Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[lyn.]

THE CHEMIST.

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MILLY

BYRTHA

MOOD

SCARED, ARMED

OUTFIT

I WOKE UP LIKE THIS

LOCATION

THE LEVIATHAN DECK

MENTIONS

GRAHAM

INTERACTS

@qunqun

SPACE GIRL — FRANCES FOREVER

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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.

Cut the durian out? Why would she do that!?

“What’s wrong with durians? They’re very sweet! Do you not like them?”

Durians were one of Milly’s favorite fruits! Maybe this guy wasn’t a good choice for a test subject. If he didn’t like durains, it would make sense he wouldn’t like the smell! Maybe she should go for a second opinion. There’s got to be someone on this ship who loves durians like she does, right?

Oh, but this fruit-hating stranger was friendly enough to help her and give her some advice! Milly didn’t have enough fingers to count the amount of times she’s been ignored when asking for someone's opinion. Half of the time they would wave her off and say ‘no solicitors’. Given, she was trying to sell them things half the time. It was still very disheartening!

“I don’t want you to feel obliged, though. I brought some already.”

Milly waved her hands. “Oh no, I don’t like owing people! No worries, if you don’t like durians I can always use something else! Or is it fruits you don’t like in general? Do you have a preference? Flowers? Oils? Even certain alcohols have a nice smell to them! I don’t have any right now, but I can acquire some in the future to suit-”

She would have ignored his nudge if it weren't for his pointing, or more specifically what he was pointing at.

“Is the leviathan some kind of enemy of the Carmines?”

The Carmines? Who were the Carmines again? That sounded familiar.

Her thoughts went back to the women she spoke to before heading to Antares. Ah! He probably meant the Carmine Corsairs! Who were they again? An organization of some sort?

Graham turned towards her with a worried gaze. “You know any place safe from… whatever that boat's gonna do to us?”

It dawned on her.

“OH!” She let out a drawn out gasp as she gripped the stranger's sleeve.

“OHHHHHH PIRATES!” She exclaimed, very, very, loudly. “You’re right, Durian Guy! Pirates, what if they steal our stuff! Oh no! I won’t survive if I lose anything! I have no money, the perfumes are all I have! We have to go protect my stuff before they steal it!”

She released her hold and practically ran down to her cabin.

“I assure you if we get out of this alright I’ll do anything you want!” She announced, already blanking on making sure she was being followed in the first place.

Milly slammed open her cabin door and was relieved to see everything untouched. Which. Why would it be, Milly? They haven’t even gotten on the ship yet.

Stepping over the large messy piles she somehow managed to make in a single night, Milly reached one of her suitcases near the back of the room.

“We can stay in here and wait out any attacks. They are attacking, right?” Maybe they were just passing by! Wishful thinking. “Should we barricade the door? Or look for weapons? I don’t have any weapons, would a bottle work?” Or acid.

She lifted a metal ladle that was one stir away from breaking off at the neck. “Would this work?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Atamita]

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  how she's feeling...

  
  
  
  

  nauseous, anxious, "don't wanna die like this"
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  what she's wearing...

  
  
  
  

  black dress shirt and brown skirt

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  where she's at...

  
  
  
  

  the deck
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  in the conversation...

  
  
  
  

  @CrimsonInk - Dahlia (The Descendant)
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

agnes

the optimist

Reaper.

A gasp shudders into her as her hand held her chest.

Ship.

A languish sigh that sounded more like a cry of agony came from her.

Incoming.

The burdening knowledge suffocates her as thoughts of dying as who she is— a pathetic moron who shall be known by this so forth scared her. The thoughts were nauseating but... she didn't want to die alone with her thoughts. Her arm slams her belongings onto her bed before another thought could catch up to her. Her legs shakes as every ounce of energy in her body has been robbed to fuel the monster in her mind: anxiety.

Her body pushes out through the door, relying on her body weight as she begins to talk on the deck, uncaring if the door to her cabin was closed or not. Her head hurts, taking her attention away from what's in front of her as she trips. Her breath attempts to breathe in whatever oxygen it can but nothing can take away the suffocation inside of her. She sterns her steps as she walks resolutely in front of her-

Slam!

Her breathe hitches as the sudden collision knocks the wind out of her.

"Hey you, are you hurt?"

Agnes winces as she attempts to wave off the woman's concern while her other hand holds her face for a moment. The stillness in Agnes' stance brings the headache back as muffled voices shroud around her as she can barely make out

"pardon me"

and

"you can tell me anything."

After a what seems like an eternity of refreshing blinks and sighs, Agnes looks at the woman in front of her as if seeing someone she knows again.

I haven't seen you in such a long time. You'd usually send letters...

Those familiar dark brown eyes with hints of gold like the stars she stares at and soft wavy locks like the ones she'd used to braid as a kid. A thin layer of tear well up in her eyes, blurring her vision once more,

"Mama?"

.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[parhelion]

THE MARIONETTE.

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NEMO

THE
MARIONETTE

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

not vibing, not thriving, mayhaps a secret third thing

LOCATION

Quarterdeck

MENTIONS

Lexis, Monte

INTERACTS

Daddy Dream

COLOURBLIND— HLH.

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FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE

Our vision of the future's getting blurred
Between the black and white
Naming every shade of grey
Has left us colorblind

CHAPTER FOUR.

Living with no sun is no good for you, they’d been told once. And yet, years on from leaving the Cascades, the sun’s warm presence remains somewhat of an object of abhorrence for Nemo. The heat of the morning light was far too bright, far too oppressive, had them squinting through the blinding glare in a way that moonlight—the far superior light—never requires. How can this be good for them?

The simplest thing to do would be to retreat underneath, back to the safety of the deep hull and the companion they’d wandered away from, but he can only stay low so long without feeling claustrophobic. Besides, they knew when to make themselves scarce. Melchior had things to do. Not everything was about them.

So instead, the boy endured. They ignored the way that the heat—in conjunction with the light tip-and-tilt of the vessel on the water and the hunger gnawing the pit of their belly—made them feel vaguely lightheaded, keeping as still and out of the way of anyone as they can as they wandered up the deck.

There was a buzzing in their head. Today, it had quieted to feel somewhat manageable. Or maybe it was simply a product of the time; the static of their own mind has always been louder in the dark. Here on the main deck, the cawing of seagulls, carried on the sea-brine wind, made a valiant effort to drown out the noise in their head.

Years ago, he’d learned how to pick out where shadows will rest, and how to stick to them for the sanctity that such shade provides. They found themself in a shaded area on the deck near the main mast, exercising an attempt to see the appeal of the harsh light, rather than simply endure it.

There are some things Melchior cannot teach him. Finding the good amongst the struggle is the most fundamental of them. It’s the artist in Nemo: that fundamental, internalized understanding of how shapes and forms contrast and work with each other.

The early morning sunlight kisses bright hues across the weathered planks of the deck, bringing out the deep browns of the grain to create a rich patchwork of highlights and knots and grooves. They traveled their gaze across the deck and up, pondering the thick rope and crisscross of the netting. Under bright light, the faded tan of the ropes weathered white from salt and wear, almost seemed to shimmer.

On arrival to the ship after the disastrous encounter of last night, that had been one of their first thought to contemplate: what would it feel like, to curl their hands around the rough, sturdy fibres of that shimmering rope and pull their weight up higher and higher. To see the ship from the angle of above, as close to the perspective of the stars as anything. They have seen cities and alleyways from top-down, but never a great ship from the same perspective.

The world bursts into noise and movement, and their attention is startled by the din. But still, they do not move, silently searching for and acknowledging the cause. Red unfurled sails, bold against the varying blues of sky and sea. The Levithan has left Antares behind, but Antares seems intent on following.

"You. Come with me… Please."

At first, they do not process the summoning as words meant for them, until the thought belatedly occurs that there’s a man staring them in the eyes. A few beats later, they placed him as the captain of the vessel. Startled as they are by these new developments, no amount of ‘why me’ has ever been useful to them in any situation, so they simply do not ask it. When they are called upon to follow, they follow—because to do anything else would be rude. And to offend authority with feckless defiance is to make life unnecessarily harder than it ought to be.

Nemo lingered on the deck, a silent observer taking stock of both men, quietly assessing the stance at the wheel that the Captain has guided their impromptu companion into. Here, in the bright spotlight of standing out of the shade, the dark patch veins against their pallid skin only seem more prominent. Melchior is going to be so mad when he hears about this. Alone for a short period of time, and once again finding themself in a situation.

They shifted on their feet, uncomfortable beneath the heat. But even so it is relatively easy in the interim, where they are not being spoken to, for Nemo to force themself to compartmentalize. If death is likely, it is not something that they can change (regardless of whether that is unfair or not, by virtue of random selection and will of the stars) so instead they push the possibility of impending doom into the same corner of their mind where they usually push pain when they’re trying to stay conscious under their surgeon’s scalpel, and leave it there. They’ve always functioned better at arms-length with the world anyway, when it feels like they stand behind a window looking through at their own life, present and not. Maybe it will help them do what has been asked of them. Maybe it won’t.

“I am not part of the Ship’s Crew,” they informed their companion softly as soon as Lexis leaves, as if that isn't obvious enough already. But nevertheless, they turned to focus their gaze on the approaching ship, in an attempt to be watchful for canon fire as they have been instructed. “If you die, I hope that the Stars will send someone else. Not because I will leave. I will not. But because I will likely fail.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[tsurene]

THE ABEL.

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Ephraim

PROKOPIOU

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

SCARED, SCHEMING

OUTFIT

NOT YIPPEE

LOCATION

THE REAPER'S BRIG

MENTIONS

TOSKA, KOHEN, WILLOW, EVERYONE IN THE BRIG...

INTERACTS

@Shadow

TOM ANELLO — NO SERVICE.

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Because empires will rise and fall

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

CHAPTER FOUR.

Ephraim should've kept his guard up when their shopping trip in Antares ended up being more peaceful than expected. He should've known better... but he couldn't help it. He was so thrilled about the matching butterflies they bought that he let his excitement cloud his judgement. The insects were two halves of a whole, one side gleaming bright like the ocean under sunlight, while the other seemed worn, like they had weathered many storms. No matter which side he looked at, they always fit together perfectly—just like how the younger brother wished things could be.

Kohen had walked beside him, neither too close nor too far, and for once, Ephraim had let himself believe that they were finally on the same page. The Bazaar had been full of life, with customers and vendors bustling through the vibrant, narrow lanes despite how late it was. Colorful fabrics fluttered in the breeze, and the sounds of laughter, bargaining, and distant music filled the air. Had he'd been any luckier, they would've had more time to explore and make it to the Leviathan unscathed.

Well, Ephraim's luck had run out.

One moment, he was admiring a set of delicate glass beads at a nearby stall, eagerly picking out a few to add to his trinket collection. The next, he turned to find Kohen had disappeared. Not just lagging behind, not just hidden by the shifting crowd, but gone. The kind of absence that rang hollow in his chest, that clawed up his throat with something sick and desperate.

Panic swelled, drowning out reason. He bumped against passersby, knocking over a crate of oranges, sending them rolling across the sandy ground, but he didn't care. He called Kohen’s name, his voice lost in the racket. No response. No familiar figure in the sea of strangers.

Ephraim had lost him.

Again.

His hands trembled, not from fear for himself, but for Kohen. He wasn’t thinking about the danger, about the way shadows moved unnaturally in the alleyways of the Bazaar. He was only thinking about how this was his fault that he left his older brother alone, that he made his older brother leave him alone. Ephraim should’ve paid more attention, should’ve kept him within arm’s reach, should’ve noticed the way the air had shifted, thick with unseen menace.

His pulse roared in his ears as he turned wildly, searching, reaching. And then, before he could call Kohen’s name again, a rough grip seized him from behind. A hand clamped over his mouth. The world tilted.

He was falling. No—he was being dragged. The Bazaar blurred into streaks of color, lantern light smearing across his vision. The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him whole was the crowd moving on, oblivious.

Well, he’d be damned.

He’d lost his brother.

And now he was the one who was missing.

---

The young antiquarian clutched his arms around himself, holding the only possessions he had left. One was the frame that contained the half-and-half butterfly the brothers had bought together, its delicate wings forever frozen in place. The other was hidden deeper within the opening of his dress shirt: a singular rock, heavy and solid, warmed slightly from where it had rested against his skin.

It wasn’t just any rock. It was a piece of serpentinite that he found in one of Valdioro's mines a while back, its surface a strange mix of smooth and jagged, like something both polished by time and fractured by force. Ephraim had always been drawn to the rock's peculiar texture, the way it fit snugly in his hand. It was known for its striking green hue, often streaked with veins of darker minerals that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. He would have been content to keep it in his possession, had it not been one of the only things left to his name.

His suitcase, the one that he spent hours packing meticulously, was gone. While Ephraim struggled to free himself from his captors, it burst open, scattering its contents across the damp wooden floor of the unknown ship. His tools, his spare clothes, and the pieces of jewelry he had tucked between the folds of fabric were quickly confiscated. Not even his rock collection (yes, he put rocks inside his luggage) were safe from the pirates' hands. He barely had time to register the mess before he was shoved roughly into a dark cell, only managing to grasp onto a mere stone and a framed bug that was considered too worthless for the pirates who had taken him.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he forced himself to look around the cramped cell. The air reeked of rust and saltwater, thick with the scent of mold and sweat. The metal bars of the cell groaned with every movement of the ship, and the floor beneath him was cold and slick, stained with things he didn’t want to think too hard about.

Ephraim wasn't the only one who got imprisoned. Other than that bloodcurdling scream that scared the daylights out of him, there were a couple of low murmurs coming from the other prisoners. Among those who were talking to each other were a man with a grey kerchief around his neck, a wealthy looking woman with short white hair, and... Willow Farchill? She and her mother were regular commissioners back in Zenith, how did she get here?

As if the world couldn't get any smaller, a tall foreboding man, wearing a skull mask fit for the carnevale, appeared in front of their cell to inquire about someone. Gallin Forestson. Ephraim wasn't personally close to the reporter, per say. He simply remembered him as a famed columnist who previously reported about his exhibitions, singing praises like he did to every other member of Zenith’s high society. Regardless of his relationship with Gallin, though, it was clear that Hollow wasn't a fan.

Could Hollow simply be an eccentric crewmate with a unique sense of fashion? Maybe. Even so, the fact that he wanted information about a specific person meant the prisoners’ abduction were not just a simple ransom, and that it’ll take a lot more than abiding to the skull-faced man’s wishes in order for him to reunite with his brother again. He needed to escape now. But how could he pull that off?

Ephraim’s heart pounded as he watched the skull-faced man grow increasingly frustrated with the prisoners' silence. His grip tightened around the knife as he jabbed it into the faulty gun's mechanism, trying to coax it back into working order. Ephraim couldn’t help but notice how strange it was to see someone so intent on threatening lives yet incapable of even maintaining their weapon. Though he had an urge to try to fix it for him, he wasn’t foolish enough to draw attention to himself. Not yet.

As Ephraim’s gaze drifted back over the prisoners, something caught his attention. In the far corner of the cell sat a man with wavy dark hair, eerily still. His posture was unnaturally rigid, his body frozen in place as if he were an antique doll left carelessly forgotten. The man’s face was pale, his olive eyes furrowed and exhausted. His clothes were tattered, but his appearance was almost too neat, like there was a sense of dignity and grace left in him. His hands rested gently on his sides, and he gave no indication that he was aware of anything around him. He didn’t move a muscle.

Ephraim scooted closer, the cold floor scraping against his knees. Once he was within whispering distance, he leaned in, careful not to make a sound.

"Psst, hey,"

he murmured softly, making sure that Hollow wouldn't spare a glance at them.

"Are you doing alright? I know we're locked in this cell, but I want to know if you're okay. You haven’t moved an inch since they threw us in here."

He glanced at the bars before turning his attention back to his cellmate, lowering his voice even further.

"Look, there's a chance that we're about to escape. You might want to get ready.”

His hand slid into the fabric of his shirt to retrieve the stone he had been clutching for comfort. He held it up in front of the man, letting the dim light of the cell catch the serpentinite’s smooth surface.

“I’ve got a perfect weapon here. We could take him down if we act quickly.”

He exhaled softly, his gaze lingering on the man’s unmoving form.

“Listen,”

Ephraim continued, lowering his voice even more.

“It’s up to you what you do next. If you want to help, I’d be grateful. But if you’d rather stay out of it—just... prepare yourself to run, or even just sit tight. I’ll understand, as long as you're safe by the end of this.”

He smiled faintly, trying to offer the man some semblance of comfort, of understanding.

With one last look at the man, Ephraim started crouching, sneaking toward the cluster of prisoners near the front. He held the stone tightly in his hand, ready to strike. His breath was shallow, nerves taut, but he refused to let fear control him. His only focus was on his brother—and the chance to escape this nightmare.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

font callfont callfont call

IN-CHARACTER

PURSUIT PART II

ROGUE WAVES

ANTARES.

CHAPTER FOUR

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬.

In the prattle of restless crew and pulsing boots tendering the Leviathan’s deck, is a fragile interim to be shattered by a keening whistle.

Harbingers arrive before the ruin. Cannonfire bears an awful hymn, and the noise of detonation is always followed by screaming iron as it tears through air. When it strikes, it materializes out of nowhere— a shadowed blur of malice over the stern that chews into wood with the ease of sloughing boiled meat from bone.

The blast erupts timber like a violent haemorrhage, caves areas of the deck inwards and outwards to dilute air with shards and smoke.

The Leviathan jolts like an animal struck, a shake impaled right through its skeleton. Ropes snap taut and sails ripple with convulsion, and salt-sharp panic is slathered into every crease as gravity pitches with the recoil.

If there are warnings or directions to be shouted through the ship, they are staccato, shorn off before they can reach the next breath. A hit near the mizzen, and the noise of its collision buries everything and everyone.

Air is cured with gunpowder, cloying acrid in the throat as smoke rises from licks of fire. There is shouting and movement, the scrape of boots, scrape of bodies, stepping over those who did not get up. Blood weeps in the cracks of wood, dark and wet, but it is easier to forfeit early than speculate which limb belongs to whom.

When smeared by the smolder of shrapnel and ash, something about the Reaper is no longer cogent. Blended into the gray like a phantom with gunports of aching teeth.

Another flash. Another ear-splitting impetus.

Two injuries.

One death.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

EVENT

NINA MOLOTOV

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NINA MOLOTOV, “a chameleon has a gift and a chance to take shape of what it wants to be. For survival, for entertainment, or for whatever reason it wishes.”

It is said that at the end of the world, parasites will be the last thing to survive. Always elusive, always just outside the frame; a master of evasion is always the last one standing. Parasites never mourn the host, they simply find another.

I hope you can find artistry in ignition, abstract as it might be. When the fabric of reality is devastated like an errant brushstroke, there is no time to refine delicate shapes or subtle contrast. Not when the air is thick with fire, when splintered wood turns eager to bring your indiscriminate ruin. Burning fragments of metal and wood and each one seeks purchase in the canvas of your body.

We will see if Chameleons can hide from mutilating shrapnel.

♡coded by uxie♡

EVENT

NEMO

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NEMO, you preach of sin and think of your brokenness, but what if the real error is how you still exist? Guided by the divine unseen, but every breath of an erroneous thing like you must be a defiance. Paradox, a marionette cursed with life in a world determined to whittle it all away.

The wood splinters with a cruelty that is indifferent to such an existence. Perhaps the real sin will be your continued survival, or perhaps the fragments will be as sharp as your self-loathing.

♡coded by uxie♡

EVENT

RAYNA MALLOR

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RAYNA MALLOR, aw shucks, you owe me 10 Solari.

Kidding!

Your life now has a debt that cannot be repaid!

You’re better at taking hits than throwing them, and this result could have been no different. I know this of you— you’d not have cared if it had been your own flesh torn, your own blood spilled.

Could’ve kept it simple like that— but fate does not deal in kindness so neither shall I. You’d burn yourself to keep others warm, but recall that fire is directionless and does not need permission to consume.

Now let's talk about promotions.

On a ship is a hierarchy like vertebrae, it calcifies a spine of rank and order. When one bone breaks, the rest must shift, but not all will rise and settle with the change. A gap where this vital cartilage once stood, guttered with a shiv of splintered wood.

They had lunged to bar you from the damage, sheathed the chunk directly through the gut. It spears itself fatal, and his knee hits the deck with a weight reserved for a man at the end of his rope. It’s the inevitability of a story already written: always a better shield than a person, and that devotion is now his death sentence.

The third-mate’s life laid down for yours, are you sure you’re worth the cost?

𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍 𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑, 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟔𝐓𝐇
𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐑.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Aviator]

THE HORN.

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Macklin

Lowe

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

"Excuse me?"

OUTFIT

Monte's Stolen Swag.

LOCATION

The Leviathan; main deck

MENTIONS

Yasmine, Violetta, & Monte

INTERACTS

Ren Gao

MAKE UP YOUR MIND —
FLORENCE & THE MACHINE.

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And it's such a shame

That I can't tell you anything!
You won't hear me
Still you endear me now.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Brushing off her brown leather pants, the small duchess seated across from Macklin stood and smiled insincerely, as if standing over him in full five-foot-nothing menace lent her an upper hand in their verbal exchange. Irritation sparked in him that she thought to lecture him on the topic of responsibility, as if his duty to the kingdom comprised lounging on velour cushions all day, eating dainty triangular sandwiches, and beckoning forth the next wench in an unending line. Well, aside from the weekend just after his latest promotion to Chief of Intelligencers, of course, that was not the case.

He resisted the urge to snort at Violetta. He had fought in war on behalf of Solas, while she did, what? Groom her lap dogs all day and teach them new tricks? Macklin bet her most distressing decision on a regular day was deciding whether to wear the yellow dress or the brown dress to dinner. But then he remembered that Violetta was the asocial, eccentric type to eschew court functions and keep to herself, so maybe expecting her to appear at dinner at all was asking too much.

The duchess concluded her address with a foreboding tiding. His interest renewed, Macklin’s eyes snapped back to hers and were transfixed there. Violetta’s face was like fine porcelain, white and hard and yet somehow brittle. And then her expression transformed entirely, and she surprised him with a wink. She snatched a crispy potato off his plate, popped it in her mouth, and flounced away. Feeling an icy chill walk down his spine, Macklin tracked her progress across the dining hall, frowning slightly. She had threatened him. Alluded to having taken precautions that could end him if she saw fit. It was possible that it was an empty attempt to instill fear in him, but the fact of the matter was that Macklin had been unconscious in her chambers for a number of hours with open wounds. Had Violetta not just stitched him up but left something behind? A stone clenched in Macklin’s stomach as he imagined what kind of deleterious parasite might be running rampant inside him right now, and he pushed his plate of potatoes and risotto away, suddenly no longer hungry.

It had already been part of his plan to dispose of Violetta once he got ahold of her agricultural elixir and divulged its secrets from her. But now that he was forced to believe that she held some kind of fatal leverage over him, it was an added incentive to eliminate her quickly, as soon as her knowledge was no longer of use to the empire. Unless, of course, the damage had already been done and was irreversible, a possibility that made Macklin’s heart crawl into his throat. In which case, killing Violetta would just be pointless revenge from a condemned man.

Macklin’s gaze traveled back to Yasmine, who was looking lithe and deadly as ever, and quite alone at her table now that her friends had left her. Still, she did not so much as glance at him in acknowledgment. Approaching her in public would have been a foolish move when both of them worked in secret capacities for the King, yet Macklin wondered if he should start snatching up sweet things when he saw them. But it was a nihilistic, panic-driven way to think, and acting out of desperation did not make for sound decisions, especially when he possessed a flower that might be the cure to Queen Sharvi’s ailment. As always, there was too much at stake for Macklin to act selfishly.

He shut his eyes and rubbed his head, as if he could reshuffle his thoughts and deal himself a better hand. It was then that he heard the undercurrent of uneasy whispers cutting through the dining hall. Eyes flashing open, Macklin focused on a pair of gentlemen in suits and powdered wigs who were bent close together, one of them pointing at a porthole. Scowling a little, Macklin got up from his table in the corner of the room to see the source of the commotion. He discarded his half-eaten meal in a wastebasket, to the vitriolic look of a bedraggled middle-aged woman with horn-rimmed glasses.

When he crossed to the porthole and peered out, Macklin was suddenly glad that he hadn’t forced down the rest of his breakfast, for his stomach felt like it had been inverted inside out. Sticking out like a bloodstain on blue linen were garnet sails proudly catching the wind. The ship was smaller and sleeker than the Leviathan, and moving at a brisk, unmistakeable clip. As she closed, a glint of metal from her crow’s nest caught the morning light, and the waves parted for her as she came about.

As if the other passengers had all come to the dreadful conclusion that an altercation was on the horizon at the same time, there was a thundering of innumerable feet as panicked people raced down the stairs from the main deck, taking shelter in the hold. Voices whipped into a frenzy, urging loved ones to stay close, uttering profanities at the unacceptable delay the ship’s schedule would surely incur.

Well, well, Red Pretender, Macklin mused, his dread hardening into steel-tipped anticipation. Is today finally the day you show your bitch face? “Red Pretender” was one of the various—and least vulgar—nicknames that the sailors in the Royal Navy had bestowed upon their arch nemesis. When King Rowan was the rightful wearer of the crown, it was blasphemy to refer to the Baron by his fabricated title. They also called him the Crimson Carver, on account of the gruesome fates suffered by those in the King’s service who were taken alive by the Baron’s men. When they were in the field and a run-in with the Corsairs seemed likely, members of Macklin’s special operations unit had each carried a vial of potassium cyanide to be deployed as necessary.

In the six months that he’d held his current position as Chief of Intelligencers—or, informally, the King’s Inquisitor or the Devil’s Horns, as Macklin was not unaware of the names whispered behind his back in court—he had yet to encounter the Red Baron face to face. The few spies who did manage to penetrate the Baron’s inner circles all delivered conflicting reports of his appearance, and communications with them were severed shortly thereafter and they were never heard of again (but sometimes their ears or teeth or fingers or shin bones were dredged up, typically in bow-wrapped parcels delivered to a loved one’s residence). Macklin had a theory that there were multiple Red Barons so that they would more easily evade capture. Or perhaps the original Red Baron had died long ago, and he was just a ghost passed down from generation to generation, with a new pirate selected to wear the title when a transfer of power was needed.

To this extent, Macklin coveted what Yasmine knew, his former-enemy-turned-coworker. Given her history with the Corsairs, he was sure she knew something on the topic of the Baron’s identity. But every time he alluded to it, she played coy, feigning ignorance before inevitably changing the subject. So far, Macklin’s inability to produce any substantial information on the Corsairs’ leader was his biggest shortcoming as inquisitor. And King Rowan had let him know it in so many words. After an assault Macklin had devised on a pub known to be a hideout of the Corsairs had gone horribly wrong and a singular trauma-stricken messenger had returned alive, he’d known the summons he’d received to the throne room the next day was not to sing his praises. Rather, it’d been of the demeaning perhaps-this-was-my-mistake-for-not-delegating-such-responsibility-to-an-older-and-more-experienced-officer variety and a lot of it-won’t-happen-again-Your-Majesty assurances on the other side.

So far, it hadn’t. But Macklin was on a shorter leash now than when he’d initially been promoted. It was okay, though. He would curry favor with the King once again when he returned triumphant from his trips to Antares and Siroc, with both of the plants that the Queen needed for her cure. Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to wait that long. The appearance of the Corsairs ship presented a unique opportunity, and fighting alongside the crew that defeated it would surely restore some of King Rowan’s faith in him. It would be the third such ship that Macklin had taken, the captives of which had been sent to the rope in a public spectacle drawn out over the course of a weekend. But it was his understanding that the Leviathan was not staffed by warriors.

Taking a stand against his sworn enemy was not something he had to think about. It was an ingrained instinct, an integral part of the duty, and not rising to meet the challenge would be a betrayal of everything he valued. Before setting off toward the stairs, Macklin scanned the dining hall—which was now suddenly packed with fleeing passengers—for Yasmine. Would she be joining the fight above deck? He expected nothing less of a soldier, but Yasmine’s position within the King’s retinue was unique. Nor was he sure that she would prioritize her fealty to the Crown when threatened with imminent danger.

But his one ally in a sea of strangers was gone. She’d slipped away during the bedlam, and Macklin would not be able to instruct her to get the white widow dahlia back to Zenith in the event of his death. He was on his own.

Walking like a bullet ready to tear through anything in its path, Macklin went against the natural flow of the crowd, deafening himself to the insults that were hurled his way. His relentless pace did not accommodate those who could not get out of his way fast enough, and as he forced a path up the bottlenecked traffic on the stairs, his broad shoulders clipped jaws and hips. He took up space without even trying, and when he did try, the unwary were prone to bulldozing. Macklin grit his teeth as someone rubbed against the fresh stitches on his left bicep, and the simple act of flinching resulted in him elbowing a pedestrian in the ribs. Monte’s slightly snug jacket endured a rip as the staircase spat Macklin—panting slightly—out at the top, after what felt like an uncomfortably warm and very claustrophobic eternity.

And then the patch of light at the top of the stairs was blocked. Thrown into shadow by the figure that was suddenly standing at its mouth, long-haired and pale-skinned and androgynous. He—for Macklin decided that the clothes were more typical of a man—was dressed like a street thug, with a sleeveless leather vest and an oversized belt that drooped like a long-stemmed flower. The pants were baggy and coarse and meant for a man twice the wearer’s width. A fingerless glove with a hole in it enshrouded the right hand.

There were a number of infuriating things about this stranger. The first of them being that he stood dead center in Macklin’s path, with his arm lazily stretched out and propped against a wall as if daring Macklin to go through him. The second of them was the thin smile he wore, as if nothing pleased him more than being an inconvenience in the face of urgency. Third, he made direct eye contact with Macklin, whose knee-jerk response to a stranger calling out to him was to ignore them or fire off something quippy and keep going on his way. But he certainly did not entertain conversations from which there was nothing to gain.

This wannabe thug stood on the topmost step, intentionally blocking Macklin’s way like a final, unforeseen obstacle sent by the Stars to torment sinners. Macklin narrowly resisted the urge to shoulder-check him into the wall and swat him aside, for this stranger was unwisely standing between him and his Crown-mandated call to arms. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was probably a crewmember tasked with herding guests to safety, Macklin would have had no such compunctions about using force. But he had just boarded the Leviathan, and there was a long way to go until they arrived in Siroc. If they arrived in Siroc, at this point.

The man’s voice carried, bright and merry, like church bells. Macklin stopped two steps below him, tilting his head back minimally and instead rolling his eyes impudently up at this new adversary. Then, as if Macklin was an idiot and had somehow missed the direction of the crush of traffic, he pointed out that Macklin was going above deck. More than anything, it was the supercilious you know that set him off. Despite the approaching threat of the Corsairs ship—or perhaps because of—Macklin was feeling abrasive, and he could not resist the scathing words that jockeyed on his tongue.

“The guests will be buried below if we don’t assemble a defense,” he sniped, inwardly cringing a little bit when he realized that, by using the word we, he had lumped himself and this fashion-challenged delinquent into the same category. Macklin wondered if he was assuming too much for this long-haired thug to be more than a standard guest, but the self-proclaimed personal assistant cast aside his doubts. Or attempted to. Macklin could think of a hundred more productive things to do than converse with the intellectual equivalent of a monkey, but against his better judgment, he allowed himself to be drawn into discourse. “Personal assistant to whom?” he challenged. “And why is a personal assistant not at this liege’s side in a state of emergency?”

Macklin was bristling with impatience so much that he almost missed the man’s offer to escort him to his room. He blinked, the novelty of the idea taking him by surprise and expelling his anger. Having spent the night in the duchess’ chambers, he hadn’t been shown to his room yet, so perhaps the personal assistant could be of some use. “Tell you what,” Macklin said in a much milder tone, thinking fast, “in an hour I’m scheduled to have tea with a friend. Should you and I both emerge from the impending battle feeling whole and righteous, you would do well to direct me to his room.” Not wanting to be associated with the minor, notorious celebrity of his own name, he figured it a better strategy to pretend that his own rooms were not really his. Perhaps in a development of almost equal importance, he could even learn the location of Yasmine’s room from this overeager assistant. If she hadn’t booked passage on the Leviathan under a completely different name, of course. Which she likely had.

The assistant made a noncommittal sound in response to Macklin’s request and peeled away from the top of the stairs without comment, allowing Macklin passage. He interpreted the gesture as, if you want to get yourself killed, buddy, be my guest. Sixty seconds ago, getting aboard the main deck had been the foremost concern in Macklin’s mind, but now he climbed the last two steps and paused beside the personal assistant, fixing him beneath a shrewd look. This personal assistant seemed so keen on proving his helpfulness. Maybe, under the guise of camaraderie and friendly gossip, he could indeed become a valuable source of information.

As if he could hear Macklin’s thoughts and sought to dispel any notion of usefulness, the personal assistant withdrew a handful of peanuts from a pocket. He cupped his hand to his mouth and tossed them back. He spoke with his mouth full, garbling the words. The fact that he stipulated he would do well in war made Macklin doubt that he had ever seen a war. Battle-hardened warriors were either good at war, lucky, or didn’t live long enough to tell otherwise. Macklin gave him a side-eye so laden with judgment that it pierced the air like too-strong cologne. “Yes, I’m sure of it,” he replied churlishly. “Peanuts are such a wonderful source of nutrients that I bet they replace having to train with weaponry, yes? They build muscle overnight.”

Ren—as he was called—looked up at Macklin with a clear-eyed look as if a sudden revaluation was being conducted. It was the look of someone who felt heard and understood, saw their inner genius reciprocated in another. Macklin resisted the urge to facepalm himself for wasting time befriending the village idiot. A strong wind kicked up, and he ran a hair through his mussed hair. It was an unwittingly provocative gesture, because there is a dark god and sadistic GM out there who for unknown reasons really, really wants him to be bald.

As if Ren’s previously witnessed lack of table manners was not off-putting enough, he fished another handful of peanuts from his pockets and held it out to Macklin. On the flat of his hand, fingers pressed together long and straight, as if he were offering a horse to take an apple from him. Ordinarily, Macklin would be revolted if someone touched his food at all, but this was the hand that had just been pressed to Ren’s own open lips a minute ago. He resisted the urge to swat away the hand that was invasively close to him, but the thought of exposure to a variety of unknown contaminants made Macklin keep his distance. “Hm, so tempting. Somehow, I'll pass,” he muttered, his best attempt at being cordial. It’s like talking to a child. An overlarge, leather-wearing child who wants to be a personal assistant when he grows up half-past never. “I have a feeling you’ll need the peanuts and their magical properties more than I will for what’s to come.”

His business concluded, Macklin turned away and began fastening his brass knuckles on. He was about to reach for the military-issue pistol tucked away inside his coat when a flash of light fractured the world into a million broken shards, and all hell broke loose.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

THE HUNTSMAN.

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MAGNUS

MOOD

CURIOUS, REFLECTIVE

OUTFIT

classy

LOCATION

THE LEVIATHAN

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

@escapist Maltke

THE MIDDLE OF THE WORLD — NICHOLAS BRITELL.

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DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR

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

CHAPTER FOUR.

The drifter’s voice was buoyant in the morning air, reverberating high pitches and low rumbles as he talked animatedly after accepting Magnus’ cigarette. The bounty hunter eyed the man soundlessly, eyes slow as they began dissecting his movements. On the older side, yet sturdy--he was a man that had seen his fair share of fights. Calloused hands and a sun worn face. Magnus couldn’t shake the itch that there was something underneath the facade Maltke was putting up. The more he picked at it, the more he peeled back. The more he peeled back, the more his instincts whispered to find more.

Did ye have a rough night? Based on that face of yers, I bet bwahhaaha"

He exhaled a breath of smoke, eyebrows raising in response to the man’s jest. He forced out a fake huff of laughter before responding “The usual I guess you could say,” Magnus murmured. The cigarette he pinched absently between his fingers had burnt itself down to the near end, its smoke now a weak film clinging to the crisp cut of air.

Scrubbing caked blood from underneath his fingernails, the thud of a lifeless body followed by the musical chime of tumbling coins. A typical night indeed.

Maltke was twitching beside him erratically. The man would lean against the railing of the ship in one fashion, quickly abandoning that posture in favor of another. Like a toddler fiddling with their fingers in the effort to hide a misdeed.

Magnus opened his mouth to ask the man a pointed question, his fangs beginning to sharpen in the anticipation of a potential target. And if things went his way--a potential kill.

But the screaming groan of splitting wood cut thoughts short. Screams permeated the calm morning air, intruding even the moment of zen that he and Maltke had somehow fashioned in their stalemate.

Far from the rumble of shouts and hurried footsteps rampant upon the main deck, the two had missed the silent panic of approaching danger. There was no missing the impact of steel meeting wood, however, the impact knocking Magnus from the assuredness of his stance.


He looked to Maltke, wide eyed. “If I hand you a weapon, will you know how to use it?”

♡coded by uxie♡