a sword was gone. The reds of the market were a little bloodier, the greens closer to the emeralds he wore on his fingers. Time stretched like a rubber band; either the world was a little slower, or Macklin was a little faster. He also felt less inclined to backhand the next whore, beggar, or hawker who got in his face, an instinct he’d been curbing ever since he stepped foot outside his room at the inn. Ten years of being a soldier had honed and hardened Macklin, and his sense for danger was on a hair trigger. When someone snuck up on him, there was a decent chance that they would find themselves on the ground in a chokehold before they could blink twice.

His face was warm and faintly tingling when, against all odds, he saw her. Macklin did a double take, not believing his eyes. Hope blossomed in him like a springtime flower, and he almostβ€”almostβ€”smiled. A chipped wooden sign that desperately needed to be repainted read Hair of the Dog. Clustered on shelves were bottles of various sizes and shapes with contents of equally various colors. There was a pumpkin-shaped container with a liquid so bright that it hurt Macklin’s eyes to look directly at it. A vial with a long stem like a wine glass that held a viscous purple slime. An inky substance that swirled and shifted in strange patterns in a miniature cauldron. In spidery black handwriting, labels made written promises to regrow hair, enhance the memory, reduce wrinkles, induce wakefulness, induce sleep, heighten the libido, shrink waistlines, regulate fits of temper, eradicate otherwise incurable sadness. Artfully arranged amongst the shelves were blooms of exotic flowers and leaves folded in such clever shapes that they could have been iced confections sold in a bakery window.

In the middle of it all was a small, fair-skinned old lady, long strands of wispy white hair piled atop her head like a nest of snakes. She was elegantly swathed in rich fabrics and textures, but she had the beginnings of a hunched back. And she was incredibly wrinkled. It hadn’t occurred to Macklin before, but the woman looked like she had one foot in the grave, and he suddenly wondered what he would have done if she had already expired. After all, it had been over a year since the last time he’d been in Antares and seen her, and she hadn’t looked any better then. Fortunately, it wasn’t a predicament he’d have to ponder.

She was starting to strip the shelves of their vials, and he raced over to catch her, dodging pedestrians who hissed and glared at him. He was more breathless from exhilaration than exertion when he reached her stall. β€œGood evening, Yelena,” Macklin said mildly. She’d had her back to him, but when she turned, a light flared in her eyes as they alighted on him. Macklin recognized it as the shine of greed. He leaned into it hard. β€œI hope I didn’t catch you too late. Do you have time for a last-minute customer?” With each word he spoke, a new 100-piece Solari appeared on the counter until they glistened in a tantizling tower. Money was a ubiquitous language, currency a dialect.

Yelena hobbled a step toward him. Two, because her strides were small. Her fingers shook as she closed them over the coins. β€œFor such deep pockets, I think I can make it,” the old woman replied coyly in an Umbran accent. The deep lines of her face shifted into the beginnings of a smile. β€œTo what do I owe the pleasure, Mister Gomez?” She pronounced Macklin’s pseudonym in such a way that itβ€”not incorrectlyβ€”rang with phoniness. Nonetheless, he was sure that the name he called her was equally fake. β€œIs that still the alias you’re masquerading as?”

Ignoring the latter question, Macklin replied, β€œYou didn’t answer any of my letters,” He pouted, putting a hand on his chest in mock offense. β€œAnd here I thought we were friends.”

The old woman’s face instantly soured. β€œPeople like you don’t have any friends.” Yelena didn’t quite snap it, but her voice was cold. β€œYou only write when you want something.”

People like me? Macklin raised an eyebrow, wondering if it was an accusation or a challenge. Instead, he wrung his hands and said, β€œGuilty on both charges. But since when it is a crime to want—”

β€œGuilty on a third charge too, for not being half as charming as you think. Now stop trying to butter me up like a duchess you want to take to bed and tell me what you came here for.”

Despite being insulted in successive breaths, Macklin was relieved for the woman’s directness. He dropped the syrupy act immediately, like a cloak he wore against the weather. He spoke business and dealt violence; charm could be left to the royals. Without moving his head, he darted his eyes around, ensuring that the only marketgoers within earshot were knee-deep in bartering over an antique vase that had ostensibly belonged to a long-dead relative of the Red Baron. Macklin leaned in a little closer and dropped his voice to half a whisper. β€œI’m looking for white widow dahlia,” he said without preamble.

The old apothecary’s eyes widened a fraction in surprise. Macklin considered it lucky that her hearing hadn’t gone yet and force him to shout the sensitive nature of his mission for all to hear. β€œWhy don’t you come inside,” Yelena said, more of a condition for further conversation than a suggestion. She backed off from the counter a shaky step, retreating in the direction of a spacious canvas tent that squatted behind the walls of shelves. It was a smaller version of the militant ones that Macklin was used to meeting other officers in to discuss battle plans. β€œBut I’ll warn you in advance, I rarely trade my products for coin anymore. I’ve evolved to other currencies.”

Macklin felt a peculiar mixture of alarm, repulsion, and morbid curiosity for what currencies Yelena did trade in anymore. It must have shown on his face, because she clicked her tongue and said, β€œI don’t trade in those currencies, dirty boy.”

β€œThat’s good, because you look like you’d have a heart attack if you did.”

Yelena put her hands on her bony hips in disdain and scowled at him across the counter. β€œUnlike men, we women aren’t bestial creatures that think about sex constantly.”

β€œCome now, a healthy eighty-percent of the time hardly warrants the use of the term constantly.”

β€œNo wonder they call you King Rowan’s dog.” The amusement Macklin felt dried up instantly, like an oasis under the hot desert sun, to be replaced by shock. β€œOh, I know who you are.” Yelena kept her voice considerately low as she alluded to sensitive information, but it was laced with indignation, as if Macklin had somehow insulted her intelligence. β€œThe wax seals on those asinine letters you sent gave you away. Postmen are loyal to whoever pays them, you know, and they talk. You’re not popular here, Mister Gomez.”

Macklin’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. There was no use in denying anything, and he did not wish to prolong this conversation out in the open. Or at all. Yelena made a satisfied sound low in her throat, as if sensing that she had won the conversation. Macklin swallowed down a bit of petty resentment. He was quickly reevaluating his opinion of his favorite shopkeeper in Antares.

β€œWell, come on then. Let’s get down to business.” There was the clang! of a latch falling open, and an unseen gate in the long counter drifted open. He proceeded through it at a fraction of his typical walking speedβ€”for Yelena moved very slowly and the space behind the counter was smallβ€”and shut it behind him. The small shopkeeper rose onto the tips of her toes to fumble with the zipper of the tent. Despite the new ire he held for her, Macklin, out of common decency, was about to offer to reach it for her, when she seized it and the words died in his throat.

The tent smelled strongly of incense and was cozily cluttered with knick knacks. Handcarved faeries rested on low wooden tables, and a stack of parchment was pinned to it beneath a statuette of a dragon curled around a crescent moon. Shelves overflowed with a combination of thick tomes, potted plants, and still more vials with mysterious contents. A small fire burned merrily in an otherwise vacant space. Feeling a nameless sort of dread open up in him, like a woodland creature walking into a glade pockmarked with hidden traps, Macklin followed Yelena. He rubbed his thumb along the engraved bronze ring on his index finger and ducked beneath the top of the opening.

Because she was walking in front of him, he did not see the snow leopard until he was inside and it was snarling at him. He drew back in shock, one hand automatically jumping toward the pistol in his coat. Not that he’d ever be able to get a shot off before it leapt at him.

Yelena spun around, and she cackled at his reaction. β€œOh, that’s just Fluffy. Don’t mind her. She’s well-behaved around well-behaved guests.” Despite her owner’s claims, the hair along the back of Fluffy’s neck bristled and her ears flattened against her head. The low, ominous monotone continued to rumble from her throat. β€œShe’s just a little hungry right now, but don’t worry. I’ll be feeding her as soon as we’re done here. Or perhaps before.” Yelena wore a wry grin.

A distracted β€œhmm” was the only response that Macklin gave as he digested this veiled threat.

β€œSir Lowe, why don’t you take a seat? What kind of hostess would I be to make you stand?” She gestured magnanimously to the two wooden rocking chairs crouched around the low coffee table. Not taking his eyes off Fluffy, Macklin sidestepped around the tent to the farther of the two chairs. With some awkward shuffling, he settled into it. The chair was made for someone distinctly smaller than him. His hips were squeezed, and his knees felt too close to his chest. It creaked warningly beneath his weight, and Macklin had a horrible vision of the sudden snap of wood triggering the snow leopard into attacking. Not quite so dire but perhaps more humiliating, his second concern was whether he would take the chair with him when he attempted to stand.

By this time, Yelena was heating a pot of tea with remarkable efficiency. β€œHow do you take your tea, Sir Lowe?”

Get it together, Lowe. You’ve won battles outnumbered three-to-one, rescued duchesses, and once killed a man with a quill. Yelena wasn’t the only one who could pretend this was a normal conversation. β€œWith honey and milk, a dash of cardamom, and two mint leaves.” Macklin hated tea, but he could better tolerate it the less it tasted like tea.

Yelena scoffed and simply plopped the teacup on a coaster in front of him, black and slightly steaming. She sells love potions and liquid happiness, but me asking for mint is the dealbreaker? he thought incredulously but didn’t argue. He did not want to stay in the tent with the snow leopard any longer than necessary. He would shell out or sign for some outrageous sum, get the white widow, and leave with significantly lighter pockets. The doll-sized rocking chair permitting.

β€œAbout the dahlia,” he started the moment she’d settled into her seat, β€œI’m prepared to offer you two-hundred-forty-thousand Solari in exchange for sixty grams.” Lowball her first. Macklin had no doubt she’d work him up to twice that price.

Yelena folded her gnarled hands and leaned forward in her chair. β€œI told you once, Sir Lowe. I’m not interested in money. Your money can’t save me any more than it can whoever you want the dahlia for.”

β€œWhat do you want, then?”

She eyed him sharply. It was the kind of look that his mother had given him when she heard that he’d gotten into another fight at school right before she slapped the taste out of his mouth. β€œYou’re supposed to be a clever man. What do you think an old crone like me wants?” Yelena’s eyes were a bewitching shade of ultramarine, impossible to tear away from. Almost like his mother’s violet ones, another haunting comparison.

He reached inside his coat, prompting another growl from Fluffy. Slower now, Macklin withdrew a cigar and lit it over a candle on the table. β€œI don’t allow smoking in my presence since I’ve quit,” Yelena snapped.

Knowing an empty attempt to establish dominance when he saw one, Macklin ignored her and took a drag. Like she would turn down the deal of a lifetime over a cigar. β€œYou don’t want to die,” he said on a wisp of smoke.

There was a pause as Yelena debated between pressing the issue of the cigar or continuing the conversation. Realizing that, short of siccing her leopard on him, there was nothing that would deter Macklin from his cigar, she said, β€œCorrect. Unfortunately for my interests, the white widow dahlia’s mythic curative properties do nothing to reverse the natural process of aging. However, that’s not to say that such a potion couldn’t be invented.” Detecting where this conversation was going, Macklin’s gaze zeroed in on her. He momentarily forgot about the snow leopard, Queen Sharvi’s slow death, the ship that he was supposed to be on come morning, the torture device disguised as a chair that was slowly crushing him. Yelena was talking about thwarting death. Yelena was talking about doing the impossible as if it was no more complex than the untouched cup of tea she’d brewed him. If her cure workedβ€”as unlikely as that wasβ€”her invention would change life as anyone knew it. If a state of existence without death could even be called life.

She took a dainty sip from her teacup. β€œYes. As you’ve clearly figured out, it is my intention to create an elixir of life. Alchemists before me have failed. But I’m the most knowledgeable apothecary in Antares, if not all of Solas, and I haven’t tried yet.” Her flinty eyes, sunk in her face, glowed with determination.

Macklin puffed his cigar, reached for his tea, and winced at the bitter taste. He set the teacup down. β€œI’m not certain I understand what this has to do with the widow and me.”

Yelena inclined her head slightly. β€œYou see, Sir Lowe, I want to make a deal with you. An ingredient for an ingredient. In the recipe I wish to test, blood and bone are necessary components. Human blood and bone.” Macklin reimagined that eerie sensation he’d had of walking into a trap when he’d stepped into Yelena’s tent, and now he heard the snap of a snare. β€œI do have the white widow dahlia you seek, and it’s not doing me a damn shred of good. And all of it is yours if you can provide me with what I seek.” She stared at him intently.

The tea tasted sour in Macklin’s mouth. His stomach did a somersault, and he did a quick scan of the tent for a waste basket. β€œWhy are you asking me?” he asked at last. β€œAntares is a black market, a den of vice. Anything can be had for the right price. Why don’t you just buy the blood and bone you need?” With the money that I give you, he thought hopefully. Buy a whole bloody mountain of corpses, you crazy bitch.

β€œTrading in severed body parts is a messy business that I’d rather not get into. The types who perform that kind of work are… dangerous, to say the least, and oftentimes unhinged. Plus the blood and bone has to be fresh.”

β€œThen let me kill someone nearby for you.” Stars above, what am I saying? Perhaps he had taken too much from his pipe; the room was starting to spin, the edges of his vision blackening. Macklin felt sweat dampening his pits and lower back. He put the cigar between his lips and pulled hard.

β€œNo.” Yelena’s voice was firm. Her face was flat and stony, like a granite mountainside. β€œSir Lowe, the Red Baron wants you dead. Merely having you inside my tent is a huge security risk on my behalf. I will not be associated with any crimes you commit on Antares soil.” The woman made a derisive noise. β€œBesides, you’re supposed to be a man. A knight volunteering to stoop to the level of common criminal filth just to save his own skin? Please, Lowe. Your fool king gives me enough reason to laugh without your cowardice blackening his name further.” Yelena cackled, but her voice cracked and broke halfway through, and she coughed. It was a hacking, ugly sound that doubled her over with its force.

Shame lanced Macklin between the ribs, making him catch his breath. Was that what he wanted? To be known as the knight who used innocents as a human shield from sacrifices he was unwilling to make? He’d be no better than those other knights he criticized, the ones who collected bribes from criminal outfits or assaulted the women of conquered peoples or burned villages to the ground for fun.

Having recovered from her coughing fit, Yelena took his silence as indication to continue. β€œCalm down, Lowe. All you have to do is—”

Macklin instantly simmered at the words calm down. β€œI don’t need you to tell me that. I’m always calm.”

β€œYes, they should give you another medal for it,” she retorted drily. β€œAnyway, as I was saying, I wouldn’t need a big bone. Not an arm or a leg or a head. For my purposes, a finger will suffice.”

Macklin’s mind raced. A finger. She wanted a finger from him. When his function as a military officer was to command subordinates and train recruits in the ways of combat. When his value to King Rowan was warding off threats and ensuring the royal family’s safety. When his greatest weapon was his body. Macklin was steel and glass and blood fused into a blade, and what Yelena was suggesting felt like a betrayal to everything he knew. To his entire concept of self-worth. Did he really expect to be a cripple and still fight? Was Macklin’s career the price he’d have to pay for a chance to save Queen Sharvi’s life that might not even work?

This last thought broke him. β€œYelena. Do you know how fucking insane you sound right now?”

She shook her head, and a tuft of fluffy white hair tumbled from her elaborate updo to conceal one of her eyes. β€œInsane or not, that’s my price for the widow. Take it or leave it.” In the corner of the tent, the uncollared, untethered leopard lashed its tail, as if impatient for Macklin’s decision.

An equally insane idea occurred to him. He had a gun, and he was damnably quick. Put a bullet through the snow leopard’s head, another through Yelena’s, and then ransack her tent for the white widow dahlia, which she’d already admitted to having. Of course, there was the possibility that his shot would miss and not put the snow leopard down before it pounced. Even more worrisome was the possibility that the gunshots coming from the tent would be heard and investigated by neighboring vendors before Macklin had found the dahlia. The Carmine Corsairs ran this town, and what would he do when their soldiers arrested him, an enemy of their liege? King Rowan wouldn’t even be able to lawfully vouch for one of his own who’d committed murder in cold blood.

Hopelessness crashed down on Macklin as he rejected the idea. β€œYelena,” he tried again, desperate. β€œYou can have all my shares and titles. My entire damn estate and all the land associated with it. Set your children and grandchildren up real nicely.” He did not know if he was authorized to transfer his knighthood, but he did not care at the moment. β€œYelena. Please,” he implored, resenting himself for the plaintive, high-pitched whimper that bubbled up from his throat. It was the sound the foxes made when his dogs closed in on them.

For the first time, Yelena’s face crumpled in sympathy. β€œI’m not doing this to be cruel. The truth is that I don’t know whether my elixir of life will work, but I have to try. I have not spoken to either of my children in twenty-five years—”

β€œGee, can’t imagine why.”

β€œβ€”and continuing my existence on this mortal plain is quite simply the only thing I care about. You are barely older than a boy now, Lowe. Someday when you are old and have only weeks to live, you will understand.”

Macklin reminded himself that he could refuse Yelena’s deal. The white widow dahlia was not necessary to his survival. He imagined himself boarding this ship to Siroc when his quest was already over and the rest was just a charade, while Queen Sharvi slowly weakened with each passing day. Standing before the King and Queen, empty-handed, and saying that he had not found the dahlia, and there was nothing to be done for her. Or, for the sake of maintaining his image, Macklin could always say that he had some new, experimental cure in the works for her and feed her a placebo.

He’d smoked his cigar down to the filter, the end a nub of dead, gray ash. Flaky bits that would blow away in a breeze. It jarred him from his thoughts. He raised his head with some effort, weighed down as he was beneath grim determination. β€œYour sharpest knife, please.” For what struck him as perhaps the last time, Macklin gestured with his full, complete left hand in a little come-hither motion, as if he was taunting an opponent to close the distance with him.

Using the arms of her chair to brace her weight, Yelena pushed herself to her feet. She shuffled to the back of the tent and retreated behind a moveable flap into a second, discreet room that Macklin had noticed upon entry. He tried to wrap his head around the unthinkable deed he was about to do, how his world had crumbled to something broken and insane in the span of ten minutes. He made eye contact with Fluffy. She hissed at him. He hissed back. Stars, how he hated cats. Especially feral ones without collars that weighed more than him.

He looked down at his heavily ringed, long-fingered, calloused hands. It would have to be the ring finger of his left hand, he decided. Practically speaking, losing his pinky would be more detrimental when his weapon of choice was brass knuckles. Not only would all his strikes be off-balance, but if a cunning opponent targeted the empty knuckle at the end, the force just might break his other fingers. Not so practically, Macklin eyed the ring on the finger he had chosen. It was a gaudy thing with a black band and oversized ruby cut in the shape of a rose. He had given a matching one to Nami when he had proposed to her ten years ago, on the eve of the Empyran final exams. Nami had died days later, after their plan to cheat the exams had backfired. Forgive me, Nami, he thought ridiculously. I have to let you go. You’re in the past. And then, But I will never marry another because my heart died with you.

Just then, Yelena returned. She wielded a long, slender blade that flashed in the firelight. Despite the heat from the fire, an ice cube of fear slid down Macklin’s back. Still, he couldn’t help admiring her choice of weapon: the blade was fashioned like a miniature guillotine, with a razor’s edge across the bottom. Damn efficient for the task at hand, Macklin thought with a dark pun. At least he wouldn’t run the risk of accidentally severing other fingers in the process.

In her other hand she wielded a sturdy leather belt, which, as an improvised weapon, could do some real damage. He looked up as Yelena slid the knife on the table toward him, handed him the folded-up belt. β€œHere. Put it between your teeth. Wouldn’t want you losing your tongue too. What a pity that’d be.” She said it without inflection, as if a world with a mute Macklin was minimally heartbreaking.

β€œGood thinking.” He did as he was bid, and tried not to think about where the belt had been prior to his mouth. He also tried not to think about the plethora of nerves in the fingers. Perhaps the dream dust that he’d loaded up on before his encounter with Yelena would spare him some of the pain, but he didn’t fool himself. It would be excruciating either way.

He spread his left hand flat on the table, stretching the fingers as far apart as he could, like a noblewoman ready to have her handmaiden paint her nails. He scrutinized his hand, thought about the pair of them working together, sacrosanct functions he had taken for granted since birth. Hands that had caved men’s skulls in with one well-timed punch to the temple. Hands that had formed a vise around men’s necks as he watched the life drain from their eyes. Hands that had, one time, carved an eye out of a defiant captive’s head after he had spat on Macklin and refused to answer his questions. Hands that had dissected countless plants and thrust them under microscopes to study their cells and test their physiological properties. Hands that had cupped Nami’s face as he kissed her in the rain, that night before the exams, when he’d promised her that everything would be okay.

In one smooth blur of motion, before he lost his nerve, Macklin seized the knife and stabbed downward, severing the ring finger just under the ruby, so that it popped off, ring and all. In the nanoseconds leading up to the self-mutilation, he’d promised himself that he would not cry out. He screamed, another promise broken.

Macklin must have momentarily blacked out, because the next thing he knew, he was sitting back in the chair that was too small for him and Yelena was flitting frantically about him, pushing a glass of water at him that he didn’t accept. Shit-eater, he seethed. You only care about my well-being insofar that no one finds you with a mutilated, profusely bleeding Kingsman in your tent. Because that would be a sticky situation, even in Antares. Fireworks of agony exploded in his head. He resisted the weights that pulled on his eyelids, the sweet oblivion of sleep beckoning. His chin lolled against his chest.

β€œI have it, Lowe! It’s right here. The white widow. It’s all yours. Now wake the fuck up, you poor excuse for a knight.”

He snapped his head up in the same motion that his arm lashed out and grabbed Yelena by the throat. The glass of water smashed apart on the ground. She made a little choking sound, and her hands folded over his, clawing. From her corner, Fluffy gave a thunderous growl and shot to her feet. But Macklin did not let go. His back was to the wall of the tent, and he held Yelena between himself and the leopard, a human shield. He looked at the bloodstained coffee table, where scarlet droplets were plashing off the edge and making a pool by his foot. The severed finger with his last souvenir of Nami attached. The dahlia, whiter than alabaster, ensconced in a vase that spared them from the blood, forming a striking contrast against the red. β€œI should kill you right now.” His voice was a wisp of woodsmoke: low and deleterious and a breath away from bursting into a raging inferno. Yelena twitched weakly in his grasp. Her lips were turning blue, and her knees had given out, so that Macklin supported most of her weight. She was so miniscule that his arm didn’t even tremble.

He watched her feeble struggles coldly. β€œBut on the slim chance that your elixir of life works, I can’t in good conscience be the one who prevents mankind from ascending to godhood. You are lucky you have a gift, Yelena. Otherwise your continued life would be useless to me.” He let her drop, his fingers raking through her coarse white hair as she fell to the ground.

As she panted, a hand to her chest and another bracing her against the floor, Macklin reflected on the truth of that threat, and decided there was none. He would not have killed her. The deal was the dealβ€”white widow for flesh and boneβ€”and he had accepted its terms knowingly. As a knight, he did not go back on his word. Rather, it had felt good, just for a moment, to hold in his power this vile woman who might one day in the future cost him his life on the battlefield, because he was too weak to kill his opponent first.

Now that he had surrendered his leverage, the muscles in Fluffy’s legs were bunching threateningly. She loosed a yowl of rage, and Macklin shot to his feet. His uninjured hand went to the inside of his coat. It was too late to fire his pistol; he’d have to draw his hunting knife. His eyes zeroed in on the massive feline, timing the moment that he would leap to the side, pivot, and swipe with the knife.

β€œFluffy, down!” Yelena’s voice was gravel shifting over itself, but to a domesticated apex predator with acute senses, its articulation was clear. Not so clear was who was more surprised to hear the order leave her bloodless lipsβ€”Fluffy or Macklin. Both cat and man threw the little old lady a wild look. Macklin’s thighs pinched as blood pumped back into them, freed from the too-tight chair at last.

Using the table for support, Yelena dragged herself to her feet, legs shaking beneath her rich marigold skirt. β€œWe need to cauterize the wound.” She was in the midst of another coughing fit as she wobbled over to the fire, snatching up a poker that leaned against the wall. She thrust it into the flames until the end glowed red hot. β€œYou may want the belt again, boy.”

Macklin shook his head, prepared for the pain, dearly wishing this age-addled crone would stop calling him boy. β€œJust do it.” He trailed after her, a dark shadow, covering the distance in three strides and a tenth of the time. Yelena pressed the poker to the stump where his finger had recently been, and a guttural cry escaped Macklin. The world momentarily pulsed white. The sizzle and stench of his own burning flesh almost made him retch.

He briefly contemplated the mangled, blood-encrusted mess that was his left hand. Rowan, the things I have done in your name, he thought, suddenly exhausted. I pray you never have to learn of their endlessly violent extent. Flexing the wrist of his injured hand, he crossed the room and plucked the white widow dahlia from its vase, wondering if he had just lost a finger for nothing. Time would tell.

β€œI didn’t think you would go through with it,” Yelena wheezed. She was staring at Macklin with an intensity that bordered on invasive. Yet strangely, she did not reveal any animosity for the recent assault and threat on her life.

β€œYeah, well, I’m the man who gets paid to do the stuff no other man wants to do,” Macklin snorted. And it was true. He was the Poison Orchid. Rowan’s Red Right Hand (and the recent, sickening irony of that moniker was not lost on him). He got the job done no matter what it took, and most of the time, the jobs were dirty ones. Macklin had done wicked, sinful things to propagate King Rowan’s rule. He had lost count of how many lives he had taken after 116. Sometimes he killed boys dressed in red scarves and hats, the same callow age that he’d been when he joined the King’s Army. Sometimes he killed slowly, if the victim had been responsible for the death of a comrade. And he did not beg some unseen deity in the sky for forgiveness after the deed was done. There’s a devil in you, Manuel, his mother had once said to him when he’d come home from school brandishing a new score of whip scars. And by stars, we are going to get it out.

With the widow in hand, his business complete, Macklin turned to go. Time to board that stars-damned ship, wrap his hand, and plant his ass in a bed, hitting his dream pipe until he passed out. Onward to Siroc. Antares was behind him, and he wouldn’t look back.

β€œWait,” said the frail voice behind him.

Macklin paused, wondering what she could possibly have to say that was worth more of his time. Without turning around, β€œWhatever happened to needing fresh blood and bone?” he mocked. β€œYou’d better get brewing before it spoils, Yelena.”

β€œWould you like a heavier coat before you leave? Or a blanket? Antares gets very cold very fast at night.”

Out of sheer bewilderment, Macklin turned around. Yelena’s face was unreadable when he looked at her. β€œAre you serious?” he asked incredulously. β€œWould I like a coat?” he echoed. Macklin gave a hollow laugh. β€œQuite aside from the fact that any of your coats would have to suddenly expand to twice their size to fit me, what I want from you is to never see your hag face again.” The hag face in question knit itself into a mask of anger.

Macklin dug into a pocketβ€”a somewhat awkward experience with just a functional right hand; the pocket was on his left and he had to reach across his bodyβ€”and withdrew one last 100-piece Solari. He flicked it off its thumb so that it flipped into a high arc, and he turned his back on Yelena before it landed. β€œFor the funeral expenses, when your elixir fails,” he said cruelly. β€œSee you in hell in forty years. Cheers.” He left the tent, relishing the surprisingly cold night air on his face. Well, that raving lunatic was right about one thing, he thought bitterly. He vaulted over the low counter of the stall nimbly. The tender stub on his left hand grazed the wood, and a whole-body spasm went through him.

What’s done is done. No use fretting over it now, he told himself as he backtracked through the market. He’d stop at the inn, treat his hand a little more thoroughly, gather his few belongings from his roomβ€”clothes and journals and weapons, mostlyβ€”and slip to the docks under cover of darkness. The Carmine Corsairs would be none the wiser that a time-and-time-again killer of their ranks had ever visited the cesspool of humanity that they called a city. Macklin moved briskly through the crowd, but not fast enough to draw attention to himself. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone, but neither did he avert his gaze, either. He was sorely tempted to hit his dream pipe and blitz himself out of reality, but he needed a clear head for now. He’d acquired the dahlia, and now he just needed the bleeding heart from Siroc. He needed to think about his next steps.

With the falling of night, a few circus performers had entered the hustling and bustling fray of the market. A firebreather lit up the darkness with a crackling whoosh! of vermillion. Working by the ample light he produced, a triangle of jugglers tossed clubs back and forth to each other in dazzling patterns. A contortionist in a slinky black outfit bent backward until the bottoms of her feet were on the top of her head. The gust of fire flickered out, plunging the world back into darkness.

Macklin was heading in the direction that the concentration of marketgoers was thinnest, so that he might make better time without pushing through spectators who’d stopped to ooh and ahh at the circus performers. The firebreather lit up again with a sound like a thousand flags flapping in the wind, bringing color and substance to two figures that had been mere shadows before. The searing glow of firelight was almost blinding, but just barely, he made out a red cravat on black leather. A flamboyant red feather in a cap. The two men were ducked close to each otherβ€”exchanging either murmured words or kisses, he wasn’t quite sureβ€”but at Macklin’s approach, they quickly split apart like molecules of the same charge. One of them cut through an alley that led away from the market. The other continued down the thoroughfare. The movements couldn’t have been more in unison if they’d been choreographed.

A pincer formation, Macklin noted with curiosity. Maybe he shouldn’t go around assuming everyone wearing a red garment was part of the thug club, but red was the Carmine Corsairs’ signature color, as their name alluded. More than anything, Macklin wanted to lay down and fall into a wretched sleep and do what he could to scour this miserable night from his memory. But the reckless, demon streak in him that couldn’t walk away on a losing hand wanted to serve some overgrown bullies their asses on a platter. He didn’t stop walking, because that would have been too conspicuous. But he slowed down as he considered his next course of action. Go to the inn, or get in a fight? Unless they’re on their way to meet some buddies, it’s just two men. I can take them, missing finger or not, he thought. Besides, no innocuous couple on a date just splits off into pincer formation unless they’re targeting someone, in which case it’s my duty to intervene. And I should do a test run with my knuckles while the stakes are low. See where I need to modify my tactics. He started stripping off his rings in eager preparation.

He chose the alley. It comprised long, narrow walls of crooked buildings, leaning up on each other like tipsy friends at a bar. The alley reeked of unwashed bodies and a chemical smell like burning trash. For this reason, other than his quarry and him, it was understandably abandoned. Macklin gave the thug a generous two-block lead, mindful to stay back far enough that his shadow would not splash onto the road ahead of him and give him away. The thug turned a corner, and Macklin sped up his pace a little bit. When he approached the corner, he eyed it warily. This could all be a setup with a nasty surprise waiting to jump out at him. He cast his gaze around, picked up a stone, and lobbed it into the mouth of the branching-off alleyway. No one jumped forward to attack the burst of sound. Sliding first a pair of skin-tight cloth gloves onto his handsβ€”and ignoring the third finger of the left glove, which hung limplyβ€”he slunk cautiously around the bend, back pressed up against the wall. Then, from a deep breast pocket, he withdrew two spiky gold crowns with holes for each knuckle. They were tightly sealed in a bag so that the venom on the spikes would not drip onto the inside of his coat. The skin-tight gloves so that it would not soak into Macklin’s flesh as he handled them.

Up ahead, the man he’d been following had stopped. His back was to Macklin, and while Macklin couldn’t decipher individual words, he heard the man’s voice, garbling words in that bastardized Antares dialect. Moving soundlessly, as if he were walking on clouds, Macklin continued his advance. His blood sang with the thrill of the hunt. In Yelena’s tent, he’d been easy prey. He’d shown his desperation for the dahlia too early, and she’d made him pay dearly for it. But now, with ten spikes dripping with platypus venom (the goal being to merely incapacitate, unlike his knuckles with octopus venom), he was unstoppable.

There was a scuff of shoes, and an elderly woman with long white hair and dark skin bumped into the chest of the man that Macklin had followed. A second voice belonging to someone he could not see taunted her. Well, hello Mook Number Two. Nice meeting you again. I’m rather in a hurry, so let’s you and your friend go down quickly and quietly, yeah? Heedlessly, as if the mouth of the alley was a stage and Macklin its leading man, he melted out of the shadows and strode forward. The Corsairs men didn’t notice him until Macklin had practically interposed himself between them, at which point they jumped and whirled to face him.

β€œHullo, gents. Lovely weather, innit?” he said mildly. Macklin had not been born in Zenith, and as such, he did not naturally speak with a Zenith accent. But he found himself playing up the posh lilt with which most Kingsmen spoke, just for kicks.

β€œThe fook d’you come from, bugger?” said Mook Number Two, the portlier of the two men. He was an inch or two shorter than Macklin and stockier, but only some of it was muscle. His buddy, the man that Macklin had been following, was like a beanpole. One hit to those sharp ribs and they’d splinter apart with a musical snap! like pulling apart a wishbone. The woman between them seemed as though she was unsure where to direct her attention, darting her eyes around and trying to take in all three men at once. Macklin attempted to make eye contact with her and subtly tipped his head to the side. Run when the opportunity presents itself. Not that he expected her to get very far very fast. She seemed as though her heyday was twenty years in the dust.

β€œFrom that way.” With obnoxious obviousness, Macklin pointed directly behind him. β€œAre you fellows lost? If so, please allow me to explain that you’re on the intersection of Get the Hell out of Here Lane and Or Get Fucked Street.”

The two men exchanged a slow, baffled look and then simultaneously broke out in whooping laughter. β€œPre’y Boy thinks he’s clever,” said Beanpole. β€œLook, Pre’y Boy, I’ve a mate who’d kill for a good time wif someone like you, so it’d be a damn shame to β€˜afta bust ya up. In case ya can’t count, there’s two of us, and one o’ you.” He spoke this basic truth with all the gravity as if he was divining the stars’ grand plan for the universe. β€œSo why don’t you skedaddle while bof your legs work?”

Macklin gingerly curled his hands into fists, his stomach coiling at the airy gap in his left fist that said it was unclosed. It reminded him of that time, five years ago, when he’d gotten an incisor tooth knocked out while kickboxing, and before he’d gotten it replaced, he’d cringed every time he inadvertently poked his tongue through the hole that wasn’t supposed to be there. This time, the feeling in his fingerβ€”or what remained of itβ€”was more strange than painful. It tingled with numbness, as if it was still there but blood wasn’t getting to it. This line of thinking made him feel nauseous, which was an unproductive feeling given the situation, so he pushed it from his mind.

As if reading his thoughts, the shorter, wider guyβ€”Teapot, Macklin internally named himβ€”pointed at Macklin’s hand. β€œLook, Josiah, β€˜e’s missing a finga! Wha’, you cut yourself shaving, Mista Fancypants?”

β€œDo you know what I feel like doing?” Macklin took another bold step forward, until he was standing almost directly between the two men. With his fingerless hand, he pointed at Teapot’s feathered cap. It was a hideous, classless thing, with a black-and-charcoal plaid pattern and frayed threads sticking out of it. β€œI am going to shove that hat down your throat. And there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop me.”

Teapot guffawed and looked at his mate. β€œOh, β€˜e’s beggin’ for it now!”

Once again, Macklin tried to lock eyes with the aging woman. Anytime you wanna run…

Just then, Beanpole pushed her away, and she stumbled. He and Teapot rounded on Macklin, and moonlight gleamed on the surface of the weapons they produced. A hatchet with a sinister-looking notch in the blade for Beanpole. A crowbar for Teapot. He held it by the hooked end and tapped the lighter end menacingly on his other palm.

β€œβ€˜Ey, Zamir?” Beanpole called to his friend. β€œWha’s the bounty rule on Kingsmen? Those posters say dead or alive, righ’?”

Teapot’s eyes glowed with a wolfish light as he looked at Macklin. β€œOh, I fink they say dead, all righ’.”

β€œThen dead i’ is.”

Macklin lowered his center of gravity, light on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce. β€œWhenever you’re ready,” he said on a bored sigh. And the alleyway exploded into motion.



























































β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 

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