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Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

Characters
Here
Other
Here





THE PRODIGAL.















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Cadence



VALIENTE




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




About to bag me a baddie 💪
















LOCATION




Antares Bar












MENTIONS




Ilya, Lexis, Percy










INTERACTS




Percy





















Moonlight — Kali Uchis
































































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Orchid Pools




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






























CHAPTER FOUR.

Silky midnight hair pulled into an elegant bun. Dripping in diamonds and lace, the heiress stepped forward beneath the gentle glow of the moonlight. Her soft slippers pattered softly against the cobblestone street. A hint of hastiness played a silent tune as each step devoured the exciting sight before her.

The moment Tiberius looked away from her direction, she didn’t waste any time blending in among the sea of people and making her way towards the loudest establishment her ears could reach. The heiress still crosses at his lack of presence when she truly needs it at Algol. After the incident, one thought remained true in her mind: her father would hear about this. And that lone fact is enough for the gladiator to spiral into an anxious mess that will undoubtedly mentally exhaust the man. It sends a sadistic titillation through her spine, enough to bring her brief joy.

While she adorned herself with complete opulence, an invisible itch remained beneath her skin. This phantom irritation grew as her presence continued to be chained within the suffocating confines of the ship—a perpetual reminder of the disaster that occurred a month ago. She needed to get off this ship before the overwhelming urge to fling herself overboard became too great.

The evening chill brushed past her bare thighs, sending electrifying goosebumps along her body to the flesh of her nape. Her left leg faltered momentarily as if a vicious memory had arisen, preventing the blood from flowing freely.

Underneath her stockings, particularly on her left leg, lie unwanted scars that will undoubtedly make her less desirable. However, whether or not she gets laid or married is at the bottom of her list of worries. In the asphyxiating world of royalty, all that matters are titles, stations, and overly extravagant names plastered upon birth. So, whether or not her legs are ruined, it matters less for her future prospects. Whether or not they are broken or crippled, as long as she is still his daughter, that is all that matters. Whether or not she can dance and fulfil her long-awaited dream of performing on a grand stage will never matter in the eyes of those who matter the most in this world.

And something about that greatly prickles her supple skin.

The waters of Algol did more than scar a leg, which she would debate has become a crucial part of herself; it also gave her a cruel wake-up call that tethered her dream on hold. For once, the term ‘stupid girl’ has laid its first few weights upon her fragile shoulders. Her knees buckled at the mere thought of her future station and current expectations.

Adequately bandaged and surveyed by the ship’s physician, her leg has healed well. After a month of healing, Cadence can finally use her left leg without limping awkwardly. Her fury has dwindled to mere embers after the outburst she rained upon the captain. With her mewling rage quenched, it factored into her increased appreciation for the people who proved helpful to her. If it weren’t for his exceptional skills as a doctor and the piece of sweet he gave her, she would’ve scratched Ilya’s eyes out with her own set of pedicured claws because of the sting of the alcohol he drenched her injuries in. See how she held herself back? How nice, polite, and very demure!

Presently, she finds herself walking into a bar with an aching gaze at her leg. She needs a good vintage wine to drown in her sorrows or, even better, a pair of pretty legs and strong muscly arms wrapped around her. Warm enough to smoulder the stinging sensation of

The snug nostalgia wrapped around her senses as a cacophonous cheering rang through her ears. Sending a delightful blitz of familiarity around her.

“No need to ask me twice,”

At that moment, she saw only him—a paragon of finesse.

A brilliant gleam from his silver ear piercings mischievously flickered across the room, clashing with her orchid pupils in a battle of beauty and… Danger! Is what her mind immediately echoed. As the previous events proved remarkably well, Cadence Valiente had a terrible streak for preserving herself. However, this danger—no, it wasn’t danger; it was thrill. If the destined cards are played correctly, perhaps it would bear fruit as a much-needed distraction.

Unlike a particular grey creature with incredibly sharp claws, the savage thrill the heiress is currently pursuing is one she is quite familiar with. Wild, fun, and riveting parties were what she had always followed, and with the promise of him, giddy eagerness consumed her every step. She has adored many people, given them jewels in exchange for their company, and perhaps even more; that sort of thrill is what the heiress finds herself currently pursuing. It’s safe, her mind echoed as her feet carried her in his direction.

I’m safe, she reassured herself once more. Like the encroaching edge of creeping verglas, freezing the heat of stress that burns within her, she takes another icy step forward.

To a sweet slice of liberty.

To Percival Griffin.

To her future.

“Ahhhh!! Percy! I’m your biggest fan! SIGN MY TITS!” she shamelessly proclaimed. Among the ocean of cheers, she hoped hers was the loudest. Whatever future she hoped to see him in, she could only hope it ended with him wrapped around her later in the evening.






























♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE KINGSLAYER.















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船井 蓮



FUNAI REN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




🥜?? 🍊 ?? WAH ): !!
















LOCATION




ANTARES BAR












MENTIONS




DANTE, TALLULAH.










INTERACTS




















CRY — CIGARETTES AFTER SEX.
































































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THE RED SEA IS




named for the dead algae within it
maybe I too am red for all the
slaughter carried within me






























CHAPTER FOUR.

Women love journaling, steaks, and tomatoes.

Says who? Says Ren, the woman whisperer.

The only answer in the consuming silence is Tallulah’s blinking, and anyone else would be able to recognise her atmosphere that communicates no desire for company.

Apparently she failed to communicate this to Ren.

Still, the knock of her shot glass hitting the bar and savage swallow of the booze does not quell his social mood (some may argue, harassment) (he would argue, ladies man). Mere reservation was hardly enough to counter his rowdy self or instil humility. Serves a conclusive question which comes as no conclusion at all, Ren is trying to flirt. Always quick on the uptake for these sorts of things, though has yet to confess or realize this is not an avenue he wants from anyone at all.

She is silent because she is impressed. She is enamored by tomato prowess, just like every woman would be. In just a moment she will sprout a ring from her pocket and beg to be wedded. Oh, how will she cope when she learns he also knows good mangoes?

“I think you’re drunk and can barely stand up let alone remember something that happened a month ago."

Ren takes the lashing accusation with a round eyed stare and empty-brained blink. Mellifluous lagoons and a slowly furrowing brow, what arrives is an expression more confused than dissuaded.

“I'm not drunk,” he mumbled. “I can still take my clothes off."

Right. Well. Those are certainly words. Barely cognizant of what he is even saying, he walks two fingers across the counter towards Tallulah like a malicious pet about to knock something off the edge. Her patience, maybe. Stops before they can touch her in decision not to pick that battle tonight.

“Can barely stand ‘cause I’m too busy falling for youuuu?Ren snorted a giggle that almost crumpled the frame of his body like a fist of paper, “that was– that was so smooth! Come on, you gotta admit—” the laughter has him reach to steady himself on her arm. He misses and only narrowly avoids hitting the floor.

Boasting a history of Antarian nights with bar tables for beds, maybe Ren could not handle alcohol as well as he ought. Drinking means to lose something: inhibition, morals. Sometimes drinking means to treat something: snake bites, frostbite: and if after the third and fourth drink he could still feel it, it meant the dosage was not enough. Fringes the incising hurt of recent memory with a blanket of intoxication because what swims in his blood is a terminal habit for mistakes.

He can make another mistake! He loves it! Yes! Sobbing noises!

In a drunken daze he swerves around Tallulah like a misfiring rubber band, winding up on the other side of her with the grace of a wayward eel. Good eeeevening. Is what he would have said with another Lean if he’d not caught himself on the bar with both arms and had to drag his legs to keep him standing. After a moment of struggling to stay upright, he drags a stool and sits beside Tallulah with an exhale of effort.

“’m gonna– yeah, ‘m gonna rest here a sec.”

Arms fold on the counter and Ren sets his forehead against them for the grounding of something solid. The heat of his skin and light emptiness of his body is a nice contrast to the cool of the wood and its cogent foundation, motion of others nearby forgotten in susurrus. Can almost feel himself meshing into the cold surface of it, melting sheaves of skin and bone and hair and by god he would love to eat some stale peanuts like a woodchipper right now.

Foolish bid at playing coy, he turns his head to the side to track starry eyes along the counter in search of complimentary peanuts. Love peanuts. Cwunchy munchy.

When he looks at the woman again, she has downed another shot. It’s the type of gloom he is not going to name, feels like it’s all the same nowadays after what happened in Algol. Anyone who drinks alone in Antares is miserable, and he figures if he allows (not like he had a choice) her to indulge now, she may have sieved out whatever inner turmoil she has by the time they return to the ship.

“And it doesn’t matter. You have about as much of a chance with me as any of these drunken idiots. You should find some other girl to harass. Maybe even one that really enjoys tomatoes.”

Not a tomato fan.

We can try apricots? A tangerine? Please?!

Ren settles in the words from within the curled nest of his arms and thinks, he’d never asked for a chance. It’s an odd sort of transformation that he did not want to linger on, surely a sign of something that he should care more about. He’d already mapped one person’s tonsils tonight and should be following them home. It is not like it would be unusual for him to do. How many times had he woken in an unfamiliar bed with a neolithic skull?

But right now he does not see the interest in it. The reminder of a certain lawyer curbs his enthusiasm and he is idly scratching a nail against a groove in the counter like a sulking adolescent. Peanutless behavior.

“You don’t seem to like me much.” He shares with a tone not bitter nor joyless. Does not require another sharp-tongued onceover on his inebriated countenance to understand this seems to be a growing sentiment onboard the Leviathan. He’d like to grin with indifference and make a parody over the notoriety that is bleeding more volatile with each individual he meets, but the confidence is gone from him. Now only a neutral expression suggests Ren might actually be saddened by these sorts of things. “Why?”

Ren speaks and it is curious but soft. Knows he is difficult company to be around, he will not plead to make others believe otherwise. Thinks he could be a good person, but of course, Could hardly translates into the reality of Is. How little he truly has to brag about, but maybe Tallulah can explain something he does not know.

I am not all evil, but people are not interested in that, I am just someone that needs help to understand what makes me so unlikeable.

He sits up from the counter, spurred with the need to move at the acidic swell rioting at the back of his throat. A loud swallow to warn it back, but his tongue is coated in hot saliva to protect the shell of his teeth and oooohhh he’d really like some peanuts.

Maybe Ren the womanizer has figured out what he must do to win Tallulah over.

Step One.

Be considerate. Ask about her feelings.

“Gimmie a number Toots, scale one to ten,” he swivels dangerously in the stool to face her, and holds up both hands with the fingers up. Teetering balance is a testament to the substances inscribed in the marrow of his very being.

“How mad if I vomit on you?”






























♡coded by uxie♡
 
CW for alot of vomit talk in here ( ˙꒳˙ )





THE CRYPTKEEPER.















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GRAYSON



B. MOYER




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




EXASPERATED.











OUTFIT













LOCATION




ANTARES












MENTIONS




NADA










INTERACTS




NPC PERCIJON.


















FIRST DATE — SHAYFER JAMES.
































































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TAINTED BLACK AND BRUISED




A chorus lifts itself onto my mouth’s blade:
dying is an art, so just like everything else
I must do it exceptionally well.































PROLOGUE.

In the outskirts of the port town are lonely cemeteries with a coverlet of soil to crown their silent bones.

In the nucleus of the port town are brine and beer and young boys who cannot handle their drink.

The alley that carves down the side of the funeral parlor is a luminous sea of black, wide enough for a single drawn carriage, but barren save for the shadow of a stray cat grooming its paw.

In the broken, battered midnight shuffles the arrival, unsteady footwork and arms outstretched for the wall. Not a rare sight in Antares, the people that had little regard for decorum or seemingly, any self-preservation.

Inside said parlor is a lone man with a list of practical matters planned out for the rest of his night. Bookkeeping and wills, but like many occasions after dusk, commotion spiders out to toil this intent.

To live in Antares means developing a certain skillset.

Such as how to recognise the noise of vomit hitting the pavement outside your establishment.

Like the equivalent of a pet eating plastic, the speculation of wrongdoing gives the undertaker a tense pause. He lifts his head with the look in his eyes articulating suspicion, steady ores of steel sliding to the window in paranoid suspense.

Who.

Lamplight reflects off the glasses he has perched on his arrogant nose, and after an interval of silence flooding the taut intermission, he thinks it may have been spillage from a gutter.

But it had not rained in a while.

Another noise and he can hear the oscillating of a throat indecisive whether to keep or empty. He surges from the chair.

“No, you little fucker, no you don’t.” Malignant mutters from the man as he scrambles urgently from behind the desk, “not on my funeral parlor.”

The second floor window is glowing like molten saffron pouring through lattice, and its impetuous sheath when shoved open is sounded by the rattle of glass. The contour of a figure leans out, pale skin draped over formal features and a torrid stare ready to direct blame.

A shape of a person is in the alley below, hunched and ready to expunge booze.

“Excuse me.” The window man tries for the drunkard’s attention with a glimmer of patient rationality. “Please don’t.” Not quite the Antarian vocabulary which would take the form of an Oi and flavorful insult. A retch ripostes in reply, and even from the second floor one can hear the roiling swell of an overturning stomach.

“No,” the man in the window warns again with a double-edged tone. Cuts both ways of apprehension and reprimand. “No! Not on my door!”

Insistent and inflamed is the undertaker, but it pales like a waning candle to the brazen ambition of the individual below. Pressed against the warm brick and fogging open-mouthed breathing, the first dripping spatter of liquid hitting cobble and echoing the stone walls is enough to ease shut the accordion of tolerance.

“This is a respectable fucking neighborhood!”

With an irritable huff the window is slammed shut, and storming footsteps are a tempest from staircase to door that slices a cut of light into the alley. It silhouettes the undertaker as he lingers at the opening, watching the leaned frame still hunched over in an ugly bout of vomiting.

You poor bastard, always a gentle sentiment, you sad, miserable, badly dressed bastard.

A drop of pity in his observation, he cannot always help it, even for a drunk desecrating his establishment. It’s a man—young, unkempt and thoroughly inebriated— skin blotchy and eyes rimmed with a red rheum that are delayed in their acknowledgement of the silent undertaker. They squint like trying to focus on something beyond their own miserable state.

Grayson recognises them as PerciJon Miniver, “PJ”, son of a nearby shoe cobbler. The stupidity of the name is not lost on him. Hear that, two people in the Discord? Stupid name.

“Mister Moy–” acid revolts and consumes the rest, upheaves it onto the cobblestone in foam and stretched slobber. Maybe it is a good thing, too, as the beat of snobby protest to argue that’s my father’s name, reclines back into its grave. Grayson has never enjoyed the inheritance of it, always making him feel defensively old.

And what does this defensively not-old person achieve with his life?

He puts makeup on dead people.

Living boys aren’t his usual clients.

“PerciJon.” It’s familiar, this is not the boy’s first voyage down this alley with head full of drink and throat full of acid. “You cannot keep showing up here at all hours of the night.” This is how it goes with them, a spat with Mrs Miniver and suddenly this emotional wreckage is spewing both beer and feelings onto Grayson’s doorstep.

“M– mad at me, she is.” Perci’s voice is frayed and wet, heaved through scorching lungs with any pretence of self-control long forgotten. “Sais I snore too much, ‘nd she knows I can’t help it! Doc says I’ve got such grand, globular nostrils—”

The undertaker’s hand pats their shoulder in a firm but comforting gesture, stops that string of words before they grow profound enough to want to throttle everyone involved.

“Thank-you for sharing, PJ. That was very brave.”

Grayson was going insane.

Had the boy not yet learned? Lessons in alcohol only conspire to teach regretful actions. Even through the exasperation for the situation, Grayson can identify the stir of sympathy. It’s in his features, the sliver of a crescent moon warmed by the light of the open door, the recognition of all too-familiar circumstances. This, after all, was a similar state he’d spent his twenties in. Careening through collateral ruins with self-perpetuating abandon.

Grayson knows he can’t trust the boy to make it home without the likelihood of stumbling into the night and drowning in the harbour after a misplaced stumble.

“How about you come on inside? I’ll brew you a drink and we can talk about it.” And you can stop vomiting on my doorstep.

He sees their thought process in rosy features, and for a moment he thinks PerciJon might actually protest. But then, after a long and unsteady pause, the boy slowly nodded as if he had just been fed the most sensible advice of his entire life.

“... A drink?” The boy is hopeful, and Grayson anoints an incredulous stare that even now, after sieving their guts onto his lovely swept cobblestone, that they were eager for more.

“A drink of tea, you fucking idiot. Why would I gi—” Arguing isn’t worth it, the undertaker forces a long exhale to simmer that annoyance and motions at the door. “Get inside.” An added measure for mandatory manners arrives late: “Please and thank-you.”

Polite!

PJ begins to shuffle for the door and the undertaker follows, hand hovering their shoulder in expectation of a floor-loving demise.

There is a slapped step of something wet, and Grayson’s body tenses to steel against what that could possibly fucking be. His breath goes flat when he feels the warmth of bile radiating heat through his shoe and all light fades from his eyes.

See, once you've been up to the elbows in blood and organs, encrusted in viscera or rot or all forms of fluids, there is one thing of note:

They aren’t often warm.

Now with his shiny shoe in the intimacy of hot vomit, a rare sentiment of disgust blossoms and gives him an irregular whole-body shudder. If he were a worse man he’d have kicked a fuss, but he must afford an element of grace for the drunk who probably does not even know they are alive right now.

He gives a rabid grate of his shoe along dry pavement, and it seems PerciJon has turned to see the commotion.

“M'apologies, Mister Moyer.” The boy mumbles once Grayson has stopped, straightened himself, and checked the status of his vommy foot.

“Yes, well,” it is not the boy’s fault, not really. He won't blame the kid for what is already done.

“Never fancied those shoes, anyway.”






























♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE RAVEN.






























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LUCREZIA






CAMBRIDGE









ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








BEWITCHED























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








ANTARES MARKETPLACE

























INTERACTIONS








NPC AGATHA | DEVANA





















TAGS








































WHO IS SHE? — I MONSTER.
































































































































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I BELIEVE MR. GRAVES,








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





























































CHAPTER FOUR.

Lucrezia stood mesmerized by the Umbrian woman before her. Those part of the colder climate were people she found trouble reading. Ice was the core of their birthright no matter which part she visited of Umbra. While she had been grateful for Ilya to be the first of many to express their more warm nature to her, she could see the ice in his presence after the Algol incident. The woman could see the bitter frostbite of tension in the eyes of the Umbrian woman before her. How sharp is her bite and will the blade sting her pale skin?

“How very noble of you.”

Ah, there it is. The bite. How dangerous, exhilarating. Thrilling to hear such gracious words that leaves a cold chill down your spine. Curious pale blues observed and watched the woman before her with great pleasure. Her lips opened just slightly for her pearl whites to show through.

“I ask that you take that mask and destroy it. It no longer serves me.”

Disappointment was the first to rise after hearing that bittersweet word coming from her. Destroy has never been a part of Lucrezia’s vocabulary. To destroy was to forget, and that was something Lucrezia can’t allow to happen.

“Forgive me, your ladyship Devana,” Lucrezia spoke firmly, “but I cannot destroy this relic. Your culture is as you said, sacred and unseen. Your history is fascinating to me, but I do not have the heart to destroy something that can be salvaged. You may have no purpose for it. I see purpose in it. There is value in the history within the cracks of your armor, and I only wish to tell it so the world understands that those in Umbra are daunting or as beautiful as the rest of the world.”

Lucrezia’s obsession with Umbrian culture is possibly borderline maddening, but within reason. She remembers a specific maid of hers when she was young. An Umbrian woman who spoke of ancient tales and fascinating stories about their culture. One about a witch who froze a village, because they burned her child in hopes they could cure the plague. Another about a beast falling in love with a village girl who only wanted to save her family. Many stories lingered at the back of her mind before her ignorant parents fired the woman, leaving Lucrezia wanting more. Something about the stories told made her feel welcomed. At home even.

“I understand the omens you tell to those outside of Umbra to keep unwanted company at bay, but I confess that my mind only wishes to learn more about it. How may I prove myself worthy of that knowledge?” she asked.

“Whatever the cost. An arm, a leg, my mind — I am willing to sacrifice everything to pursue a world that is not familiar to me.”



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 
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THE VIXEN.















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FOURNIER



SCARLETT




ㅎㅎ















mood




Anxious, impish, flirty
















LOCATION




Streets of Antares











MENTIONS












INTERACTS




None


















Who's Afraid of Little Old Me? - Taylor Swift
































































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FEMININE RAGE




I have never felt this before.
They tell me it's called anger.
It feels like sadness
set on fire































CHAPTER FOUR.

The worst thing was the smell.

The uncomfortable beds and scratchy woolen sheets she could handle. The lack of clean water was regretful, and she’d never subsisted on only three articles of clothing before. But the stenches - they were everywhere. They crept up through the cracks in the floorboards and oozed through the very marrow of the place. Clinging to her skin and hair and clothes. No amount of scrubbing could rid her of it, and she was nearly sure it would become a part of her physical makeup forever.

So instead, she begrudgingly slid into her blue-grey striped dress. The plainest she owned (which wasn’t saying much), and went to battle with the ties in the back until she managed to subdue them. She never thought about how much her lady's maids helped her until she was suddenly without them. That would be the second thing she’d fix when she retrieved her fortune. Hire back the people who had been fired during the takeover. But first, she’d take a bath for the whole year.

She ran a brush through her hair, peering at her reflection in the warped mirror. “You did it. Just a few more hours and you can leave this hell hole behind.”

She opened her rucksack and dug through some of the contents. Clothes, knickknacks that were retrieved from her room in a hurry, jewels, and -

No food.

Nothing.

Her stomach did a little flip as she parsed through the contents again. Somehow, she’d managed to eat through all her stores in a week. Gretel had said that someday her appetite would be her undoing, and she hadn’t believed her.

Before now that is. Fortunately, the Leviathan was supposed to have decent food. But she wasn’t due to board until this evening.

Reaching into a little pouch sewn into the side she pulled out some of the jewels and gold weighing it in her hands. A handful of loose Solari - just the bits she’d been able to score during card games, plus her mother’s jewels. And she had the feeling there would be very little pawning of goods onboard such a reputable ship.

Well then. Step one was to find someone to pawn some of these jewels off her. Step two, find some snacks because she wasn’t waiting until tonight to eat. She slipped a few of the jewels into her skirt pocket.

Fastening her cloak around her shoulders, she pulled up the hood and slung her large rucksack over her shoulders and back. Pawn jewels, buy food. Easy.

If only it didn’t require negotiating with pirates. Sighing, she cast one more look at the room for any loose items before stepping out of the room.

Why did it always have to be pirates?

###

Head down, eyes open. Be as small as possible.

All around her, people jostled for position. Shoving past, shouting, spilling ale and mead across the dirt streets. The air reeked of smoke, piss, and booze. It was like the backstreets back in Belcastel but much, much worse. But if she closed her eyes for a moment, she could imagine she was there again. Where she could run amok and hardly anyone would dare touch her because she was the viscount’s daughter. And that always counted for something.

But these were the people who broke into her home and made her realize that hardly anywhere is truly safe. She could still hear the gunshots. Her mother’s screams. She was falling, falling, falling.

She slowed to a half and stifled a whimper. No. She would not slouch, she would not cower. She was Lady Scarlett Fournier, heir to Loxley Estate. She would get her jewels exchanged and purchase her food. She would board the boat, find her parents, and get them to restore her fortune. She would do it because she would not become a little wench, flitting from place to place demanding bread. No matter how much her limbs trembled or her voice faltered, she would stand up straight and act like the noblewoman she was.

Not a moment too soon, she looked up right before she collided with a portly man who decided to stop in the middle of the fucking road. She skirted around him and skittered up to a small stand full of bobbles, wares, and other golden trinkets.

A gruff-looking man with a big bushy beard and snaggly tooth smile peered down at her with a glimmer of lust and longing in his eyes. “You don’t look like you belong here, little girl. Can I help ye with somethin’”

Gretel’s voice echoed in her head. You’re a little vixen, doll. Don’t you ever forget it.

Scarlett’s heart pattered in her chest, and lifted her chin, as if it could make her taller than him. “I was hoping that you could offer me a good price for this.” She fished a ruby necklace from her pocket. Dangling it in front of his face, she smiled innocently, biting at her lip.

Her mother would be furious if she knew that Scarlett was selling off one of her precious rubies. But she had so many, and if it saved her life then it was worth it.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here.” The man’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. His big, grubby hands reached for the family jewels but Scarlett pulled them back.

Her voice shuddered every so slightly. “I’m sorry. But I have to know what you’re willing to offer. I can’t just go handing off my valuables to strange men. No matter how…” she nearly choked on the words. “Attractive and decent they seem.”

Men were all the same. They see pretty women and believe they own them. And there’s nothing they like more than when women stroked their egos. Probably because it reminded them of something else they liked way more.

The man wet his lips and glanced from the piece to Scarlett’s chest and back. “I’ll give ya fifteen hundred solari for it. The pieces are small, and will be difficult to retrieve.”

Fifteen hundred Solari? That would keep her decent for a while. But men enjoyed pretending women were stupid. And she was there when her mother bought this necklace. It was certainly worth more than a measly fifteen hundred Solari. Sure she probably had no idea what she was doing, and her parents would be appalled that a decent young woman was haggling a pirate. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Well…” She looked around as if considering, even while sweat ran down the back of her neck. “I guess I’ll have to take these elsewhere. I heard another woman down the street say she’d offer double.”

The man growled. “Did they? Well, I can give you twenty five hundred solari. Final offer.”

She should have pushed harder. She could have pushed harder, but she was lucky she’d managed this. This was not something she was supposed to do. She was a noblewoman, not a barterer.

Know your place, Lottie.

Bile rose in her throat and she flashed a wary smile. “Deal.”





























♡coded by uxie♡
 
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THE EXPLORER.






























scroll


Ravinder










Coving








ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








Lost























TIMING




Present











LOCATION




Antares












MENTIONS




N/A










INTERACTS




















ravinder's song
































































































































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My Darling,








Haven't you done enough?





























































Chapter 4.

To find value in the old Coving estate had been an impossible task, and Ravinder had known it when his uncle had assigned it to him. Even so, he had not been prepared for the state of the manor home. It had been looted thoroughly, parts of it burned by flames, and some of the walls even taken apart for the wood beneath.

As he’d picked his way around the ruined home on those first few days, he’d found the shattered glass in the drawing room and ripped canvas that lay on top of it. The gilded frame that the family portrait had once hung in was long gone, and Ravinder had gingerly peeled the canvas up. There in careful brushstrokes, he’d seen his mother rendered as she had once been- Young and beautiful and confident. She stood behind his grandfather with her hand on his right shoulder, straight backed and proud to be the heir to the Coving business empire.

With his pen knife, he’d carefully cut around her face, trying to preserve enough of the canvas around her so that he might have something stretch into a frame one day. The canvas had been torn and a portion of the braided bun atop her head was missing, but perhaps he could find an artist who would repair the damage for him.

Beyond the sentimental value of the painting, though, the place was barren of worth. Some of the furniture was still sturdy enough to be sold, but was in such dire need of reupholstering and refurbishment that it was only able to fetch even less than a tenth of what it once cost. After a great deal of conferring with the secretary his uncle had sent with him for this portion of Ravinder’s journey, they’d ultimately sold the estate- land, buildings, furnishings and all- to a rather suspicious business woman who claimed she wanted to build warehouses in the lot.

Ravinder supposed what she ultimately did with it was none of his business, as she had paid the meager price they had haggled over, and the sum of the monies made from the week’s worth of work was on its way back to Zenith in the care of his uncle’s secretary as of yesterday. Now he was alone in Antares, looking for a ship that might carry him beyond the port city.

The inn he was staying at was in one of the few ‘nicer’ parts of the city, where crime was only moderate instead of high, and far from the docks where the parties went all night. The innkeeper was not a particularly friendly woman and her cooking left much to be desired, but she had yet to try and scam him, and had even told him at dinner that she’d heard a rumor he might be interested in- That the Leviathan would make an emergency docking in Antares. But if he wanted to leave with it, he had to move fast, as it would be gone within hours.

So Ravinder found himself attempting to navigate crowded streets of Antares, winding his way to what he hoped were the docks so that he might assess the ship himself and decide if he wished to secure passage.

His hopes seemed to be in vain, as he was almost certain he was lost. People had begun to get progressively drunker and wearing fewer and fewer clothes- a good sign he was at least headed in the correct direction of the waterfront- but their focus on their own pleasures made him intimidated to ask directions. Not to mention, if they were sober enough to help him, they would likely prefer to rob him.

Not that he was stupid enough to be carrying much of value on his person- He’d already made that mistake once this trip, and might have lost his life if not for the timely arrival of a bystander looking for a fight. But his clothes- a finely cut jacket in dark blue, tawny colored pants and matching cravat at his neck- were clean, well made and still on his body, marking him as a clear interloper to this part of the city.

A woman with pinched pink cheeks stepped towards him suddenly, a question on her lips as Ravinder darted away quickly. He wasn’t sure if she was a beggar or a- Well. This was the town for prostitutes, and Ravi had a dawning realization that this might even be the neighborhood for them, too, based on the passerbys and wooden signs hanging over establishment doors.

He looked about for the closest cross street he might make a quick exit down, and found himself knocking into a young woman with dark hair, wearing a long and flowing pink dress.

“Oh! I’m so very sorry, Miss, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he apologized. She’d dropped her fan, and he bent to pick it up. When he stood to give it to her, he noticed that even in the dimming light of the evening, her eyes were wide and… Fearful, perhaps? He looked over his shoulder towards where she was staring, and saw nothing but another brothel. Nevertheless, he stepped slightly to the side to block her view of it. “Miss? You seem… Ah- Are you all right?”

This could be a trap, some more cautious inner voice reminded him. Get him to let his guard down, then mug him. He ignored the voice, and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Do you need to sit down,” he asked, though a glance at the grimy curb suggested doing so might well ruin her dress. He undid the buttons on his coat and shrugged it off, laying it on the curb so that she could sit if she wanted to, and offered his hand to guide her.



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE CAPTAIN.















scroll

LEXIS



THE CAPTAIN




ㅎㅎ

























LOCATION




THE UGLY BARREL












MENTIONS




Rayna & Maltke










INTERACTS




















TRAVELIN' MAN — DEAD POET S.
































































scroll






WHEN GOD TOOK




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






























CHAPTER FOUR.

“Ah, we’ve been traveling for the past few years, actually. Just arrived here in Antares yesterday and decided to come out and get a few drinks.”

Did we?

Lexis stiffly turned to look at Rayna, caught unaware by a situation not priorly established.

That is not correct. They had only been travelling for a few months and arrived only a short time ago and she must be aware of this which means she is ly—

Oh! This is what we call deception. Excellent stratagem, Miss Mallor. Urge to correct her on the matter dissipates to this realization, and he’d produce a polite clap if that would not look incredibly peculiar.

He turns back to the game where Rayna engages in whip-quick conversation. Lex does not deign to involve himself in the discussion, perhaps that is for the best; the three would likely hold the two crewmates in higher suspicion if the Captain chose to say anything. There is no elaborate script in place for him to follow, and as such, finds reassurance that Rayna can manoeuvre this alone.

Apprehension for speaking has wedged itself into his confidence as sure as salt in air. The tension before every reply flays him easier than frost and it has always been easier to remain pithless and shapeless and easily forgotten.

He wins the first round with a boast, then the second, and encroaches back to his smug silence at the edge of the table.

It would be hard not to notice the intoxicated man who tenders the wood with a fist and the air with malicious mutters, but Lex also knows he has a penchant for paranoia. Always assuming the worst, the uncanny feeling of the growing frustration being directed at him specifically would be absurd: he had not done anything.

The unrest spiders when he catches another glare, tugs him viciously and renders his chest a flickering glitch at best. Not paranoia, maybe a certainty. A little too close to existing, that ire reminds him he is not translucent enough, not a glass illusion idle and safe on the outskirts.

He briefly feels like a child again.

A burst of motion as the man leaps to his feet, scattering cards and hurling accolades of insults. Lex’s head recoils from the spittle and linchpin instinct heeds the early motions of a punch by going for the gun slung over his shoulder.

Empty.

Remembers he’d been stupid enough to leave it on the ship. God forbid he wanted to shoot someone who wasn’t Maltke.

The bartender pulls back the steep edge of violence looming before them and Mike eases back into their seat, but Lex is still blistering with tension. It could be nothing more than a harbinger, surely, of violence yet to transpire upon them. In a location like this where the solace of the ocean’s tide and ship’s guns are not in his immediate surroundings, Lexis feels untethered by any sense of comfort.

Beneath the table his leg is bouncing. A nervous hive of prey drive fear. These new rushing thoughts are like a plummet for bedrock, trying to think while ignoring the worst case scenario.

He has no gun so he must kill a man with an empty bowl.

No.

Calm down.

He is turning over the corners of his mind like upholstery and everything is beginning to fall into familiar rote.

He could throw a chair at them.

No. Behave.

Throw the table.

No. Damaging property is very rude.

Stag caught in a lane and conflicted between bearing a lowered mantle or bolting, all of these options run through his mind many times.

He regrets agreeing to this foolish bet, perhaps it would have directed their courses elsewhere, outside of this fluctuating violence where Rayna is now at risk. He is not the type of man who enjoys combat, and the fact he now must consider if it’s possible to cave a skull in with a bowl of mean soup is a distraction from the most pressing matter at hand:

He’d lost the game.

It stutters him, a blink as her smile tugs him back to the table and noise of the tavern where Rayna has revealed her hand. His eyes drop from her grin to the cards, then to his subpar own that have failed to make any sense whatsoever.

“Quite fortunate for me, eh Lex?”

It’s a subtle shift, the change in the way he is sitting to angle himself away from Rayna. Sore winner and sore loser, what smug ambience that once cloyed him honey thick was long gone. Sitting prim with eyes downcast and lips slightly downturned, it is only a reserved response he can afford for the humbling loss.

“I suppose.” Salty.

A live crustacean has an ETA of Soon.

Quiet wonderings, Rayna had proffered a considerably large bet for the round. Abnormal but clearly not without reward, a new suspicion blossoms in its wake.

Not anything accurate such as, Rayna must have done something to contort the game like playing footsies.

More so, because of her victory, Rayna must be the next target of Mike’s bubbling wrath.

She had built a small amount of camaraderie with the drunk man, enough to pat his shoulder without losing the arm, and with Lexis’ misconstrued understanding of how to navigate social spaces, he now understands what he must do.

Befriend Mike.

He has seen the craftsmanship of Rayna’s charm, effortless enough to pique envy in the captain. He should also make an effort to know these people, smoothe over blemishes with tender persiflage. It could not be too difficult when surrounded by sailors or at least those affiliated with the sea. They are the same, are they not? He lived here, once.

Lex musters the courage to look directly at the angry drunk. A confrontational stare that seems intent on blossoming antagonism.

“My monkey companion is named Michael.”

Bonding!

It is the first thing Lexis has said to anyone outside of Rayna in minutes, a disjointed comment dished with his natural withering expression. It feels like the room has dropped a notch in temperature, frozen at the blonde’s sheer audacity.

“But he is more emotionally mature.”

Oh no.

The observation is blunt but like many of Lex’s comments, not intended to be malicious. In Antares there’ll be no convincing some people that you harbor no ill-will, a difficulty when paired with prosaic features and a voice without inflection.

Wild eyes flare like a hot little pig, and there is a full body lunge across the table from a screaming Mike as the lacuna of peace is ripped open with the birth of a brawl. The coarse wood of the furniture scrapes the floor and meaty hands are reaching with reckless aggression, but Lex had glimpsed it too late to discourage what the drunk had orchestrated.

Lex uses the table as the heavy leverage needed to kick his own chair backwards, slamming into the ground with wood denting his spine. It was a painful reminder of why he’d rather avoid a fight in close quarters with someone like Mike— he’d lose that exchange without a gun or conveniently heavy bowl.

Lex pushed through the aching protest in his back and scrambled to his feet, eyes scanning the chaos for Rayna.






























♡coded by uxie♡
 
it’s too late to think about images, so I’ll add everything that’s missing later oops-






THE CAIN.
















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Kohen



PROKOPIOU




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




SMILING & THINKING ABOUT MURDER











OUTFIT




LATER











LOCATION




ANTARES BAZAAR












MENTIONS




EPHRAIM










INTERACTS




















BLACK MAMBO — GLASS ANIMALS.
































































scroll






EMPTY TITHES




and abandoned altars, the lord has no grace for those who worship as i do.




























CHAPTER FOUR.

Following where Ephraim has led him, of course Kohen is aware of his little brother’s intentions. In a place built on legal exchange, the Bazaar manages to find some modicum of separation from the criminal aspects of Antares despite the presence of the illicit goods it peddles. It’s a shame that they’ve misunderstood each other even in something as simple as this, but Kohen can’t find it in himself to feel terribly sorry about the dissonance.

After all, from the moment he accepted Ephraim’s letter, their voyage was bound to end in fratricide. Compared to that betrayal, surely a smaller crime like this should be easier to swallow — like a glass of lemonade sweetened with sugar or jealousy soothed by holding the hand of the same brother that’s strangling you. It’s just a vial of poison after all, and not even one potent enough to kill. With all of Ephraim’s exposure to illness in his childhood, it won’t even amount to the worst he’s had to weather. In fact, now that Kohen’s numbering all the times he’d taken care of his brother in his youth, its effects surely wouldn’t even rank among the top ten; simply a short bout of weakness and dizziness.

Cradling the small vial in his palm, Kohen gives a small hum of consideration. It’s an inconspicuous clear bottle holding liquid of a similar color, which should supposedly be easy to slip into a meal given its tastelessness. With how it needs to be ingested to take effect, it’d also be possible to pass it off as cologne should the need arise.

“How much for a bottle?”
he asks, setting the poison back down in front of the vendor with his decision made.

The little girl manning the store smiles innocently, revealing a small gap where she’s lost her front tooth, but when her wide brown eyes flicker across his body and suitcase with an expression akin to curiosity, Kohen can’t help the feeling that he’s being cased. He knows he’s right when he receives a price fitting for a well-dressed man playing with water behind his ears and no right to the business, and he can’t help the teasing question that slips through his lips.

“And does that come with a guarantee that you won’t turn me in if anyone comes knocking?”


The girl laughs, and this time, she shows a flash of the sharpness that dwells inside her mind.
“Only if you’re offering more than they are, sir,”
she says, her voice sugar-sweet as she gives him a playful wink.
“Of course, that’s more likely if you pay extra. Say, maybe ten coins?”


In the end, Kohen gives her exactly what she asked for and doesn’t manage to get that promise. He still doesn’t know what percentage he’s been overcharged by when he walks away, but he can’t help but muse over the fact that he’s more honest among thieves than family. Maybe it’s because only one of them gave him what he expected, even if the results turned out about the same.



Having hidden his purchase in his luggage, Kohen resigns himself to waiting for his brother shop. Where he once found joy in the babysitting his parents all but assigned him to, he now finds himself watching Ephraim with one part critique and two parts amusement.

As they continue down the line of stalls, he watches his brother’s suitcase hobble along with its interior stuffed full to the seams. He does this even when they stop and Ephraim strikes up a conversation with the storeowner that’s caught his eye, wondering to himself how he’s supposed to carry two suitcases off the port after their voyage is finished. At the very least, he’d have to try to distribute their belongings a little more evenly. They’d packed separately after Ephraim gave him news of their tickets aboard the Leviathan given his brother’s awareness of their strained relationship, but with how they’re supposedly trying to mend it through the trip, it shouldn’t be too much to help his brother reorganize. As a plus, it’d also serve as a treat for Ephraim — a little resurgence of the older brother who used to offer him help without a word, just right to convince him of their progress and ease his emotions bit by bit.

Ephraim’s initial movement to find something within his suitcase interrupts his thinking, sending Kohen into a knee-jerk reaction to pull it closer to him and shield it behind his body. Thankfully, it’s proved to be an overreaction as his brother thinks things over for himself and reaches out with an alternative method of payment. With the number of things his brother had needed or worried about needing, it’d be impossible to replace everything while still boarding on time, and then he’d have to consider alternative methods that didn’t hinge on the safety of being with strangers sailing over open water.

Luckily, with the peddler’s acquiescence, the hours he’s spent planning don’t go to waste, and his brother takes his hand, dragging him forward as hawkers waft the scent of spices across the Bazaar in stifling clouds and whip sections of cloth inches away from their faces. His arm instinctively tenses up at the sensation, and Kohen wonders if Ephraim will notice it and realize he’s the source. It’s not unhelpful given the words he plans to say next, so he doesn’t bother to relax himself.

Though, keeping a pleased expression after he receives Ephraim’s unpleasant gift takes enough effort that he wouldn’t be able to spare the focus even if he wanted to. Kohen knows his face has dropped into frozen shock and works to skew Ephraim’s interpretation of the situation. He forces his stiff lips into a smile and his eyes to wrinkle. Takes a breath through the lips he parted and then another. Tries to keep a cool head as he presses the growl from his voice down into surprise.

“Is that… for me?”
Not a terrible start as he takes the box and traces a finger around its edges. It’s beautiful in a way his old collection cases weren’t, made to frame art instead of an academic specimen or a distasteful interest. He never has been able to disagree with Ephraim’s taste in workmanship, though the sting of that realization goes down easier when it’s a bought gift and not a creation shaped his brother’s hands. Even through his fury, this is something he wants to keep.

Half aware, Kohen presses the gift close to his chest, and the way it digs into his skin comes together as the final piece he needs to ground himself. With that, he begins and ends another calculation, and his expression of joy settles into a softer one, tinged with an expression of guilt and resentment to explain any hints of his initial reaction as he immerses himself into an act.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to buy a few specimens when we land again, or maybe find a few insects in good enough condition to preserve.”


Kohen pauses, hooking a finger around the edge of the box and pressing until the surrounding flesh turns white under the pressure.
“Thank you for putting in the effort.”
He looks up with a faint smile clinging to the edge of his lips but his brows faintly knit, as if he’s attempting to convey a reassurance while being unaware of the troubled expression that peaks through the gaps.
“I’ll get you something later, though it might take a bit. I guess that’s to say that I’m a little unused to this?”


A soft laugh rings from his throat, a little nervous yet still genuine.
“Still, I’ll figure it out; I’m your older brother, after all. Our parents always told me to take care of you. It’s practically in my blood.”


Only, by now, Kohen’s spent day after day learning to unravel it, just so he could be ready for this moment. Ephraim doesn’t know that though, so please — isn’t this the perfect time to feel sorry?





























♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE CHEMIST.






























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MILLY






BYRTHA









































MOOD








BROKE AND HOPEFUL

































LOCATION








STREETS OF ANTARES

























MENTIONS








MANY NPCS + SCARLETT





















INTERACTS








































SPACE GIRL — FRANCES FOREVER
































































































































scroll












SAY WHAT YOU WANT



but say it like you mean it
with your fists for once, a long cold war
with your kids at the front






























































CHAPTER FOUR.

“Oi! How much fer an, hour pretty lady?”

He was clearly inebriated. His hand, which had a grip on her forearm was shaky and covered with sweat. It was disgusting, as was the sight of his face getting closer as he approached her, eyes locked onto hers.

Frankly, it was a bad way to gain business.

“Sorry!" Milly shouted, “I don’t have much on me right now. Perhaps you should take your soliciting closer to the docks instead! There are sure to be people with plenty of Solari there!” She slipped out of his grip easily, and his face went slack and he stumbled towards her.

“What the hell’re you talkin’ about!?” He exclaimed and froze. She was already gone.

Milly didn’t know much about Antares. What little knowledge she acquired was offered by a nice woman a few days back. Milly had burst into the inn in the middle of the night, convinced a wolf had been chasing her. Her dress had torn and one of her two overstuffed suitcases cracked open when she burst through the doors. The owner had taken one look at Milly and laughed.

The wolf was not a wolf at all, but her dog.

She offered Milly some advice that night. That people in Antares would see her clothes and her bags and see her as a target.

Milly wasn’t completely clueless, she knew there were times she couldn’t read the room. So she heeded the woman’s advice. She had received another note from her mother last month. It had the usual contents- I love you, come back, I miss you, and most importantly, some money.

Money Milly used to take a carriage the rest of the way to Antares and straight to the docks. She found it strange that her mother was still begging her to come back. When Milly first left Empyra, June didn’t even try to get her to stay. She couldn’t blame her, at that point, Milly was nothing but a disgrace to the Rhodes name. If she hadn’t left, Leon might have never been able to keep his job as headmaster.

Milly wanted nothing more than to lock herself in her new cabin and make a new home. It was small, but with enough maneuvering, she could make do. Perhaps she could add a shelf or two- or convince the captain to allow her a bigger cabin!

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Milly. Anans voice rang in her head. The first thing she needed to do was go to the Bazaar. Some equipment had broken in her travels, and she desperately needed replacements.

Traveling was much more exciting than being cooped up in the hell that was Empyra Academy. The streets were crowded, the shops buzzing and the fights loud. Milly almost wished the Leviathan was planning to stay another day, just so she could take her time exploring this new place. She had read up on some local plants she wanted to take a look at, and perhaps there was something new she could come across as well!

But no, she had a goal. Test tubes and a new reagent flask. She would buy them and head straight back to the ship, nothing more, nothing less. No getting distracted, Milly. You always get so distracted!

But what was this? A stall on the side of the street selling what seemed to be a variety of very tiny things!

A smile broke out as Milly surveyed the trinkets before her, a tiny watering can, tiny cats and dogs, flowers, buttons, food, and- oh! What an adorable trinket box!

Her eyes sparkled as she lifted the box, a golden rabbit and its baby, covered in roses and leaves. The box was small, but could encase some of the many things Milly had struggled to keep track of. Oh, it would be just perfect!

“This is fascinating!” Milly held the object up to the stall owner, “Is there a reason the rabbit is on its back? I don’t know much about the family, but it seems unlikely that would be possible, or efficient.”

The owner stared, and Milly counted to three. Three moments of silence meant she had just made things awkward, somehow.

“That’ll be ten Solari, take it or leave it.”

“Ten Solari!” Milly exclaimed and then threw a hand over her mouth.

Oh, that was way too expensive. She needed to buy more tubes, she wouldn’t be able to work without them. She already had plenty of trinkets anyways. But she didn’t have many places to put them... No! She mustn’t, she had twenty solari left. She shouldn’t–

“Don’t come again,” the owner drawled. Milly stuffed her new box into her pouch.

By the time Milly finally found a stall she was debating giving up. Her feet were sore, and she became more and more regretful of her purchase as time passed. Still- the sight of the familiar glass items had reinvigorated her spirit.

Milly investigated the items in front of her carefully. She didn’t know how long the Leviathan would be on the water, she had to make these last. But the tubes in front of her didn’t look like the ones she had used from Empyra. She lifted one of the tubes and turned to the owner, a tall man with a mustache much too tall for his face.

“The glass on these seem thinner than usual. Is this still borosilicate glass? I need a reagent flask as well, is it as thin as this? Does it still work well? Do they heat up faster, perhaps?”

The man rolled his eyes, “They work perfectly fine.” He said, he kneeled behind the counter and pulled out a matching test tube, tossing it mindlessly to the floor. “See, don’t even break on impact. They’ll be perfect for yer… perfume making or whatever it is yer doin’.”

Milly bristled but picked three tubes as well as one flask and placed them on the counter.

“How much for these?”

“Thirty solari.”

Oh. Milly put back one flask.

“Twenty-five.”

She put back another, pouting.

The guy groaned, “Twenty. The flask alone is 15.”

Milly’s nerves spike, she can’t even afford the flask? What the hell is she supposed to do without a new flask?

“I-I only have ten,” she stumbled over her words. “I assure you it is for a good cause, I have many projects I’m working on which is why I need some more flasks and tubes. I’m hoping to make certain liquids work topica-”

The man reached over the counter and tore the glass from her hands.

“If ye can’t afford it, leave!”

Milly can feel the stares on them from people walking by. Ah, this was why she didn’t like to spend too much time outside. She didn’t like the attention, not at all.

“I’m sorry,” Milly muttered, not sure what she was sorry for.

The walk of defeat is slow and miserable. How such an exciting day could lose all its light in just a few moments eluded Milly. She should have just stayed in her room as she always did. Perhaps she could use her remaining solari to buy a drink, instead.

Oof! Milly’s head smacked straight into the walls of a stand. Someone was yelling at her, she was sure, but she didn’t bother to look toward the voice. Instead, her eyes caught onto a woman.

“I can’t just go handing off my valuables to strange men. No matter how… attractive and decent they seem.”

Huh? Attractive? Milly is well aware that everyone has their preferences, but attractive was not a label she would give that man. Of course, Milly was also very impartial to beards, as well. They could be useful in some ways, but they were not very aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Was it comfortable, she often wondered, having scratchy hair running down your face like that? Surely-

Focus, Milly!

“Did they? Well, I can give you twenty-five hundred solari. Final offer.”

Ah, it clicked. Milly had an idea.

She waited until the woman had walked a safe distance away before approaching. She practically sprinted in front of her, reaching out both hands and gripping onto the womans shoulders.

Her words came out rushed, she didn’t give herself enough time to plan what to say. “Hello! I’m Milly! I couldn’t help but observe that interaction you had with that large man earlier, and-” Don’t just randomly grab onto people, Milly! She quickly released her shoulders, holding her hands at her sides instead.

“I have a proposition for you! You see, I was attempting to buy a reagent flask but I was five solari short, and the man was quite rude and wouldn’t budge! I am not asking to borrow money of course, but perhaps you could help me haggle the price down?” She paused and took in a loud breath.

“I’ll admit I don’t have much I could do in return. Perhaps… perhaps I could make you a nice perfume!? Making them long-lasting is quite easy as long as you have the right fixatives- oh, it would be tough to make in just a few hours. I’m on a time crunch, you see, I am taking the Leviathan-” You’re not supposed to share that with people in Antares, Milly!

“Well, I’m sure I could fix something up for you. If you’re willing!” She placed her hands on her hips and flashed the woman a smile.


























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE HUNTSMAN.






























scroll


MAGNUS
















































MOOD








HAUNTED, INTIMIDATING























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








ANTARES ALLEY

























MENTIONS








MENTIONS !!





















INTERACTS


floralmoon floralmoon Kader











































MEMENTO MORI — NICHOLAS BRITELL.































































































































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DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR








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





























































SEASON TWO CHAPTER ONE.

TW: Violence and blood, mentions of past abuse

Magnus found it odd how past experiences seemed to persist long after having lived through them. He’d thought he’d done away with that past self--yet just now he could feel the warm press of Celine’s fingers into the flesh of his neck. She’d whisper poison soaked niceties to him when he’d refuse her orders. At least in the beginning. After enough of the punishments endured from not listening, Magnus quickly learned that obedience was the only means of survival.

A long exhale through his mouth, steadying the memory from gnawing at his frayed nerves. He hadn’t strayed this far from the mold Celine had trained him for since--well since he’d broke free of her, most likely. He’d learned the hard way that this way of life wasn’t something he could simply forget. It was who he was now, down to the very marrow of his bones. If he didn’t use his skills to kill, then what purpose was all the blood that trailed behind him? His footsteps were heavy with the life he’d taken. If he stopped moving now--he didn’t think he’d ever be able to take another step.

Finally, a wiry looking man stumbled from the bar. His cheeks were flushed with the deep apple tint of inebriation. He was arguing with one of the bartenders, uncaring to those in the street that he stumbled into. Magnus flexed his fingers. The man waved off the threats of the bartender with his own share of vulgarities hurled back, before his short attention was pulled off into a darkened alley.

Magnus slipped from his place to follow. Luckily, the man had had enough sense to push further into the safety of shadows before picking his place to relieve himself. The bounty hunter’s eyes were black disks of obsidian when they drank in the circumstances of opportunity.
His bounty had been meager, some pirate that had a nasty habit of skimming treasure from the crews he worked with before bouncing off to join another. A selfish man, taking what belonged to others until his own cup ran overfilled. Magnus’ lip twitched. His own hands flashed before his eyes, grabbing what he could find in lavish apartments and velvet lined carriages. Had he not been so different before? When had his stealing shifted from mere survival to--taking what he thought he deserved?

Celine’s silhouette took form at the end of the alley. “Look Magnus,” She cooed, her grin like a half moon in the dark, “Looks like we caught a rat.”

Magnus let out a low hum from his throat, willing the mirage to lift. The drunken man turned towards the sound cue, his gaze narrowing. Gravel crunched from his unstable stance.

“Oi! Fuck you looking at? I’m not puttin on a show for anyone, especially some buttoned up schmuck like you.” He turned back to the wall with a sneer.

The Bounty Hunter said nothing. He cocked his head to the side. He took a step forward, feet sharp--confident when they hit the cracked alley street. “Oh I’m not interested in you for that,” Magnus said. The even tone of his voice echoed off the damp walls that sandwiched them, its tonality warping into a haunting chill.

The man froze this time. Magnus’ demeanor, his appearance. There was something wrong with him. When he glanced back, the silver glint of a blade greeted him.

A silence strung itself taut between them in that instance. An exchange that needed no words. Magnus’ bloodlust curled like shadows out to the man, whose ache for survival recoiled like a burned hand.

The bounty hunter blinked, and then the man’s half empty mug was flying directly at his head. He ducked with a hissed curse, tongue sucking against his teeth from the glass that exploded against the brick wall beside him. Beer, cold and sticky splattered across his face, mingling with the sharp blossom of glass that splintered outward. His cheek stung with a warmth that hinted at blood, but Magnus had no time to react, let alone check for injuries.

The man sprinted further into the alley, his drunken stumble slowing him down. Magnus’ eyes widened in anticipation. A rabid animal who had just been given the taste of blood.

He sprinted after the man, nimbly dodging the trash and other obstacles abandoned in the forgotten Antares alley. It was pitiful, really, just how one sided the chase was. The man was stumbling over his own feet once the full weight of the situation had laid its hands upon him. What followed behind him was no bounty hunter. What followed behind was the black shadow of certain death. The reaper. And the smile on his face couldn’t be wider.

Magnus caught up to him before the man could turn to the right, back towards the promise of a crowd that could save him. Warm, orange light leaked into the alley, but only close enough that the man could barely feel the whisper of its embrace.

The bounty hunter jolted him back by the collar, his feet nearly giving out and skidding against the loose rocks below in terror.

He screamed, but Magnus was faster. He clamped his hand over the man’s mouth, face dropping in exasperation at the fight he was putting up. The man trashed fruitlessly in his grip, captured prey that had yet to face their fate full on.

The man flailed out, teeth scraping against Magnus’ hand in an attempt to bite. The bounty hunter simply sighed, the gleam of his sword a flash of silver.

A river of warmth cascaded over his fingers as the man’s movements began to slow and still. He let out a relieved sigh, dropping him from the binding grip. His lifeless body fell to the floor in a heap of boneless limbs. Magnus held his hand up into the weak light that filtered into the alley. Crimson stuck to it, thick and warm against his skin.

His breath caught in his throat. A step, somewhere behind him. Magnus turned, his eye catching on someone who had stumbled across the scene. He wondered how he looked to them, cloaked in darkness and blood. Did he look like a monster? He felt like one.

Magnus dropped his hand and took a step forwards towards them, gaze heavy as it bore into them. “I’d keep walking if I were you,” His voice rattled with the gravel of his tone.




























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE AMENDED.






























scroll


RAYNA






MALLOR









































MOOD








YIPPEEEEE!!!!!

































LOCATION








THE AWFUL BARREL > ANTARES STREETS

























MENTIONS








LEXIS, NPC MIKE





















INTERACTS








































KING AND LIONHEART — 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.

There's a pressure on her beating heart as they begin to clean up the fallen cards, a quick realization of how risky her actions have been. Coming out into Antares was one thing, but almost getting Lexis punched in the face was another.

It was like being in Antares had spurred something in her. Before, the only stimulation Raynas alcohol-ridden mind could process was from fights- and finding one in Antares was not hard. She did not remember much about her time in Antares, but every insult, punch, and stab, was engraved in her head.

She should calm down, the last thing she wanted was for the Captain to get hurt because of her.

But as she watched Lexis angle his body away from her and speak with mumbles, worry quickly became amusement.

Was he… upset he was losing? Was Lexis a sore loser?

Oh, she should challenge him more often then. Perhaps they could keep a tally somewhere on the ship.

Rayna hid her smirk as the cards were dealt. Everything seemed to have settled down, the eyeless woman whispering words to Michael as he surveyed his cards. No doubt he wasn’t processing anything on them.

Her eyes remained on Lexis, who seemed to be deep in thought. When his eyes turned to Michael, her posture straightened. She uncrossed her legs- the Captain had come to a decision, and a certain dread crawled its way into Raynas mind.

“My monkey companion is named Michael.”

OH-

Rayna slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, but a small squeak escaped. She grabbed the base of her chair with her free hand, her amusement not clouded by the tensing of Michaels shoulders. What exactly was Lex’s goal here?

“But he is more emotionally mature.”

Oh shit.

“Oi! What the fuck did I just say!?” The bartender's voice rang out just as Michael hopped the table. Rayna pushed her chair back with her hand and ducked under the table. She could hear the loud scuffles and shouts from nearby drunkards, likely taking advantage of the fight to start ones of their own. In just a few short games she and Lexis had managed to start a bar brawl, great.

No really, great. What a story to tell when they get back on the ship!

There was no fear as she crawled out from under the table. Somehow the noise had quieted all her panicking thoughts, making way for only a few words. Where was Lexis!?

There he was, staggering up from the ground with Michael at his back, ready to pounce once again.

Rayna shot to her feet, hands grabbing the first thing she saw- a drawstring pouch hung on a nearby seat. Securing the ends of the bag strap in her hands, she rushed behind Michael, lifted the strap over the head, and locked them around his neck.

Not the first time dealing with a man bigger than her, she leaned all of her weight backward. Forcing Michael to stumble away from Lexis, his fisted hands reaching for the strap.

She counted, one, two, three, four- ow!

An elbow to the face and Rayna is releasing her grip. The man stumbles to the ground, hand on his bruised throat and taking desperate, short, gasps.

Rayna allowed herself a single moment to check her nose for blood before she turned towards Lexis, pushing his shoulders towards the exit.

“Go go go gogogogogogo!”

It’s exhilarating as they rush through the doors. The knowledge that they were out left room for excitement as her remaining adrenaline pushed her through the crowd.

They didn’t need to go far, it was dark and Michael was drunk. He wouldn’t catch them even if he tried. She stopped once they reached a break in the crowd- a clearing where they could catch their breath and confirmed Lexis had followed.

Hands on her knees, Rayna allowed only a moment of deep breaths before she laughed. A loud and clear HAH! that caught the eyes of those walking by.

“You really know how to piss a guy off, Lex!” She exclaimed, followed by a few more giggles. She slapped her hand roughly on his shoulder and gave him and herself a once-over. A bruise was forming on her cheek, but other than that, she was alright.

“You good? Not injured, yeah?” She asked, letting her hand drop.

It was then she realized her weapon of choice was still in her hand. It seemed she got lucky, the cheap leather was about to snap.

Rayna silently rummaged through it, a realization making her turn towards Lexis with a permanent grin stamped on her face. She held the pouch up in the air.

“So, with the fifty solari I won during poker, and the forty-five solari in this bag.” She tapped her chin like she was thinking and ended it with a wink. “It looks like I’ve won the bet!”


























































♡coded by uxie♡
 
mood :
suspicious



location :
the bazaar
outfit :
mentions :
npc



interactions :
lucrezia CrimsonInk CrimsonInk
Acindius
Devana
Devana tilted her head slightly, her silence serving as her only response to the woman’s words. Her onyx eyes, often described as dark and soulless, glimmered faintly with intrigue—a rare spark that betrayed her otherwise stoic demeanor. The woman before her was unmistakably highborn; the subtle nuances in her posture and speech made that much clear. For the first time, suspicion gave way to curiosity.


“I could always toss her overboard if she gives me reason,” Devana mused darkly. “Or dispose of her here in the bazaar, should it come to that.”


The thought was a cold comfort, one that eased the tension gripping her like a vice. As the idea settled in her mind, the hostility radiating from her seemed to dissipate, melting away like mist at dawn. It was as if the bustling bazaar itself, with its unseen thieves and whispered secrets, had stolen her edge and left her composed—if only for now.

Devana’s gaze lingered briefly on the mask the woman held. Few sought the knowledge of her people, even fewer with genuine intent. As far as she knew, Umbra was a land most dismissed as a cold and barren wasteland, a place of harsh winters and harder lives. Yet, to Devana, it was far more—a realm of glittering snowfields and endless, untamed plains. It was a land that, even under the oppressive thumb of the monarchy, refused to yield its mystery entirely. Its wildness mirrored her own.

A faint frown tugged at her lips beneath the concealment of her goat mask as her chest tightened with an unfamiliar weight. The woman’s offer—to sacrifice her limb, her very mind, in exchange for knowledge—struck a chord Devana seldom acknowledged. It stirred something deep within her, a hope buried beneath layers of skepticism and mistrust. For so long, Umbra had been a place dismissed and devalued by outsiders. Yet here was someone willing to sacrifice much to uncover its secrets.

Her movements were deliberate as she reached forward, her gloved hand steady as she plucked the mask from the woman’s grasp. She allowed the silence to stretch for a heartbeat longer before gently taking the woman’s hand in her own. With an almost imperceptible bow of her head, Devana brought the delicate hand to her lips. The contact was brief, her lips cool and firm as the winter winds of her homeland. She released the hand with the same care she had taken it.

“I am Lady Devana, heir of House Acindius,” she said, her tone low and steady, yet threaded with the authority of her station. “Your sacrifice, while tempting, is unnecessary at this moment.” Her gaze softened—just enough to betray a spark of interest. “Would you care to traverse the bazaar with me? Your quest for knowledge is admirable, and though I cannot share all of Umbra’s secrets, I find myself inclined to offer you what few truths I can. Such curiosity is not a quality I encounter often.”

coded by reveriee.
 









THE SCOURGE.

























scroll


Dolores





THORNE







ㅎㅎ


























MOOD







her name was...



























LOCATION







Cozy Leviathan (Deck Area)



















MENTIONS







Madelina, Genevieve

















INTERACTS







Madelina




































Shake It Out — F + TM



































































































scroll








Bronze Beauty,






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














































Chapter Four.

Whether it be in the business of assassination or the subtle art of execution, all eventually bow to the deafening pressure of such sins. The scourge knows this all too well. The woman had no choice but to coat her fragile heart with a herculean armour of ice to ensure her survival. Along the way, and kill after kill, it froze the organ and her ability to feel empathy.

Those who have slaughtered another human being often bend under the burden of death. It was as if the reaper attempted to mould them into his arsenal of scythes. Coating his lingering scent into their bones, with a skeletal hand dripping in tar and the fluttering of ebony fabric reaching down to the bare wisps of their souls, he plucks at the strings of their humanity, undressing them to reveal the monsters that they’ve become.

To Dolores, she can faintly imagine the outline of the reaper leering over Madelina’s shoulder. And before she could realise it, an illusion of her younger self appeared before Madelina’s figure. Lost doe eyes glazed in the grim memory of a first kill. If Dolores had ever possessed a compass that could guide the heart back to its proper path and magically dissipate anxieties at its mere touch, she would not hesitate to give it to this woman right there. Omar, her deceased father, was a great compass.

Perhaps… She could be a compass as well.

No, the woman shook her head at the notion and turned her eyes away from the young woman, breaking the spell of the mirage she saw herself in. Was the tea affecting her senses? Except she didn’t drink a drop, did she?

“Even if I belong with such ruffians now, I would die. They would kill me without a second thought.”

Something about the way she uttered the word ‘die’ irked Dolores. Is it eagerness to atone, or is it the dull defeat she hears in her voice? Whatever it was, there was a simmering need within Dolores to urge the young woman to lift her chin and nourish the little confidence she had.

“I look too much like her.”

Who? The privateer raised a curious eyebrow. You’re not a bloody owl, Dolores. She internally rolled her eyes at the sarcastic voice in her head.

“No, I do not intend to leave. I promise. I have nowhere to go.”

Madelina doesn’t know it was the confession Dolores needed to feel a tiny bit of sympathy. Dolores felt her whole body relax as her fingers wrapped around the railing, and the soft sea breeze brushed past her brunette curls.

“Her name was Genevieve Kalten,” Dolores stated, leaning forward on the railing overlooking Antares. Dolores hadn’t breathed her name into existence until now. “She is—was,” she immediately corrected herself. “Soft,” she whispered as her fingers mindlessly traced her forearm when the woman’s skin first made contact with hers. “And oddly feisty at times,” she confessed as the memory of her adorable pouts brought Dolores a peculiar warmth; her lips itched to tilt upwards.

“She was my friend,” the branded woman admitted gracefully, and her sharp, umber eyes studied Madelina carefully. Her reaction said it all for Dolores. Madelina is still compassionate. It was the affirmation she needed to bestow upon Madelina the reassurance that Dolores herself wished she had received.

“It’s…” Her throat suddenly felt dry. The woman took a deep breath, easing her nerves to remain calm and collected. “Taking a life without understanding the importance of life usually takes a toll on one’s ability to feel compassion,” she confessed. It was as if the ghosts of those she had executed stained her clothes with tar, enveloping her feet as they slowly dragged her down to hell with her. It was not sympathy that breathed the spectres of her victims back to life; after all, how could she feel sorry for such criminals who raped, killed, stole, and sinned? No, it’s something else entirely.

It was remorse. Perhaps, if she weren’t so blinded by teen rage, she wouldn’t have been so eager to be a bloodhound for a man to whom she had inadvertently given her leashes. God, her own stupidity still haunts her to this day. Perhaps, if she had only taken the proper time to grieve her adoptive father’s death, things would’ve been so different. Perhaps, if she had taken the time to understand the importance of life, she wouldn’t have been so eager to spill blood upon the ivory floor of The Stage.

Madelina has a chance that Dolores didn’t at the forked road between an icy path to apathy and a warm, inviting road to humanity. And the scourge will be damned to see another pure soul ruined by the weight of a frozen heart.

Dolores’ eyes dulled their typical edges at the memory of her father and what he would say to the young and lost in front of her. Her voice softened as if mimicking his own fatherly warmth. “But you, Madelina. You understand how important life is, and empathy still warms your heart. It beats along with the sin you’ve committed. It makes you human, not a monster,” unlike what I’ve had to become. Her throat itched to finish that sentence with that addition.

“You have a good heart. Keep it that way,” somehow, her delivery sounded more like a threat than the friendly tone she intended.

An innocent heart. She hasn’t seen one upon her scales of justice. Dolores could only hope the touch of frosty apathy hadn’t crept deep enough into the piths of her heart.
















































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE GLADIATOR.















scroll

Tiberius



SANCTUS




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




need a hand??
















LOCATION




Streets of Antares












MENTIONS




Agnes










INTERACTS




Agnes










TAGS



















GUY.exe — Superfruit
































































scroll






Sanguine Stains




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






























Chapter Four.

Tiberius watched in awe as the woman before him muttered her prayers. He awkwardly fidgeted on the pavement beneath his leather boots and waited patiently for her to finish. The gladiator was about to start twiddling his thumbs as well if it weren’t for the luggage that was suddenly handed to him.

He slowly blinks.

“Uhh,” he mumbled nervously. “Need a hand carrying those?”

Unsure of what had been suddenly submitted to him, he hesitantly took the weight of her luggage from her hands. His sapphire eyes lingered on her hands for a moment too long as gentle fingertips brushed against each other. His eyebrows scrunched in thought until a single fretful idea erupted from him as a mere realisation washed over his rationality.

“Hold on! Are your hands alright?! Is that why you can’t carry them?” he declared idiotically and anxiously. His large, calloused hands flipped the woman’s hands over to examine them closely. His hulking figure leaned in for a better look, so much so that his breath brushed against the woman’s palms. It’s a wonder how this bloke survived the arena with such terrible eyesight.

“Phew, they’re all good,” he muttered with relief. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

The gladiator quickly returned his hand to his side, fidgeting slightly with the bag in his other hand, suddenly feeling shy about the closeness he had imposed on the poor woman. With that in mind, he stepped back and lowered his head a bit as a genuine apology. He mentally chastised himself for such foolish and bold behaviour. With eyes brimming with sad puppy energy, he met the stranger’s gaze.

“Wait, why are you giving me your luggage? Isn’t it yours?” he asked, genuinely confused by the woman’s actions.






























♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE MAGPIE.















scroll

Azzara



TALLULAH




ㅎㅎ















mood




Tired, frustrated, excited
















LOCATION




NEXT TO REN > AWAY FROM REN











MENTIONS




REN










INTERACTS




















THIEVES - Sammy Rae
































































scroll






CHILD OF THIEVES




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






























CHAPTER FOUR.

People don’t give a shit about you or your problems. A phrase Seraphine Azzara used judiciously when speaking to her young daughter. Who learned from a young age that she could depend on no one but herself. It was useless to care about other people’s opinions because they were always looking out for number one. And if that’s the case, why would she care about someone else’s opinion?

She reluctantly tore her gaze away from the laden patron. Apparently, the pitiful man before her had never learned that lesson. Because he observed her with the most neutral expression she’d seen from him in the weeks she’d been subjected to his presence. “You don’t seem to like me much. Why?”

There was a long list. He was loud. Brazen. A little stupider than any man had a right to be. And he reeked of desperation. This man before her longed for human validation. He needed it the same way magpies needed gold. The same way Tallulah herself longed for applause and cheers when she performed.

But why did he desire her approval so much? What was so entrancing about the opinion of a… frankly, a nobody? A common criminal? Posing as a merchant, or a performer or a drunkard. She wasn’t quite sure at this moment. Her head was buzzing pleasantly, and it was a welcome relief.

The air was thick with smoke and sweat, coating the back of the throat and nearly choking her. Sound cascaded over her in waves. It was like enjoying the world from underwater. Except this time, she might drown in the rouge waves of society instead of the ones that threatened to rip her from the Leviathan.

Her eyes flit from Ren to the older man she’d been eyeing earlier. He was still seated before her, pockets filled with shiny things. And blubbering about - something. Her heart picked up, slamming against her chest in anticipation.

At some point, Ren moved to her other side, swaying dangerously on his stool, becoming increasingly pale. Perhaps he believed that relocating would make him seem more enticing. And while she was slightly tipsy, she wasn’t sloshed and the new angle of the light on his face elicited no emotional response from her. However, the words that spilled from his mouth next certainly did.

“Gimmie a number Toots, scale one to ten,” he raised his fingers to drive home his point. “How mad if I vomit on you?”

Tallulah’s face contorted; she pulled her skirts back to avoid any spray. She dropped her voice low, hand hovering over her chest where her knife was hidden. “Try it, and I’ll gut you.”

Not even a couple more shots would get rid of this little annoyance. So now was the time to make her grand escape. But not before she took a little prize with her. Just to cover the expenses. She cast her gaze back over in the direction of the guest.

“Nice chatting with you, but I have things to do before the Leviathan leaves. So do everyone a favor and try not to make this room smell worse than it already does.” She slid off the stool without glancing at him.

Feet hitting the ground, she sidled in between chairs, gliding across the lacquered and chipped wooden floor. With the silence and grace of a leopard, she prowled toward the man. Her sightline narrowed in on the little glint of precious metals until it was all she could see. Adrenaline flooded her body as she slipped her hand into his pocket and fished out the little trinket.

The man didn’t even flinch. She balled her fists and buried it in the fabric of her skirts, a smile ghosting across her face as she set her sights on the door across the room.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 
[TW: Fighting, a little blood, Language]










THE ARCHER.






























scroll


Knox
Hood







------------









➵ ➵






























MOOD








Fine until he sees Maltke; Big ouchie on his left eye




















OUTFIT








Boots; Pants (But make them Dark Brown); Shirt (But make it really dirty and messy); Grey kerchief on his neck to cover his face, Fabric wraps on his hands, wrists, and where his pants tuck into his boots; Book Holster; Knife Belt (But make it brown, worn, and add a compass and pouch)




















LOCATION








Antares Bazaar > Outside The Tyke's Prick






















MENTIONS








Cadence, Talulah, Cosette, Maltke, NPCs: The Book Merchant, Lil' Timmy, Scarface, and Toothless


















INTERACTS








































Tura Lu by The Bollox.
































































































































scroll












Something's got to give



cause every man has got to live
so wipe your head
before you drop and give






























































Chapter 4 - Part 1.


The Antares Bazaar was over stimulating and exciting with stalls overflowing with trinkets and treasures of all kinds. There were stalls with elaborately coloured fabrics with threads of gold weaved throughout, and stands with jewelled boxes, and stands with spices, fruit, and some with items that were doubtfully edible and fantastically questionable. So many things Knox had never seen before. It was a shame he was on a mission and in a rush or else he would linger for the rest of the night, curious about all there was to offer.

Instead, he stopped at a stand which was layered in necklaces and bracelets, none of which matched the silver diamond necklace he stole from Miss Valiente. There was a gold necklace set with red stones that, in his opinion, suited the dancer Talulah in a much better fashion. After negotiating a trade, the necklace for a silver trinket he stole from another rich passenger, he wandered to a book stall nearby.

There were books of many subjects, but it was a book with delicate strokes of paint over the canvas hardcover that caught his eye. Flipping through the yellowing pages, Knox discovered it was a collection of Antares folk tales. A perfect gift for Cosette if he could afford it, however the book looked quite expensive. The merchant was eyeing him as the archer gathered the courage to barter with the stern looking woman, not sure what he had to offer but a handful of coins and a necklace he needed to ensure his safe status on board.

A kerfuffle behind the stall diverted her attention and in relief he secured the book in the book holster at his thigh and removed himself from the merchant’s view. Good sense told him to get out of the bazaar and back to the ship, but a familiar voice made him turn around, wide eyed at the sight in the square. There was action between three men in front of The Tyke’s Prick (which now ranked high in the most unsavory establishments he had ever witnessed).

Amid splinters of the wood door he had no doubt been thrown through, Maltke stood up from the dirty cobblestones. Shaking and in a drunken tone, he shouts towards two grisly looking pirates. “These scum like me…The fuckin’ deserve this!” His nose was bloody, streaking on his arm as he wiped, shoulder drooping. In the moment after the old-timer’s outburst, Knox was sure he would admit defeat and back away.

Knox is often wrong.

In an impressive leap, Maltke lunged towards the large blonde pirate, swinging both fists. One connecting with his stomach and the other landing square upon his jaw, and the blonde giant went down. The grey haired man searched for the second pirate and Knox found his feet moving in the direction of the fight.

Now, one might argue a heartless person would leave him to the consequences of this fight he engaged, but Knox had more heart than many despite the risk this posed on his own well-being. It was the knife in the hand of the scar faced man approaching Maltke that worried him. They were at a considerable distance and the young man had to act fast, so he grabbed an apple from the fruit stall beside him, hurling it towards Scarface as he slashed through the air towards Maltke’s throat.

It was unfortunate for his cause that he had no time to aim correctly, though the red fruit smashed against the side of his crew mate’s head. An action which, thankfully, moved him out of the path of the knife, but lamentably drew the attention of Scarface’s attention in Knox’s direction.

“Oh shit.”

The scar faced man approached slowly at first but picked up his speed as Knox retreated. He had to get out of the way, hopefully giving Maltke a chance to get away. If this tactic worked, it was unknown to the young man as he stumbled his way through the bazaar, making the fatal mistake of looking back at the approaching pirate causing him to careen into a stall of fabric too fine to be mussed up in such a way. Pathetically, he struggled out of the mess of fabric he was entangled in. “Shit shit shit.” Dear God above, if he died on a supply run in Antares he could never forgive himself.

Having been released from the silks and brocade, his next obstacle was the crowd of people gathering around what seemed to be a regular occurrence by the way they cheered for the violence. “Excuse me. Please!” Ever his mother’s son, leave it to Knox Hood to utilize his manners while evading a substantial beating. Efforts which fell short as he crashed squarely into the chest of a third grungy pirate who was missing many teeth. Whose hot, rum infested breath grazed his ear as his thick arms captured Knox in a hold, facing him towards Scarface with his arms behind his back. “Ye think yer gonna get away with that?”

He struggled trying to duck out of the way as Scarface pulled his arm back, failing to evade the blow of his right hook making contact on the left side of Knox’s face. Pain erupted around his eye, blurring his vision and darkening the world for a moment before a rush of adrenaline bloomed in his chest. Toothless tightened his grip as they struggled and Knox thought to himself ‘Well, it’s now or never’, truly fearing his well-being should he withstand a second blow from the irate man who was already pulling his arm back for another punch.

This was when Knox crouched as best as he could, springing up, kicking wildly at Scarface’s chest and throwing his head back against the toothless man’s jaw. The two pirates stumbled away as Knox’s ass hit the grody cobblestone and the air from his lungs expelled with a great “OOF”. In the next moment of breath, he rolled away from the men and clamored to his feet craving a moment away from the bedlam.

Quickly, he raced to where Maltke stood beside the stirring shape of Lil’ Timmy. “We gotta get the fuck out of here mate.” Scarface and Toothless found their bearings and were approaching once again. As if on instinct, Knox retrieved the short bow strapped to his back, notching an arrow from his hip with the other, aiming swiftly at the blonde man struggling to stand beside them. “Back up or this fucker gets it, and I promise you,” with a turn of his head as cocky as his tone, Knox looked squarely into the eyes of the large scar faced man. “My aim with an arrow is much better than with apples.”



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:










THE SOOTHSAYER.






























scroll


KADER
















































MOOD








IN SHOCK

































LOCATION








SHIP > BAZAAR > ALLEY WAY

























MENTIONS








Magnus





















INTERACTS


Pepsionne Pepsionne











































Bazaar - Peritune.
































































































































scroll












"prophet child, chosen by the sun.."








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





























































CHAPTER FOUR PT I.


A few hours had past since the boat docked in Antares, with waves no longer lulling Kader to sleep, their eyes slowly creep open. The ship itself was quiet, but there was an array of sounds coming from their new destination, carefully they sit themself up. Perhaps it was a good idea to leave their room and explore, they spent most, if not all, of the trip between Algol and Antares hiding in their room. Avoiding the other travelers seemed like the better idea in the moment, tensions were high from the interactions on the deadly beach, many people attacking their fellow passengers with no reason.

Steading their feet on the now still ship, Kader slips out of their pajamas, revealing a bandage wrapped around their waist. After carefully removing it, they wipe some ointment they had made across the injury. It was healing nicely, but the mental scars would never fade, if only they could've stayed home, none of this would've ever happened. With a quick shake of their head, the negative thoughts disappear. Quietly, they speak, "I am happy, I am healthy, I am alive. Today is my day, and I will take control of it." A simple daily mantra that they learned from their parents.

Leaving the ship, Kader was quickly immersed into the hustle and bustle of Antares, people scatter all along the streets, merchants yelling for potential customers to stop by and see their products. It wouldn't hurt to stop and take a look at the assortment of items for sale, so that's exactly where they headed towards. The streets became even more crowded as they worked their way through the bazaar, purchasing a few plants for their journal they found interesting. One vendor caught their eye before they could even pass by, they were selling head scarves and... hair?

Curiosity brought them directly to the stall, inquiring about the wigs, how they're used, and whether or not they were ethically resourced (the vendor did not answer this question). Despite being wary of the items and where they may have come from, they purchase a wig that looked similar to their own hair, along with two additional scarves to add to their collection. Kader thanks the merchant and proceeds on their way, noticing two men heading down an alley, perhaps it was a short cut to other stalls, so they decided to follow.

Quickly, they lost site of the two, but they proceeded through the alley, completely immersed in the buildings and sounds that surrounded them, they didn't notice that they had caught up to the two, or at this point, the one. The stranger had turned around, revealing a bloody scene in front of him, Kader's body tensed up, "Oh no." They thought to themself, wrong place wrong time, was this the end?

"I'd keep walking if I were you."

Kader continued standing there as the man stepped closer to them, they commanded their feet to move, but somewhere between their brain and feet was a disconnect because they were not moving at all. Clearing their throat, hoping to ease some of the anxiety that had exploded through their body, Kader whispers to the man, "You are bleeding." While pointing to their own cheek. Slowly, as to not catch Magnus off guard and cause him to attack them, they reach into their bag and pull out one of the scarves they purchased.

A shaky hand reaches out between the two, a white scarf, waving in the wind, symbolic of a surrender.



























































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE CAPTAIN.















scroll

LEXIS



THE CAPTAIN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




GUILTY AGAIN OMG JUST GET A LOBOTOMY
















LOCATION




THE BAZAAR !!












MENTIONS




Rayna










INTERACTS




















TRAVELIN' MAN — DEAD POET S.
































































scroll






WHEN GOD TOOK




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






























CHAPTER FOUR.

Rayna had disappeared.

It tightens his chest with an invented cold, and air freights with uneasiness that he has brought indirect harm to yet another crew-member. It was a knife sheath of paranoia even before the events of Algol, and now after the rogue stabbings, bullets and murder he'd shepherded them all into, the scar is still aching like a half-closed wound.

Flaring violence thins the whereabouts of Rayna into the background of his focus, attention pilfered to a bottle shattering on the timbered wall behind him. The innards of the ugly barrel are gutted from muttering peace and false civility.

“Pardon me,” he tries for the bartender’s attention with an accusatory point towards where he’d last seen Mike and his associates. “They started it.” The noise of the brawling tavern tramples any chance of conversation, and stomps Lex’s soft volume like crushed powder scattered into forgotten corners.

He notices the moving weight on the floorboards beneath him, the flexible shift is not much different from a ship, and he turns to find a surging Mike forced back by a rabid Rayna tethered at his neck. It escalates with a strike to her face, and Lex lurches a step to go to her aid.

But like a deer stood out of a thicket of trees and waiting for lead, another’s hand clamps Lex’s shirt in a grimy fist to take him off orbit and steady him for a punch.

The thin one from the table. Lex has enough time to recognise the offender before clapping them hard across the head with an empty bowl. For an individual built like the minecraft skeleton, that is all that is needed to send them crumpling to the floor with the guidance of gravity.

VICTORY.

SUFFER.

Ease passes through him when the voice he recognises— and the one he had been longing to hear over the tumult —reaches both his shoulders and ears. She commands him to move in a string of noise and he heeds the urgency to scramble after her out of the tavern and through the street.

Their chests are rising rapidly when they find a break of respite, and for a man still wallowing in the guilt of a failed expedition, he feared Rayna would be angry for getting her involved like combat-hungry sword-fodder. He has fallen short too many times in the past month and doesn't wish to cause more harm.

“You really know how to piss a guy off, Lex!”

Her levity catches him off-guard, and he is too preoccupied regaining both breath and composure to staunch against the slap hitting his shoulder. It jolts him like a mare, strong Lex, The Lexiathan, before turning eerily still under her hold.

The pause of it feels too long, but Rayna has made no motion to do to him what she did to Mike the Man. This menacing hold must be a hand of friendship.

Or keeping him hostage. Help.

It is best not to linger on that thought.

“I–” The violence of the tavern has rearranged the captain, and with a twist of confusion his brows are furrowing. “I wanted to enhance group cohesion by offering an amusing sentiment. How marvellous to share a name with my animal associate, yes?” There was no intent to anger anyone and Lex is yet to understand the reason for that ire.

It is easier to think social missteps aren’t of his own making, are instead because of some external influence planned from the start. But now it is a hole he has dug himself, and Lex must remember he is not the kind of person manufactured for building friendships. There is no point in finding blame in others, not when Rayna now boasts the accolade of his misconduct.

“I am unharmed.” He responded flatly while mapping her with his own assessment. “Your face–” He’d raised a hand as if needing to point it out to her, but half-met with good sense and another half of doubt stopped whatever spontaneous surge of bold familiarity had overcome him. Not his place to play doctor, and without blood he can settle that she probably does not require medical attention.

What a failure this night has been, provoking a bar fight and putting Rayna into a hazardous situation through his own miscalculations. But keeping a semblance of normalcy, the woman is rummaging through a pouch and its sudden relevance feels unsettling.

Lex shifts slightly, an apprehensive rustle as to why she has taken interest with the little bag. When she smiles and proffers it to the air with a claim of winning, an arctic cold seeps through him completely.

A betrayal of urgency, it’s a fast movement as he snatches the pouch from her hand and sifts through it himself. The silent confession that Lex does not trust her declaration of victory, he turns away to count it once, twice, and his unfortunate fate is sealed by this little bag of luck.

The turn to Rayna is slow, the return of the pouch even slower, and only after he has patted his shirt down and salvaged a calm profile with a cleared throat does he speak.

“Very well, Miss Mallor.” Now would be an opportunity to congratulate on her victory, but with a stiff upper lip and eyes that once again refuse to level with hers, a petty Lexis must honor a promise. "Allowing you to lose would go against my principles as a gentleman." Ah. Of course. Lex lost on purpose. Obviously. All according to plan. Yes.

He turns to make for the Bazaar, an ideal place to nurse his loss with new distractions. Weaving back through the crowds till they melt into a molasses drag of shoppers haggling for better prices, stalls rise up to meet them in weathered wood and patchwork alcoves. Can smell saffron and gunpowder, and he pauses only briefly to look at a table of carved wooden figures, small statuettes whittled into sea creatures.

He does not need anything from Antares so he keeps moving, but he is searching for something important through the rich and jewel-toned fabrics.

A stall of fish-heads chilied and salted against quickly melting ice, it is a grab of half water when he passes by and takes some into his hand. It burns briefly, but pledges no sharpness when blunted with melt. He unfastens the jabot from his neck and wraps the ice in the fabric as taut as he can, then offers the white shell towards Rayna as meagre collateral for her bruise.

“This is not the reward of our bet,” he clarifies and there is an interlude as searches for the right words. Always a problem to convey what he wants to say, the disconnection is like rain on bones, leaking through the skeleton. “Please do not engage in conflict on my behalf again.”

When sheared from context, it would be easy to assume as anger. There is both guilt and gratitude, but the grueling part of knowing someone is to be the cause of their harm. Inevitable, maybe, when he wears a title like Captain. It is not lost on him that he is sure to bring that fate to many in the weeks to come.

He follows Rayna while he awaits her to locate something of interest. There are questions he isn’t sure if he is allowed to ask. They aren’t exactly friends, but it has been weeks since he’d considered the second-mate a stranger or adversary, either. Amicable enough to put faith in, foolish enough to fight for him.

He now realizes he does not know what Rayna likes outside of smiling, pointy knives, and mean soup.

It is a combination that is not at all comforting.

“Have you identified what item you desire as your prize?” He tamps the momentum of something petty riling to the reminder that he had lost. "I see soup ahead, though I cannot verify if it is mean enough to make you cry."






























♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE ACROBAT.






























scroll


PERCY






GRIFFIN









































MOOD








DRUNK, PENSIVE, FLIRTY























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








ANTARES BAR

























MENTIONS








mentions!




















INTERACTS








Nifty Nifty Cadence





































MAMMAMIA — MÅNESKIN.
































































































































scroll












WHO AM I WHEN I FEEL?








What dies in me when I am me?





























































SEASON TWO CHAPTER I.


Sober, drunk, or flat out inebriated, there wasn’t a single state where Percy would fail to perform at his best. Years of training had carved the instructions into every cell in his body, making it impossible for him to fail. The Sirocco troupe had taught him that the only secret to success was pure, honest hard work and dedication. Yet it was at times like this, with his world spinning as he balanced on one hand atop the waxy, liquor coated bar, that Percy felt raw, unfiltered talent flowing through his blood.

Talent was the only explanation for why he had soared through the ranks faster than all his peers. Talent was the reason he had fans flocking to the circus to see his act alone. But talent couldn’t answer to his accident. The acrid taste of sabotage flooded his mouth. Percy twisted his body upright in an end to the brief routine put on for the bar.

Cheers and laughter erupted in the small space. He bowed, but the admiration was bittersweet. It did little to fill the gaping hole he now noticed in his chest. Had it always been there? Maybe the lights and glittery costumes had been enough to ignore it, layers of temporary fabric woven over each other to block out the cold draft that would flow through.

A familiar pair of violet eyes met with his own. The warm vortex of lilac pulled him in, away from the cheers and applause of the bar, away from the gnawing pit of nihility that called to him from within.

Percy slid from the waxed wooden surface, landing with a light grunt in the open space next to Cadence. The heat of the bar stoked higher with each breath exhaled from the growing crowd. His temple glistened in torchlight, a thin river of sweat lining the side of his face.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite heiress in all of Sirocco,” He smiled. Percy slung an arm around Cadence’s shoulder. He brought himself down to her eye level as he leaned in, eyes half lidded and glassy from the amount of wine he’d already indulged in. “You know I’d do anything for you, Cady.”

He glanced back and forth briefly. “But--you wouldn’t happen to have a pen would you?”

Percy shrugged after a beat, his grip on her shoulder tightening as he began rocking their bodies side to side. “Y’know, I’ll do you one better,” words rushed to tumble over themselves the longer he talked, slurring over top of one another until he began skipping them all together.

The acrobat gestured to the bartender with a sticky, wine coated hand to bring forward another round. He slid one of the metal goblets in Cadence’s direction. “Now, it’s a party,” Percy said. His smile was lazy, white canines dripping with honey.




























































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE DUCHESS















scroll

공작부인



VIOLETTA




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




Irritated Determination











LOCATION




ANTARES












MENTIONS

































































scroll






Be Yourself,




you don't make history by being liked.






























CHAPTER 4

They had just finished boarding, their luggage put away and a quick rest in their quarters before a message came to Monte, to which he delivered to Violetta. It was a small bit of paper, crumpled then flattened and folded, as if someone stuffed it in there pocket as safe keeping. When Violetta unfolded the paper, messy handwriting she didn't recognize was written on the slip. From what she could make out, it mentioned a tip about her missing goods and an informant in a nearby alleyway. Violetta sighed and handed the paper over to Monte, who read it over briefly before giving her a glance. She knew what his eyes said, and she only waved it off and stood, giving a groan as she stretched.

"Madame, I highly suggest not going. It is an obvious trap and judging by how you just waved me off, you know it too."

Monte attempted to plead with his mistress, to which she ignored his words and began to get ready. She knew it was suspicious, the information came to her not by bird, but by courier and on shabby, crumpled paper. However, it was a lead into who was behind her missing goods, and that was something she was not about to ignore no matter what. After prepping herself, she turned to Monte with eyes filled with fire, indicating that no matter how much he talked it would always fall on deft ears and solid determination. Monte sighed and nodded, stepping to the side to grab his weapons and following Violetta out of their quarters.

They were once again back onto the streets of Antares and walking through the crowds to get to where the paper told them to go. The more they weaved through the people, the more thankful Violetta was for leaving her money stashed away on the ship. People kept bumping into her, and the feeling of fingers gliding over her garments indicated that she was an obvious target for pickpockets. It would've been smart to change into appropriate street ware to blend in, but instead she chose to wear an outfit more suited for combat and quick escape. She held a small dagger on her hip and a few tucked away in various other places as well. She was no stranger to shady dealings, it came with her territory, but there was never a time not to be too cautious.

After a bit of walking, the two managed to arrive at the end of the alley. It was dimly lit and damp with a few other people occupying it. Violetta looked at Monte, whom had his hand tensed around his weapon, before turning back to the two beings down the alley. They looked to be confronting some Antares thugs, and didn't seem to be from around here. Could they be the people she was suppose to have met with? Taking in a few deep breaths, she stretched her neck and made her way down the alley, shouting at the thugs to leave them alone.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE KINGSLAYER.















scroll

船井 蓮



FUNAI REN




ㅎㅎ















MOOD




UNDIAGNOSED
















LOCATION




TALLULAH > OUTSIDE WITH TALLULAH ;3












MENTIONS




TALLULAH, GRAHAM






















CRY — CIGARETTES AFTER SEX.
































































scroll






THE RED SEA IS




named for the dead algae within it
maybe I too am red for all the
slaughter carried within me






























CHAPTER FOUR.

“Try it, and I’ll gut you.”

Features scrunch into a heinous pout, undeterred by the chilly threat.

Jail for Tallulah.

Jail for a thousand years.

“That’s not a number,” Ren mumbles, “‘ts actually worse than a number.”

Fighting words is what she’d met him with, and sad dinner plate eyes continue to stare in wait. It’s a skill innately born: the art of being annoying. Through a childhood of a grabbing mother to get him away from food that doesn’t belong to him and the copious arms of the law that sought to restrain him so, he was quite accustomed to being punished for trespassing and sometimes just existing.

“Nice chatting with you, but I have things to do before the Leviathan leaves. So do everyone a favor and try not to make this room smell worse than it already does.”

“But you didn’t answer!”
He cried out with an ailed whine on a pitch to make dogs recoil, and he is already struggling from the seat to tail after her. She is nothing gentle and nothing statuary, but she doesn't frighten him. Has acknowledged the opportunities she’s had to ward him off with an ired stab and decides that he must be a favorite. One may even argue, a beloved.

He knows this game, the beats and baits and blurs and bends into crowds, and he has already divined that she is a fellow borrower. The kind of greed enthroned and enshrined at the front of their thoughts; an entity not quite like a ghost, more like a king, and one must bow to the patron of profit.

She prowls like something in tall grass, and Ren is like a piteous bull in a china shop.

“What kind of things?”

He follows Tallulah, a bored younger sibling with no better option to pass the time.

“Like stealing?

The chirp of his voice lands in an unlucky silence, and the tavern is frozen over with enough cold to scrounge the flushed heat from his skin. He stops, nothing and nobody moves, and the smile on Ren’s face fades in tandem with the final tether of jaunty music. It feels like the world’s very axis has shifted underneath his feet.

A slow painful swallow to soothe the closing salt of his throat, and Ren considers if he should become religious.

“Heh,” an airy breath, he holds his hands close to his chest and passes a skittering gaze over the patrons. They are delayed smears, but in the pregnant silence and impressionist blurs he can see some rising from their tables to steel against the declaration of a thief. Attention snagged on the hook of growing intimidation in the tavern, he knows none of them are any better, but none would take kindly to having their pockets pilfered.

When he gets the confidence to inch his neck and ration a nervous side eye at the man Tallulah had stolen from, he finds them staring right at him.

Nosy little man.

Ren’s lip twitches at him in annoyance.

Rar.

Get a hobby.

Lying had never been Ren’s best showpiece, especially with the burdens of all this attention. Desperation cloys thick in the heavy air, but he must work through the insurgence of unease to steady these vicious looking folk.

“She was stealing… my heart!” The coverup is clumsy, but so too are his arms. He goes to throw his hands up in a ta-da motion and hits the same man in the face. He flinches from the surprise impact, and the unprovoked strike is all that is needed to snap the tautness of the bar’s atmosphere into a fight.

Ren brawled as much as he ran his mouth, which one can infer, is often. But the opponent can spare a little more speed than a drowsy drunk. A punch for the touch is not a phantom blue, and when Ren hits the floor he knows the split skin of his cheekbone is sure to bloom a watercolour bruise in upcoming days.

It’s a concerted effort not to just stay there and act dead— a very mature suggestion from a very mature man —but with the reminder Tallulah is still around and may need help (she wouldn’t but this is Ren and he thinks he is important), he forces himself to rub the blood from his face and hurriedly crawl under the closest table. Shadowed by lamplight and manoeuvring beneath the furniture like an intrusive pet hunting dinner crumbs, the floor is suspiciously sticky beneath his palms.

In passing, something prompts him to seize a seated stranger by the ankle as a threat. There is a shout and yank of the limb, then scrambling noises as Ren crawls wildly away from the Grab Zone. He emerges on the other side of the table and climbs to his feet, dishevelled and warm but without pursuit, and finds Tallulah in the midst of the bar’s riot.

“We go now!” He hooks his arm through hers, a chain of thieves. “Oh! Wait wait waiApplies the brake of one foot with a sudden jerk that pulls Tallulah back a sharp step, then snatches a handful of peanuts from a glass dish.

Now we go!”

They are just about to make their escape when a new entrant to the bar blocks their way through the door. In a panic, Ren, like usual, allowed his mouth to speak before thinking.

“HOSTAGE!” He screams at Graham and grabs them by the scruff of their clothing, shoving them back from the entrance of the tavern and into the street to keep moving. He is not sure what spurred this sudden twist of crime to hold a stranger captive as they flee from the bar, but Ren now has two (2) curly meow meows.






























♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE AMENDED.






























scroll


RAYNA






MALLOR









































MOOD








GUILTY :(

































LOCATION








ANTARES STREETS > BAZAAR

























MENTIONS








LEXIS, KNOX, AMELIA





















INTERACTS








































KING AND LIONHEART — 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.

For a long time Lexis was an enigma, Raynas friendliness could only do so much when she couldn’t tell what another was feeling. Interacting with Lexis was pure guesswork. It often left her wondering if the man's expression truly had changed, or if he thought nothing at all.

That is, until he snatched the pouch from her hand. Then she felt pretty confident.

She snorted as she lifted her hood back over her face, her current amusement not cloaking the knowledge that they were in Antares. There was a prideful smile on her face and she took the strap from Lexis’ hand. Slowly, it seemed, she was peeling back the layers of The Captain.

“Oh, yes of course.” She nodded along to his words and practically skipped alongside him as they made their way to the Bazaar.

Rayna fucking hated Antares. It was loud and filled with all the wrong things. Just being here stirred something black in her gut, but regardless of what memories this place stirred up, the Bazaar was always a place of fun. The few days Rayna had free were spent in the Bazaar, walking up and down the streets until the stall owners realized she wasn’t buying anything and screamed at her to leave.

It also helped that Antares was obsessed with gold, a trait she likely picked up from the place. Her eyes scanned the many goods, golden bangles, belts, clothing, bottles, and paintings. She’d get herself a pair of gold earrings if she could, but she learned long ago that getting into a fight with heavy hoops on your ears was a spell for disaster.

Perhaps she should get something strange, just to confuse the Captain. But what would phase him? His eyes had lingered on some tiny sea creatures earlier, information Rayna mentally filed away for the future. For some reason, she thought he would prefer things like swords, or fancy jackets. Things associated with the sea seemed a little too on-brand for him.

Maybe he would be perplexed if she had him buy a statue of a land creature instead, like a bear or squirrel. Maybe the land is the Captain's true kryptonite.

She watched in silence as Lexis grabbed the ice and eventually handed over the cold cloth- all to aid in a bruise she had already forgotten about. She almost rejected it outright, the bruise would heal in a few days, there was no need. But his words stopped her.

“Please do not engage in conflict on my behalf again.”

“...Thanks.”

She walked the Bazaar in silence, mind no longer on the bet.

Rayna was the one who pissed Michael off in the first place. She was the one who put Lexis in danger with no thought just to win a silly bet. Not to mention she was a former member of the Carmine Corsairs. As unimportant as she was to them, she was to be killed on sight. By choosing to step off The Leviathan with him, she has put him in danger.

She doesn’t like keeping this part of her past a secret. She’d almost confessed it to Knox multiple times- and had spent the better part of her time on the ship with arms up around Amelia.

She shouldn’t have come out here with him. Rayna may thrive in the panic of bar fights and bets, but it didn’t take a genius to know that wasn’t what Lexis enjoyed. ‘Please do not engage in conflict on my behalf’ my ass. What the fuck else was she supposed to do.

“I see soup ahead, though I cannot verify if it is mean enough to make you cry.”

Rayna abruptly stopped and turned towards him, face pensive as she avoided meeting his eyes.

“If we’re being honest, here. I might have had a small part to play in Mikes… anger towards you earlier. So the fault isn’t entirely yours.” A pause, “Sharing a name with someone's pet might be amusing, but being called less emotionally mature than a monkey would hurt anyone's pride.”

Confident enough, she met his eyes and once again slapped her hand on his shoulder. Resuming their walk down the Bazaar side by side.

“As for the conflict, us crew should stick together, yeah?” The idea of not helping a friend out was utterly ridiculous, anyway. “‘Can’t just stand by as a comrades getting attacked, it’s not in my nature! Just think of it as team bonding or something.” She laughed.

She pulled back on Lexis’ shoulder to signal they should stop and pointed towards an item hung at a stall- a silver pin of a lobster.

“Hey, buy me that.”


























































♡coded by uxie♡
 










THE HORN.






























scroll


Macklin






Lowe








ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








John Wick Mode.























OUTFIT


























LOCATION








Antares alleyway near the bazaar.

























MENTIONS






























INTERACTS








Lara, jones573 jones573 Violetta & Monte Daddy Dream Daddy Dream





































BLACK SHEEP —
DOROTHY.

































































































































scroll












I'm living for








Giving
The devil his due.
And I'm burnin'.





























































CHAPTER FOUR.


(TW for blood, gore, violence, and death)

The thug with the hatchet swung first. Torchlight glinted off its sinister edge as it cut the air in a diagonal arc. Macklin hit the ground, rough cobbles grating against him as he dove into a somersault. There was a scrape of blade against stone chased by a yell of pain as he jammed a fist into the meat of the man’s lower leg. A dark stain seeped from trousers as the spikes along his knuckles pierced. The cry crescondoed into an animal scream as Beanpole was pumped full of platypus venom. He crumpled even before Macklin withdrew the spikes, the handle of the hatchet ringing against the ground as it fell from a limp grasp. There was a flurry of footfalls as his friend rushed forward at Macklin’s back. From his knees, he spun around, whipping a leg out that caught his foe by the ankle. Teapot floundered for balance but wasn’t downed. He took a step and windmilled his arms, giving Macklin a precious half-second to rise. The bulky man took a swing with his crowbar as Macklin closed, but he stepped inside the strike and threw up an arm to block. A jab to the throat dispatched him. Blood spurted from the tiny holes punched into his neck like a macabre watering can, and the alley was filled with the sounds of two grown men rolling around on the ground in thought-deadening agony.

Platypus venom wasn’t lethal, but it was no joke. Macklin used it when he needed to incapacitate a person, and quickly. It tended to lose its potency in a matter of minutes when exposed to open air. When his intent was to kill, he used spiky knuckles coated in octopus venom, but he figured that dead bodies in the middle of an Antares alleyway would draw more attention than men who’d simply picked the wrong fight. The downed thugs were squalling up a storm, and his priority was to escape back to his inn before they attracted nosy onlookers. In the distance, incongruently jolly music from a fiddle drifted from the bazaar.

He stepped over the body of the fallen opponent with the crowbar. A rat skittered across the cobbles, disappearing into shadow. He looked toward the long-haired crone whom he had followed into the alley. She had frozen in shock exactly where he’d found her, probably knowing that she could not run away fast enough to save her life if it came down to that. It was true that he had defended her from a mugging, but he wondered if it was wise to leave alive a witness who would, in all likeliness, remember his face if questioned by local authorities. A good portion of his work for the King dealt in the disposal of individuals who’d simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, be it manners or a misguided sense of knightly duty, he called, “Are you okay, ma’am?” Not that I have the time or intention of doing something about it if you’re not, he thought cynically. He lingered at a distance as he asked the question, not wanting to give her any closer a look at him than she’d already seen, and his voice was largely drowned out by the keening of the two grunts at his feet. She didn’t immediately answer his question, which he took for her not hearing him. Stifling a roll of his eyes, he repeated it a little louder and slower.

Behind him, halfway down the alley, there came a noise that Macklin would recognize anywhere. The silvery scrape of metal on metal. A sword being drawn. He spun and, in a moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness, almost tripped on Teapot’s fetal figure. Macklin righted himself against an alley wall and pulled his gloved hand back in disgust when some slimy, unknown moisture seeped through it. The dismaying thought that his newly four-fingered hand might be infected before he could seek proper medical attention was a fleeting thought in his mind, paling to the possibility of immediate danger. Two silhouettes were swallowed in semi-darkness twenty yards away, blocking the mouth of the alley. Judging by the willowy frame of one and the broad shoulders of the other, it was a woman and a man. The man’s hand lay at his hip, having dragged a sword halfway out of its scabbard.

“Come any closer and you will join your friends in a hell of my design,” Macklin said levelly, nudging Teapot’s fallen body with his foot for emphasis. “Leave now, and you can walk out of this alley. Stay, and you’ll be crawling out, if the rats don’t get you first.”

A door to his left exploded open. Before he could react, there was a dark shape glimpsed in the corner of his eye hurtling toward him. He took half a step before it was upon him, knocking him off his feet. His back arched as something sharp raked the space just above his belt, and whiteness surged in his vision. Macklin’s forehead smacked against the opposite alley wall, and the gauze of dizziness that fell over him wasn’t enough to stop a full-body shiver as fingers of air grazed the wound on his torso. He was on his hands and knees when a booted foot connected with his hip, flipping him onto his side with another burst of agony. His hand brushed against Beanpole’s cheek, and through the medley of pain, he somehow found the instinct to cringe away from the touch.

A hand was reaching down toward him, and Macklin lashed out wildly, seizing it by the wrist and elbow. With all the strength and momentum he could muster, he yanked on the arm, taking his opponent to the ground with his legs clinched around a barrel chest. He cracked an elbow against a face, one, two, three times, until the attacker’s nose erupted in a fountain of blood. His assailant’s fight faded just enough that Macklin could flip over and bury a punch to the ribs, the spikes sinking in beneath bony grooves. Hands shifted to cover the new wound, and Macklin landed another punch, skewering his opponent through the eyes. Blood flew up and spattered his face as a scream deafened him.

His ears ringing, Macklin scrambled up from the still-warm corpse. Unable to touch his face with the venom coating his brass knuckles, he tossed his head to swish the dripping hair out of his eyes. A storm of footsteps on stairs beat from inside the building that his assailant had emerged from, and Macklin played an awkward game of hopscotch over the now three prone bodies in the alley as he backed away from the door. He resisted the impulse to stanch the bloodflow from his back or at least probe the wound to see how bad it was. Six men with grime-streaked faces and cheap Antares flash poured out of the door. Each of them bore some gaudy red affectation. A bandana here, plaid vest there. Carmine Corsairs, just like their three fallen friends.

A slender white man with long sideburns and rubies adorning his neck and wrists pushed his way to the front of the group. “It would appear the duchess has brought her entourage,” he drawled in a surprisingly posh accent, giving Macklin a disdainful once-over that made him immediately suspect the man was nobility. Or former nobility. His flinty gaze flicked to the carpet of bodies that lined the alley. “The two we sent at the old woman were grunts, but then you killed Randall. We liked Randall. And the Corsairs do not let loyal servants go unavenged.”

Duchess? Macklin thought, too flummoxed to formulate a reply. Was the raggedy-looking crone he had saved actually nobility? The ringleader of the group had referred to the old woman and the duchess as if they were two separate people, and Macklin remembered the silhouetted figures at the mouth of the alley. What specifically caused him to remember them was the squeal that came from behind him followed by a catcall and raucous laughter. The shuffle of footsteps and grunts as combat presumably ensued. The Corsairs were boxing them in from both sides. All except for the old woman, who was on the other side of the group of thugs looking at Macklin like his head on a pike would make a nice household adornment.

“Kill the spares, but take the lady alive,” the ringleader commanded. “The Baron would like his goods relatively undamaged.”



























































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THE AGNATE.






























scroll


VYLAN RAGNAR










RAGNAR








ㅎㅎ






























MOOD








so amused























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.

While Adrian may have been playing a game of chess, Vylan was playing his own game of imagining how in the Hell a man like the one in front of him ended up in his bar. Every day was different in the tavern, but Vylan could confidently say that this was completely out of the ordinary, and incredibly amusing. His observation was not, in fact, astute - Vylan wondered if Adrian realised how obvious it was that he did not even remotely belong in the place in which he found himself. Vylan, for a moment, wondered if Adrian was already drunk and pretending to be some sort of nobleman.

He shook the thought away, certain that no drunkard would be able to speak as eloquently as Adrian spoke. He grinned at Adrian's introduction, fighting the urge to laugh. He wondered if Adrian expected his own introduction to be half as long; if he did, he was going to be disappointed.
"Vylan,"
he answered simply, with a nod. Adrian's full name may have had importance somewhere, but Vylan's didn't anywhere, so he found it unnecessary to include it.

Vylan busied himself with moving a couple of patrons down, grabbing empty glasses and wiping up spills, but didn't stray too far from Adrian; this conversation was far too amusing to leave, especially if he didn't have to.
"Empyra makes sense. Don't know if I've opened a single bottle of wine in the past three months. Until now, of course,"
he glanced down at Adrian's glass, certain it was nowhere near close to his standards.

"Missing your city of mountains and infinity?"
He asked, giving Adrian a small grin and hoping it translated that he was only joking and not a complete idiot.
"Pardon my presumptuousness,"
he bet Adrian wasn't expecting him to know any words with so many letters,
"But you don't exactly seem... comfortable."





























































♡coded by uxie♡
 





THE VIXEN.















scroll

FOURNIER



SCARLETT




ㅎㅎ















mood




Startled, interested, flirty
















LOCATION




Streets of Antares











MENTIONS












INTERACTS




Milly


















Who's Afraid of Little Old Me? - Taylor Swift
































































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FEMININE RAGE




I have never felt this before.
They tell me it's called anger.
It feels like sadness
set on fire































CHAPTER FOUR.

Scarlett always knew her family to be well off - nice clothes, more than enough food, a spacious house. But somehow, being around royalty made it seem like she was merely plain. Just the daughter of a nothing viscount from a regularly plundered minor “city”. But the large sum before her was enough to make her jaw slacken ever so slightly. This was merely a trinket her mother owned, and yet it broke out into so many little gold coins. How much could this buy? She wasn’t sure. She’d never had to purchase anything before.

However, she couldn’t look like she was that stupid, so she scraped the pile into a leather pouch before backing away with her most saccharine smile. “Pleasure doing business with you.” That’s what her father used to say, right?

She slipped her leather pouch into her pack before slinging it back over her shoulder and stepping away from the booth. Her stomach grumbled in protest, reminding her what she had originally been looking for in the first place.

Food.

Maybe a meat pie? Or some sort of fruit crisp? Mouth watering, she scanned the grimy stalls for a sign of something edible.

Something flashed in the corner of her vision, and suddenly, hands seized her shoulders. She yelped. This was it. The end of Scarlett Fournier. A pirate had discovered her and was going to slit her throat. Heart pounding a million miles a minute and entire frame trembling, she found herself staring at a young woman, roughly around her age.

What the-

“Hello! I’m Milly! I couldn’t help but observe that interaction you had with that large man earlier, and-” The girl - Milly - suddenly released her iron grip on Scarlett’s shoulders (she was strong, and that was oddly attractive), her arms falling to her sides. In fact, the first thing Scarlett observed, once the initial shock wore off, was Milly’s figure. She was absolutely stunning, with pretty blue eyes and flaxen blonde hair, and -

She pulled her gaze up, filed her observations away for later, and moved her hands to grip the straps of her pack as Milly plowed on. Scarlett was always told that yapped incessantly, but this girl might give her a run for her money.

“I have a proposition for you! You see, I was attempting to buy a reagent flask but I was five solari short, and the man was quite rude and wouldn’t budge! I am not asking to borrow money of course, but perhaps you could help me haggle the price down?” A pause. Scarlett wondered for a moment if Milly might pass out. Then the young woman took a sudden, giant breath and kept right on going.

“I’ll admit I don’t have much I could do in return. Perhaps… perhaps I could make you a nice perfume!? Making them long-lasting is quite easy as long as you have the right fixatives- oh, it would be tough to make in just a few hours. I’m on a time crunch, you see, I am taking the Leviathan-”

What luck! They were going to be on the same ship. That had to mean good things would be coming her way soon.

“Well, I’m sure I could fix something up for you. If you’re willing!” Milly punctuated the last statement by placing her hands on her hips and flashing a brilliant smile.

Scarlett’s brain spun for a moment. The woman had noticed her prowess at the stalls and was requesting her help with it. And she was offering - perfume? Scarlett resisted the urge to smell herself. She couldn’t be that foul, right? Not when everything around her smelled just as dreadful. Her gut twisted. Oh god, if she was and she didn’t realize…

Focus.

A little haggling in exchange for some perfume, so she didn’t smell like something that crawled out of the sewers of Belcastel, was an easy exchange. It’s not like she’d get access to something like that until she reached Siroc.

The vixen steeled herself with a breath and turned on the tried and true Fournier charm. "The Leviathan? I booked passage on that ship too, so it seems like Fortune herself is smiling upon us.” She made a mental note to leave an extra offering later tonight.

“Milly, right? I’m Scarlett.” She held out her hand with a grin. “And you’re in luck! I was just on my way to find something edible, but I’m also in the mood to barter with some uppity criminals. Which way is the flask you were looking for? Also, how much do you need taken off? Just so I know what I'm up against here and if I might need to use some... specific means of persuasion if you know what I mean.”

She winked. This could be fun.





























♡coded by uxie♡
 

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