#The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

imaginepirates · 5 years ago

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Wanted

For @myleghasfallenasleep, who requested that I write about a non-binary pirate! reader. The reader ends up taking James into their crew after Jack leaves him with them. Because this is my first time writing a nb character, please tell me if I��ve provided accurate representation. If not, please bring it to my attention.

~3500 words

@emdrabbles @tesserphantom @paljonkaikenlaista @viper-official @wordsinwinters

~~~~~~~

Ah Jack, you mused. Always dumping your problems on me. You’d been a friend to Jack Sparrow for years, and though you were fond of him, he never failed to dump things on you. Currently, he was leaving you with a drunken addition to your crew. You wouldn’t have minded, but as it sat, you had your suspicions about this man.

“If I recall correctly, you’re in desperate need of men right now.” You stood with your arms crossed, staring at Jack from across your desk.

“Not as desperate as this, lass.”

“Why? He’s a drunk, sure, but so are you.”

“He vomits everywhere he walks.”

“I seem to recall you doing that on several occasions.”

Jack grimaced. “I hoped you’d forgotten that.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Fine. Bad blood. Used to be in the navy.” Jack made a face, sticking his tongue out.

“Don’t see what difference that makes. Loads of pirates come from the navy. Do you know how bad their wages are? If they were looking for money, though, I don’t know why they’d go to you.”

Jack pretended to take offence, but you ignored him. You’d only seen the man Jack wanted to dump on you once, when the pair had first boarded your ship. He was tall, with dark hair and piercing eyes, but he stumbled as he walked, and he looked green with sickness.

“What’s so bad about this man that you need to get rid of him, Jack?” You were deadly serious. Jack got into all sorts of trouble with the wrong type, and you weren’t going to take on some merman, noble’s son, or warlock without knowing about it first. “I’m not getting into trouble on your account Jack. Not this time.”

“You won’t. I promise.” He flashed you a smile, and you laughed.

“Words are wind, Jack.”

Jack sighed. “The problem I have with him is personal. It won’t hurt you to take him for me.”

“Why not hand him over to Jones?” By now, you knew all about the problems Jack was having with Davy Jones. Serves you right, you thought.

“I don’t think he’d last that long.” Seeing your unimpressed expression, he continued. “It’s not just me, love. It’s the crew.”

“And by ‘the crew’, you mean those two you met in Port Royal?”

“No.”

“Lately, they’ve been involved in all your issues.” You moved around to the front of the desk, sitting on the edge. “If you won’t tell me, fine. But at least assure me that you’re not leaving me with a curse looming over my head.”

“None.”

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a crew to attend to and a new member to meet.” You swept right past Jack, pushing the double doors to your cabin open wide. The fresh air was welcome in comparison to the stuffy air indoors, and the smell of salt filled the air.

You were still at port, but you planned to leave before the day was done. Fishers on the docks called the day’s catch, and merchants sold their wares near the wharves. There was the ringing of church bells and the enticing smell of cooked meats, all reminders of the city around you. Some of your crew were carrying out tasks onboard the ship while others were out in the streets. Those in the city would be back soon enough.

It was easy to spot the newest addition to your crew. He stood out in the crowd. His clothes were shabby, even by pirate’s standards, and he had a way of standing that indicated he was too relaxed for a naval man. Men from the navy didn’t lean casually against railings, they didn’t have beards, and they didn’t smirk. All around, you considered this man a rake.

You approached him, leaning against the railing beside him. “Do you have a name, sailor?”

“James,” he said, looking down at you.

“James what?”

“Just James.”

“Well then, just James, welcome to the crew. I expect that as a sailor, you know what you’re doing, and I don’t want any trouble on my ship. If you have a bone to pick, wait ‘till shore leave.”

“Yes sir.” His voice was mocking, and upon further inspection and some confusion he added, “Ma’am.”

“Captain, will suffice. I want to see my reflection in this deck by tomorrow morning. I suggest you get to work helping.” You gestured to the crew scrubbing the deck.

He shoved himself off the rail after taking a last look at you, grabbing a mop and soap from further down the deck. He was the type to start problems, you could tell. You could only hope he wouldn’t.

In the coming days, you were shocked to find that he was a capable worker. Though he had a tendency to make snarky comments, he did everything that was asked of him. You were glad for it. You didn’t enjoy dealing out punishments, and you didn’t want a reason to do so. James was good at what he did; it seemed he had more years of practice than many of the other men.

An influencing factor in his behavior was lack of alcohol. You’d taken the rum away from him within the first day and told the crew not to give him any more. James had been surprisingly willing to let the drink go. He’d looked disgusted, but you had a feeling he wasn’t disgusted with you. Disgusted with himself, more like. I would be, too, if I were vomiting everywhere and stumbling around. There was more to it, you could tell. There was a whole story in every man, but this man seemed to contain a story-and-a-half. You’d learn, someday. For now, you had to be content with what Jack had already told you.

You surveyed the deck one day to find James helping the younger boys tie their knots. James wasn’t quick in the rigging like the children, but he was surefooted, and he was willing to teach the boys from the ropes. He was doing it then, leaned against a railing with a length of rope in hand. He was showing them how to tie it to a rail with a clove hitch. The rope was passed around, and each boy tried it for himself.

“I see you’re teaching the boys well.” You walked up to him, watching the kids tying their knots. “I’m happy to see it.”

“Somebody has to do it.”

“If I wasn’t mistaken, I’d say you’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“You’re not.”

Ah. An officer, then? Though his coat was a good indicator of his previous station, it didn’t fit him well, and you figured it might have been stolen. Perhaps not. It would have fit someone who weighed a little more, and you figured that James had lost weight in the time he spent drinking instead of eating. “Would you like to enlighten me? I have a feeling you’re a bit more than ‘just James’.”

He pushed off the rail. “I wouldn’t, actually.”

“Forgive my curiosity,” you called after him. “Here, you don’t have to be anyone you don’t want to be.”

Something sad flashed behind his eyes, and he swallowed. I don’t want to be anybody, he seemed to say.

You’d heard that often enough. “We’ve all left someone behind us,” you assured him. “Even me.”

He nodded and walked off, and you couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. He was lost and unsure of what to do with himself. Stuck between who he had been and who he would become.

Not two weeks later, you found him in the surgeon’s cabin, applying salve to a boy’s back. The green paste stuck to the boy’s skin with an eerie hue, but you knew it treated burns better than anything else.

“What did I tell you about keeping a shirt on?”

“I know, it’s hot out, is all.” The boy shifted in his seat, squirming whenever James touched his back.

“I don’t care how hot it is. A loose shirt is better than nothing. I won’t do this for you again, so don’t rub this off,” James warned.

The boy took little heed. “I won’t,” he said, slipping off the table and putting on a shirt.

You were left alone in the room with James. “You really are good with kids.”

James shrugged.

“Maybe there’s nothing so bad about you after all. I wondered why Jack dumped you with me; he usually gives me cursed men and witches. The undead, even.” You got no reaction. “You’re not any of those things, so why would he leave you with me?”

“I’m not wanted.”

“You are here.” You gestured at a space outside the cabin. “The crew likes you well enough. Especially the boys. You look after them.”

“Would that I had my own.”

“Your own?” You briefly wondered if he had children.

“In the navy. My last voyage, we sailed right into a hurricane. I was… one of the few survivors.”

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing you can do about a hurricane.”

“You can avoid sailing into it.” He sounded miserable, voice thick with emotion.

Could it be? You had a sinking suspicion you knew who the man was. That doesn’t matter now, you reminded yourself. He’s part of my crew, and he hasn’t shown any signs of treachery or ill-will. “Every man has moments they’re not proud of,” you said. He nodded tensely, and you took it as a sign to change the subject.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he began, a few minutes later. “You dress like a man, but you seem more like a woman, if you don’t mind my saying.” He looked thoroughly embarrassed, but he continued. “I tried to discern, earlier, but…. What did you mean by ‘Captain will suffice’?”

“I meant that I don’t identify with either of those things. I’m not a man, nor am I a woman.” You looked him in the eye, gauging his reaction.

He looked surprised, but didn’t remark, only nodding. You left it at that, and your conversation went in other directions.

~~~~~~~

The thundering of canons roared across the deck. Pieces of the ship flew off where you were hit, wooden splinters the length of your arm flying in all directions. You were glad to have led your crew in gunnery drills; they might have died without them. You survaid the deck, watching each gunning team load and fire. Smoke clogged the air between ships, but you still had a good view of your opponent.

A Spanish brig had appeared on the horizon not hours before, a pirate vessel from the Cuban area. You didn’t like fighting other pirates; firstly, it was a better cause to fight the navy; and secondly, pirates were ruthless in a way others were not. You never knew what tricks pirates might use on you, even as a pirate yourself. There was always some curse or new technology that you found yourself facing, putting you at a disadvantage. You didn’t have the luxury of magic aboard your vessel.

The sails of the ship were a dramatic red, and a dark squid adorned their pirate flag. The ship was beautifully painted, but that was all you could say for it. There was an air of wealth about it that had probably served it well in Spain, though perhaps less well in the Caribbean. Though it might look intimidating and well-styled to a merchantman, it was only a brig, and was thus lightly armed. Brigs were common pirating vessels, but not in the Caribbean. The New World demanded tougher stock.

You had the advantage of guns, but no fight was to be downplayed. You could have had all the guns in the world, but you’d still be careful about every move you made. There was always room for something to go wrong.

A cannonball hit the railing next to you, destroying it in a shower of wood. Stop blowing holes in my ship! You hated having to make repairs, but you’d have to, in this case. When you looked out at the deck again, you were glad to see that none of your crew seemed seriously injured. A few had shrapnel stuck in various places, but nobody looked to have stomach or head wounds.

You boarded the Spanish ship not long after. They’d been ambitious to fight you, and by the look of their rich clothes and shimmering jewelry, they had money. You smiled to yourself through the fighting. You still had to win the deck fight, but you were confident that you would. Then, it would be smooth sailing with a ship loaded down with gold.

The glint of light on metal shook you from your thoughts, and you raised your sword to block a blow from your side. After dispatching your attacker, you took a look around. It was hard to tell your men from theirs, but you caught a glimpse of James fending off two adversaries. You might have gone to help him, but you were soon caught up in a fight of your own.

The deck fight didn’t take long; twenty minutes at most. With the fight won, you ordered that the other crew be split between the brigs of both ships for the time being. You wouldn’t keep them as prisoners forever, but you needed to subjugate them for the moment. You met the opposing captain on the deck of his ship.

The captain looked up at you from his knees, his eyes screaming malice. Lace spilled from the sleeves and collar of his coat, which were the same wine red as his sails. A gold earring hung from one ear, and colored powders adorned his face. You found him almost comical- the stereotype of a wealthy pirate. It was so unrealistic, you couldn’t believe your eyes. Obviously, the man hadn’t known the true lifestyle going in.

Someone had to remove his sword belt and give it to you; he wouldn’t do it himself. You were half tempted to pitch him overboard for his arrogance. It wasn’t like he had much to be proud of. Sure, he had a beautiful ship, but it’d hardly lasted a half hour against your assault. Your boarding party had made short work of his crew. Those that were left were easily subdued, and you ordered that they be taken to the brigs of both ships.

You put your first mate in charge of the other ship. You were proud to have a little fleet, no matter how small. The thought made you smile. Eventually, you had the captain sent away too, though you’d have to speak with him later. Just the notion of having to talk with the man dampened your mood. He probably wasn’t the most respectful type.

Exhaustion took over, not letting you dwell on it. The fight had been fast, but hard, and you were ready for a moment of rest. You climbed the stairs to the helm and sat down by it, barely registering the person sitting next to you. You were asleep within minutes.

When you woke, you found your head resting on someone’s shoulder. You sat up to find James next to you, an amused smile on his face.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” he teased. “You slept for a while.”

You blushed, not quite sure how to respond. “Did I wake you up?” “No, don��t worry. I’ve only been awake a few minutes.”

You couldn’t tell if he was speaking the truth, but you didn’t press, instead changing the subject. “Are you alright? I hardly saw you during the fight.”

“I’m fine. And you?”

“Right as rain.”

“Your men are enjoying the victory.”

“Are you?” You asked. “You’re one of them.”

James stared a moment before answering, turning his away from you and towards the sea. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a victory over a ship. Months. Fighting pirates is an odd thing, when you’re one of them. Still, it reminds me of… simpler times.” His lips turned down in a tight frown.

You laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t dwell on it too much. Come with me, will you? I have a captain to talk to, and I don’t think he’s going to make for amiable conversation.”

You made your way down to the brig. The captain and his mates were being held in one cell together, the rest of their crew being split between cells. You treated them with every hospitality you could give them, helping treat their wounded and providing them with food and water. This, however, was too little to keep their captain satisfied. Your men had informed you that the captain mocked you for not talking to him. He called it cowardice, apparently. It mattered little and less to you, but you had to speak with him at one point or another. It was only courteous.

You gave a nod to one of your guards, and the cell door swung open. The captain was ushered out, unshackled. He posed no threat as a single man; even if he tried to attack you, you could easily overpower him. After all, he didn’t have a sword.

“So, you finally deem me worthy of your attention,” he drawled. His accent was exaggerated enough to make you roll your eyes. He spat, though he had enough sense not to spit towards you. Still, the insult was clear.

“I attend to my own men before I see to anyone else’s. With my crew taken care of, you have all my attention.” You could already tell the conversation would be riddled with insults, though none of them would be clever.

“Seeing to your men is admirable,” said the captain, “though I can’t tell with you: you dress like a man, but there’s a little woman to you, too.” He smirked.

“They are a captain and you will call them such.” James stopped dead in his tracks, reaching out to grab the man’s arm. Though the captain tried to pull away, James’ grip was iron. “Remember your place.”

Fear flashed across the captain’s face, but only for a moment. “I’m shocked to hear you say that, Commodore. After all, your place has changed so much.”

Your hand flashed out, striking the man hard across the face.

“How dare you?” he screeched. “I am a captain!”

“Not anymore,” you said dryly. “You’re nothing more than I make of you, and now I’m considering turning you into mincemeat. You might consider being more careful with your words. I would have asked for your name, but I don’t think you’re worth knowing. Perhaps more time in the brig will see to your behavior.”

The Spaniard protested the entire way, but he was quickly shut in with his officers again, and you set a brisk pace back to your cabin. James followed you, and you let him. Once you got to your cabin, you slumped into a chair. You were thoroughly disgusted by your encounter, but you knew it meant nothing. The man was arrogant, that was all. And James was the infamous Commodore that hunted pirates for years.

That didn’t matter now, either. James was kind to you, and he was good with the crew. His past was just that- his past.

“You didn’t have to defend me.” You filled a cup with brandy. “I could’ve done it myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to. And I owe you. You were right, in the surgeon’s cabin; I’m wanted here. I owe you for that, at least. You kept me when nobody else would.”

“Don’t feel like you owe me anything.”

He sucked in a breath. “And I’m sorry for not telling you who I was.”

“I understand,” you said. “It doesn’t make me trust you any less, and it doesn’t make you any less wanted. I can look beyond a man’s past.” You rose from your seat, putting a firm hand on his shoulder.

“I think I’ll stay with you, if you’ll have me.”

You were surprised, at first, that he didn’t want to return to his old life. That he didn’t have any ambitions to be the man he used to be. He doesn’t want power, you reminded yourself. He wants company. “Of course.“

“Thank you.” Hesitantly, he grabbed your hand, lifting it to place a soft kiss to your knuckles.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, cupping his cheeks, you kissed him softly, embarrassed that you would even think of kissing him, let alone do it. He returned the favor sweetly. He kissed you a bit harder, making you squeak.

“Perhaps you’re just as much of a rascal as I initially thought,” you told him, smiling.

“Maybe I am.” He wore an infuriating smirk.

You pushed him away playfully, only to pull him right back. “If you were still wondering, James, you’re wanted here. Thoroughly.”

#potc #pirates #pirate #pirates of the caribbean #James Norrington #norrington #norrington x reader #commodore norrington #requests #request #fic #drabble #drabbles #writing #x reader

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therunawayscamp · 4 years ago

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The Daedra and the Deep Blue Sea

For years, centuries, this had been a part of R'khan's routine. Standing on the quarterdeck and delivering a short speech, something to put the fire into the crew which would see them through the voyage, came as naturally as striding across a pitching deck. They needed to see their captain sure and committed. Instead, for the first time in many, many years, he realised he was hesitating.

He glanced to his right. Vilayn stood beside him. Other than being more tight-lipped than usual, and his eyes gazing at the clouds on the horizon rather than flicking between each sailor below for the slightest break from attention, he was the same as he always was at the start of a voyage, his hands folded behind his back, only waiting for an order from his captain to spring into action. He had read the roll call as usual and as he snapped at a seaman to quit whispering, it was like looking at a different person to the mer R'khan had last parted ways with at the cornerclub. Duty slammed a door on Vilayn's personal troubles and wouldn't be budged, not even when his eyes happened to pass the ship's cook. Casethar, still in his apron, stood tall and grim at the centre of the crew, waiting with them for their captain's speech.

Somebody coughed on R'khan's other side. Tosti had declined to join the voyage, with a promise that he would instead ensure Luca did not sneak aboard, leaving the role of second mate open. After lengthy discussion, and after being outvoted over awarding the role to Sock in preference to the crew’s choice, R'khan had condescended to grant Braskan the position, on the understanding that his first mistake would see him offered as a live sacrifice to the Three. So far, as he oversaw their departure from port, R'khan was not concerned. Morinah had insisted she be allowed to join any voyage attempting to breach Oblivion's gates, and had accepted keeping an eye on her father as part of the terms of her passage. Braskan seemed more afraid of upsetting her than any number of threats to peel the flesh from his bones. That didn't stop him fidgeting impatiently, though. R'khan couldn't blame him. He didn't understand his own reluctance himself.

Time to get on with it, then. He took another breath and tasted salt, smoke, fish, the smells of Blacklight, the smells of home.

'Right, you lazy s'wits. Too late for cold feet now. If you're stood here, you know what you signed up for, so I ain't going to tell you again. But I will tell you this much. We're going to make history. We're sailing into Oblivion itself and by the Three, lads, I truly believe we'll be coming back again, because this crew is two hundred years in the making and nobody, not even the Daedra, beats the Runaway Scamp.'

They cheered, to a man, or mer, or Khajiit, and R'khan thought, how well I know their faces. Every hand aboard had sailed with the Runaway Scamp before in some capacity or other. They were the only ones mad enough to sign on after they heard the details of the voyage. It was almost disappointing that they were so ready to trust him on a mission with only the slimmest chance of success, as much of a blow as Luca's fierce determination to sneak aboard herself. Her face, red and childlike in its anger as she swore she was an adult, furious tears on her cheeks while Tosti held back her tearing hands and kicking legs, was the last thing R'khan would think of before they passed over the crest of the final wave. He shook himself back to the speech.

'So let's show 'em that as long as we got a ship to sail and some blood left in our bodies, a Scamp will never stop fighting. We'll steal from the devils themselves and damn well live to tell the tale. For Morrowind! For ALMSIVI! And for our own wretched lives!'

They cheered again, Braskan loudest of all, and for a moment R'khan almost believed it himself.

Normal mage drills had been replaced by tutorials from Ethysil in how to perform the ritual. Sails sighted on the horizon, not that there were many of them, had been roundly ignored. Drasonval hardly cared how close he brought them to the outcrops and submerged rocks in the Sea of Ghosts, so intent was he on following the brig's progress across his charts inch by inch. If they missed the location, if they went too wide or overshot, if they performed the tasks they spent so much time practising and had nothing to show for it but a bare patch of seabed, they would never know if the Gate was out there somewhere, only a few miles to port or starboard. A suicide mission was one thing, but an unsuccessful suicide mission hardly inspired a second attempt.

And so it was that when they came upon the correct mark, Drasonval finally slammed his hands down on the maps and nodded. All hands were called on deck. They fell into the routine immediately, the mages chanting in a circle around the Waiting Door which Ethysil had carefully transferred to the weather deck, the sailors holding the brig steady. At first that was no hard task. The Sea of Ghosts never lay still, but it pushed and rocked in a steady, predictable rhythm, the tidal heartbeat they had followed all their lives.

The chanting rose. So did the waves. Under clear skies, water lashed against every face from the storm building beneath them. The prow lifted, tilted back so far it threatened to buck each man into the water, then plunged forwards as the wave passed, swaying, shuddering. The heartbeat became increasingly irregular. R'khan kept his place on the quarterdeck, muttering commands to Vilayn who passed them on in a loud, clear voice.

A hand slipped, skittered to the edge of the deck, clung on to a line and hung suspended as the brig heaved across another breaker. Those who tried to rescue their shipmate ended up in the water as the planks turned treacherous and slippery underfoot. Then, just when it seemed it couldn't grow any worse, the chant stopped.

Magic seared the air and R'khan thought he heard a burst of song, a swell of female voices singing in harmony, before the waves parted and reared up in an impossible arch around a vast, burning portal, dark at the centre despite the flames which defined it. For a minute, a long and slow minute, the deck went still, perched atop an impossible sea. R'khan felt an elbow against his side.

'Should I reef the topsails, r'khan?'

'Somehow, V, I don't think there's anything we can do to change our course now. We're set, off to hell where we belongs.'

'I always said I'd follow you into Oblivion if you asked.' Vilayn breathed in, half lifted a hand, then turned to face the deck. With his eyes on the sailors, he said, 'It's been an honour, Rulanik. Throughout all these years.'

Relkhan Hlaalu Rulanik tightened his hands behind his back.

'Don't be getting sentimental on me now.' His red eyes stared across a raging, demonic sea, stinging with salt. 'But I thought of one thing you can do. Go below to me quarters and check me sea chest. You'll find a new fiddle in it. Give us a shanty to see us out.'

Ever prompt and efficient, Vilayn disappeared below to the cabin, and in only a few minutes returned to the deck with the fiddle tucked beneath his chin. The strains of Morrowindbound danced beneath his fingertips, proud, true, and the stillness cracked. The wave plunged down, the Runaway Scamp still balanced on its crest, sailors hanging from the shrouds and taffrails, cheering, singing, and all were swallowed whole by the Gate.

III

A small fishing boat passed the same way only an hour later. It found the seas calm, the skies empty, and not even the echo of a song to suggest that anyone had ever sailed there before.

#the works of master vilayn

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actualbird · 5 years ago

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a quick n short lil 1.2k drabble i about my dnd character Skirmish’s inner thoughts during the dnd first session

read the story context, full cast of characters, and highlights reel here!!! so that this drabble makes sense kjadajbfak

Perhaps, Skirmish thinks as they hand over forged documents to the crewman, this was an unwise decision.

They don’t let that doubt show on their face though, smiling with all the charm they can muster at the burly crewman reading their papers. Fake name, fake history, fake room number. The crewman shrugs, motions them onto the ship, and Skirmish has done it.

Skirmish has gotten themself on board a ship to the Frontier.

A new land. A new place with opportunities and adventure. A new place where maybe, just maybe, they can find a place for themselves.

They stride onto the ship with their head held high, glancing at the horizon and everything it promises.

Alright, maybe they were a bit too hasty earlier, Skirmish thinks as they stand in a small cabin room with four other people. A burly looking human, a soft looking Half-Elf, a deadpan acolyte practically wrapped in a scarf, and a towering, six foot tall woman with silver hair.

Full crowd. Time to dazzle them.

And screw up immediately as they introduce themselves with their real name. Fucking anxiety.

Skirmish feels the familiar electric pulse of wrong wrong wrong ring in their head. They flash everybody one last smile before scuttling under the comforting small space under one of the bunk beds.

Leave it to Skirmish to get the ball rolling on fucking things up.

I might be unwise, Skirmish thinks at dinner later that evening as they scan the crowd for a naive bastard to trick, but somebody out here must be fool enough to scam.

Unfortunately, the crowd in the mess hall is so thick, they can’t pick out anybody in particular.

They sigh, pushing around the food on their plate despondently. There goes their entertainment for tonight.

Somebody sits at the table they’re sitting at. It’s their Half-Elf roomie. Andromeda “You can call me Andy” Havenglow. She’s got a book in one hand, reading idly as she eats, her gentle gaze tracing the words on the page.

Might as well get to know her.

And the best way to read somebody is to see how they react to getting swindled.

Skirmish grins.

They sidle up next to her, shuffling their cards, and proposes a card trick. If they guess Andromeda’s card right, she owes Skirmish one gold piece. If they guess her card wrong, Skirmish owes her a favor.

Andromeda may not know, but Skirmish being in one’s debt is a big thing, something they’d only bet if they were sure they wouldn’t lose.

She agrees a little nervously and smiles good naturedly when Skirmish guesses their card right, handing over one gold piece into their waiting palm.

Her fingers are soft against their skin.

As they drift into pleasant smalltalk---smalltalk that, amazingly, doesn’t make the electric pulse in their mind pulse angry and heavy---Skirmish can’t help but wonder just what she would ask for if they did guess wrong.

They wonder what a pure soul like her would want in this world.

I may be unwise, Skirmish thinks as they watch their roomie spar with a ridiculously nimble dwarf, but at least I’m not as unlucky as Kelbad.

Skirmish watches the spar with a keen eye, keeping track of who lands hits and who doesn’t. The dwarf, for a bulky little fellow, is adept at dodging, but Kelbad, no matter how many times he misses, doesn’t give up. Kelbad surges forward, determined, like a battering ram who would scoff in the face of anybody who told him no.

Somebody with that kind of drive is somebody Skirmish wants on their side.

Skirmish can’t travel Frontier alone. They need a team.

And the people Skirmish is rooming with seems like the best place to start one.

Fuck the ocean, Skirmish thinks as they groan at the sea sickness wrecking havoc on their body. Fuck the ocean, fuck the fact I got onto this ship, fuck it all.

The silver haired tree of a woman, Vanya, is just as fucked up as they are, in the sea sickness department. She replies to their attempts at conversation with short, clipped tones, getting more and more frustrated as Kelbad, also in the room, hammers away at his equipment.

She asks him to stop, and Kelbad starts a sentence with “Now, now, Vanya---” which even Skirmish knows is a death sentence.

Vanya casts a spell on Kelbad from her prone state on the bed, and Kelbad stops moving. Stops talking.

Okay. She is definitely somebody Skirmish wants on their side. At the very least would be unwise to have her as an enemy.

I may be a charlatan, Skirmish thinks as they look at their cards, but nothing can save a bad draw of chance.

Kelbad, a friendly fellow, has taken to asking the Room 7 crew to play cards every night. Kelbad is unreasonably good for a brute. Vanya has one hell of an icy poker face that Skirmish can’t see through. Theimer, the enigma, is horrible at cards, sighing into his scarf every few seconds.

Andromeda is good, which Skirmish wasn’t expecting. She doesn’t seem the type to play poker, but she must have astounding luck.

They want her on the team.

They want her on the team because she’s lucky, of course.

Not because she was nice enough to bring them warm food earlier when they were in the throes of sea sickness. Absolutely, not because her kind gaze puts the electric pulse of bad in Skirmish’s head at ease. Definitely, not because they want to do another card trick for her and lose on purpose just to see what she would do.

Skirmish sighs, getting another bad draw of the cards. This, they think as they steal glances at Andromeda, is indeed unwise.

Skirmish tries to make wiser decisions after that. They talk to Theimer and discovers that Theimer is actually coming back home to Frontier. Skirmish wants him on their team immediately, finally asking outright for the first time. When Theimer says yes, Skirmish can’t hide their excitement, turning to ask Vanya the same thing.

Vanya isn’t as quick to answer, citing that she’ll tell them at the end of the voyage, and Skirmish can deal with that. Skirmish is good at convincing people.

Skirmish walks away, whistling happily, thinking about travelling Frontier with the Room 7 crew.

They think putting together this team is the best idea they’ve had in a long time.

Of course, things must go wrong.

Things must go wrong after the feast on the last night of the voyage. Things must go wrong after he does a stunning performance in front of a loving crowd. Things must go wrong because his stupid fucking mouth introduced themself by their real name and now they’re being escorted by three sailors to the top deck where there’s not a soul in sight.

The electric pulse of danger danger danger rings out heavy in their mind as the sailors corner them. Skirmish thinks about unsheathing their dagger and fighting their way through this, but three against one is not something they’ll win.

Silently, they hope that something happens. Anything to get them out of this mess.

Lo and behold, their wish comes true.

In the form of three murderous merfolk hellbent on killing them all.

Of course.

The Room 7 crew comes for Skirmish. They come up running to the top deck and fight off the merfolk alongside them.

After Kelbad kills the remaining merfolk, everybody else, Theimer, Vanya, and Andromeda come to Skirmish’s side, asking if they’re okay and---

Skirmish’s mind usually yells at them that they’re doing everything wrong. But now, as they tell everybody that they’re fine, Skirmish thinks cautiously, quietly, hopefully, that maybe---

Maybe this whole team thing is something they’re doing right for once.

#dnd adventures #iwrotesomething

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quotespile · 7 years ago

Quote

You don’t reach Serendib by plotting a course for it. You have to set out in good faith for elsewhere and lose your bearings... serendipitously.

John Barth, The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor

#literature #quotes #John Barth #The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor #books #lit

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mithrilwren · 5 years ago

Text

Dedicated to my own persistent insomnia over the last number of months, and the fact that I’ve never written a Fjord-centric oneshot, which is frankly criminal. This is Fjord/Caduceus, but leaning more towards the queerplatonic side of of the die than explicitly romantic (smooches are nice but have you heard of unfaltering emotional support?) [also on ao3]

the morning calls your name (fjorclay, ~5000 words)

It’s not so much that Fjord stops sleeping. It’s more that it’s begun to taper down: the number of hours he spends with his eyes closed.

There was a time that he got a full seven hours a night, sometimes even more than that, though it seems a far off memory now. Ship life is lousy with routine, the kind that can ruin the wrong sort of man - drive him mad with boredom, or make him rabid for the first sight of land, or trouble - but for Fjord, the routine was all part of the draw. You always knew the time your shift began, and when the bell rang and your berth beckoned, you went. His body got used to that predictability. It knew how to lull itself off to sleep without his help. All he had to do was lie there, let himself be drowned in the creak of the bulkheads and the briny surfside air, and then he’d be out, just like that. There wasn’t a trick to it. It just happened.

A month ago, he would have settled for six. Now he tells himself that five is still enough to go on. Five hours is all that Vandren took - and after all, why should Fjord need more than him?

It’s when the number gets to four that it starts getting harder to convince himself that everything is the way it should be. That everything is fine, just as it is.

But, of course, he does.

—-

One night over dinner in some backwoods tavern, Caduceus catches Fjord by the wrist. “Are you running a fever?” he demands, already reaching for Fjord’s forehead with the hand that isn’t occupied keeping Fjord’s still. The spoon between his fingers steadies, and the last of its soupy contents are saved from sloshing back into the bowl, or onto the table.

Fjord hadn’t realized he was trembling quite that badly, if he’s honest.

The meat of Caduceus’s palm is cool against his skin, a soothing pressure that might have been easier to bear in a less public venue. Embarrassed, he pulls away before the others can see. Maybe he is catching ill. It could explain why his face seems determined to flash between flushed and clammy with giving him a moment’s rest, and why the shivers running down his spine are more electric than your typical chills.

Fjord puts the spoon down and places his hands in his lap. If he presses down on them, his fingers quiet a little. Better.

Caduceus lets him go without a fuss, which he’s grateful for, but… gods, he misses the hand once it’s gone. It was nice to have something to lean against, if only for a few seconds. It’s too early to go to bed, but his head already feels impossibly heavy.

“Don’t think so,” Fjord answers finally. “Must just be hungry. Low blood sugar, maybe.” He can’t pretend like Caduceus didn’t see what he saw, though he’s still hoping Caduceus might. And after all, if it isn’t sickness, maybe it is hunger. It would make sense. Food’s been turning his stomach lately, the type or quality not seeming to matter. He hasn’t really examined it too closely. He was raised a kid in an orphanage that never had enough to go around, then a sailor on a long haul vessel, where the hardtack was all that was left by the end of the voyage. A lack of appetite has never been anything but a blessing.

“Mmm,” muses Caduceus. “Then you should make sure to finish that.” He nudges Fjord’s meal towards him. The sodden vegetables that sank to the bottom of the bowl swirl in a lazy arc as it inches closer, leaving streaks of oil all through the thin broth. Fjord’s stomach does a flip.

Caduceus is one to talk, he thinks. If there’s anyone who needs a lecture on feeding himself enough, it’s their resident vegetarian. But Fjord doesn’t say that. Caduceus will (rightly) read his words as deflection, and redouble his efforts to get Fjord to finish the bowl. Which would be simpler to do, if his hands would just stop shaking for two damn seconds.

It’s a bit of a conundrum - a circular problem, really. Eat, then feel better, then it makes eating less of a trial. He just has to pick a point and start.

He reaches for the spoon. And that’s as far as he gets.

Nott and Beau are arguing about something across the table. Somebody stole someone else’s mug, there’s not enough pork belly to go around, some circumstance has off and upset Caleb; who knows what it is tonight. There’s always something to bicker about, but at least tonight it’s keeping the rest of the group’s attention occupied.

“I could help, if that would make things easier,” Caduceus offers, a hint of a smile playing over his lips, and this time Fjord’s face flushes with a definite heat. Shame slinks down low in his belly, enough to overpower the nausea in his gut, enough to spur him to pick up the bowl, spoon be damned, and swallow the rest of the broth in three mighty gulps. When he looks at Caduceus over the rim of the bowl, already regretting the decision, his expression hasn’t changed. He’s still smiling, like he’s pleased either way, so long as the soup made it into Fjord.

He definitely doesn’t feel better.

“I can feed myself,” Fjord insists, wiping the corners of his mouth with his hand. He means to be scornful; it comes out defensive. The shame coils a little tighter, curdling the soup to bile in his belly. He isn’t a child, but he’s doing a fine imitation of one.

“I know you can,” Caduceus says, unmoved. “Did it help at all?”

“Yes,” Fjord lies. Then, because he’s starting to feel like an asshole, “thanks.”

He shouldn’t have snapped. Like always, Caduceus is just trying to help. He’s not searching for ammunition, or picking him apart for things to whisper to the others: proof that Fjord is unable to shoulder his own load, yet again.

He wouldn’t do that. Others might, others have, but Caduceus won’t.

At least, Fjord hopes.

They really haven’t known each other that long.

—

It must have started with the dreams. Or… well, then again, maybe it was the shipwreck that did it. The two experiences are indelibly linked; you don’t get one without the other. Could have been either. Might have been both.

Probably both.

Either way, the months drag on, and Fjord finds his eyes opening a little earlier each night. At first, that seems like a good thing. There are things that need doing, and not enough capable hands to do them. Nobody else can mend a spoke like he can (that’s a lie - Jester’s magic does in an instant what his hands can in an hour), or keep a fire going on a damp night (that too - and Caleb doesn’t even need wood to do it), or-

There really isn’t much, is there? Things he can do, that the others can’t.

More nights than most, he ends up just lying awake as the moon glides slowly overhead, curled with his blanket below his chin and his eyes squeezed tightly shut, like a little more pressure might help him nod off for good. Occasionally, he gives up and wanders a bit off from camp. Finds a log, leans his back against it, counts the leaves in the trees above. He does his best to ignore the scratch of rough cotton against his chest, and the salty particulate that dries hard and irritating within the weave of coarse fabric, that doesn’t come out no matter how hard he scrubs. The discomfort is as good an excuse as any for why he doesn’t want to lay back down. But in general, the group doesn’t ask. Everybody has their own shit to deal with.

He does find, alone in the cool night air, his eyelids fluttering, listening to the birds greet the new dawn, that he rests a little easier. He still can’t usually sleep, but a light doze is manageable.

When there’s a tavern, he shares a room with Molly. Molly, who drinks and carouses and comes back at all hours of the night - sometimes alone, sometimes in company, always loud . And if Fjord wakes up once, that’s it for him - the end of whatever meager rest he’s managed to eke out, though truthfully, if it’s a night involving company, a hallway sit or chatting with the bartender till sunrise is preferable to being present for what follows, asleep or no.

It’s annoying at times, sure, and he begins most mornings bleary-eyed one way or the other, but it’s not that bad, all in all. The nights when Molly is present and it’s just the two of them, Fjord sleeps well, and deeply, and the dreams tend to come less often than they otherwise might.

Those are the good nights.

Then comes Shadycreek Run. Then comes Lorenzo, and darkness, and endless nightmares that spill into the waking hours, and when they all emerge into the light of day once more, Fjord can no longer bring himself to wander too far from camp at night, not without someone else watching his back.

And Molly is gone.

And Caduceus takes his place. And they all move on.

And Fjord still sleeps, on most nights. Just a little less.

—-

“Hey, there. That’s alright. That’s fine now. You want to take a few steps back towards me?”

Fjord blinks, the shattered shards of glass crystalizing in his vision into something a little less metaphorical, a little less abstract.

The cup. He dropped it.

Oh.

It’s well past midnight, though in the absent light of Rosohna, there’s no good way to tell. There’s also no good reason for Caduceus to be awake, down here, watching Fjord make a mess of things as he fumbles for a glass of water in the dark.

He’s not really sure why his eyes are burning. It’s just a glass; they have twenty, of all shapes and sizes, and none of them expensive. What a stupid thing to be upset over.

He’s just tired.

He’s just tired .

“Fjord?”

Oh, right. Caduceus is still standing there, waiting for Fjord to back away from the hazardous region now strewn across their kitchen floor, like a normal person would.

The first step is easy enough to keep steady. The second is harder. Caduceus grabs a hold of his shoulders by the third, guides him into a chair that definitely wasn’t there a moment before. “There you go,” Caduceus encourages him. “Let me just get that cleaned up, ok? Just a couple minutes. Don’t go anywhere on me.”

Fjord opens his mouth - to offer to help, or to apologize, he’s not sure which - but his tongue is lead-weighted, his throat too closed off to form sound. Caduceus grabs a broom, and Fjord takes deep breaths, and watches someone else clean up his mess.

“Thank you,” he says as Caduceus pads back over his direction after depositing the broken glass into a basket by the door. His feet are bare, but he doesn’t seem worried about any shards that might remain. “You didn’t have to do that.” Vandren’s accent cloys in his mouth, too difficult to maintain properly at this time of night. His ‘r’s are beginning to morph into something smooth and clipped, rather than long and drawling, and his words come slower as he tries to choose simpler ones, the kind that don’t require an effort. “You should… bed. Sleep. We’ll have a long day tomorrow.” Shit, he almost made it, but that last one nearly ended in a flipped tongue. Fjord shuts his mouth before it can betray him any further.

“I’d offer you a metaphor about glass and houses, but it seems a little too on the nose,” Caduceus teases. He goes to the wall and lights a little lantern, summoning a dim glow that neither of them technically need to see, before kneeling in front of Fjord’s chair. Caduceus’s height being what it is, that brings the two of them just about to eye-level. “May I?”

Fjord nods, not quite knowing what he’s agreed to, but feeling it’s owed, regardless. Caduceus places a few fingers beneath Fjord’s chin, turning it this way and that, tipping his jaw back to expose Fjord’s throat in a way that sends his blood singing from root to fingertip. When he swallows, his gorge rises against the soft fur that carpets Cadcueus’s knuckles. He shivers - not quite afraid, not quite not.

“Can you look down at me? There. That’s perfect.” Apparently, Caduceus finds what he’s looking for with little effort, because he barely meets Fjord’s eyes longer than a moment before his gaze shifts away. Or maybe Fjord’s does; it’s hard to tell. He’s been having trouble keeping his eyes focused, recently.

“What- what was that for?” Fjord stumbles, trying and failing to land in the realm of ‘curious’ rather than ‘irrationally frightened’.

“I was just wondering… hmm. Did you know, you can tell a lot about most animals, just by looking at their eyes?”

“I... did not.”

“Oh yes. If an animal is fatigued, or in distress, their pupils tend to dilate and contract rather rapidly. Haven’t you noticed?” If this is an allegory that ends in his health being measured against Jester’s weasel, he’s laying full claim to the right to quit the team for good.

“Can’t say that I spend a lot of time looking into animals’ eyes.”

“I highly recommend it.” Caduceus cocks his head to the side, pausing to mull over whatever his next words will be. His shock of pink hair tickles the edge of Fjord’s collarbone. Fjord swallows again. “Your eyes are telling me quite a bit, Fjord.”

Maybe there’s a bit of animal in him after all, because Fjord’s first instinct is to bolt like a cornered one. “Like what?” he asks, a question he doesn’t want the answer to.

“That this isn’t the first night you’ve been up wandering at all hours. That you could use a little more sleep than you’re getting.”

Fjord huffs a laugh, then forces himself to shuffle the chair back out of Caduceus’s reach and stand. Caduceus follows suit, quick enough to block Fjord’s path before he slips out of the kitchen. He’s lithe, but tall and long-limbed, and Fjord would have to shoulder-check his way out to get past him. He doesn’t think Caduceus would put up a fight. He wouldn’t force him to stay.

There’s no reason to feel as trapped as he does.

“I should probably get to bed, like you said,” Fjord offers weakly.

Caduceus doesn’t move aside. “Will you sleep, when you’re there?” A whine is building up in Fjord’s throat, desperation and frustration mingling into something easier to call anger than dread.

“As much as I ever do,” he forces through gritted teeth, not quite there enough to lie. “Let me past, will you?”

Caduceus’s willowy arm branches towards the doorframe - at first a barrier, and then an acquiescence. A beckoning, guiding Fjord through. “...Go ahead.”

Would you come with me?

The question is so unexpected, even in his own mind, that it startles him back into some measure of wakefulness. Once he has it, it rests on his tongue like a buzzing insect, begging to be set free. He hasn’t gotten a good night’s rest since Molly died, and Caduceus wouldn’t read the same implication into the question as others might- But it’s too late to ask for that now. It’s all too late.

When they first got this house, Beau and Jester claimed a room together, like there was no question that one would stay without the other, and he really had wanted his own space back then, he had wanted it, had been desperate for it, because it was safer to be on his own - less time he had to spend hiding the salt-water stains, and the accent slips. He wanted it, and he can’t complain now about loneliness when Caduceus is already gone and settled into his own private sanctuary on the roof, when it’s all been decided and laid down in stone. The sheer neediness of the request chokes him. He can’t always be the one asking for help. He can’t be-

Fjord-

He can’t-

Fjord…

He can’t-

“Fjord.”

They’re at the top of the stairs.

How did they get there?

Caduceus is still at his arm, still talking. “Will you be alright?”

“Always am,” he says mechanically, because it’s true. He’s kept going this long.

There are blankets being handed to him, hands guiding him into bed, hands smoothing back the hair from his forehead. His mind leaps about, springing from one thought to the next with alarming speed, and the one incredulous thought at the center of it all: that he used to want something like this, in the years before he taught himself not to want anything from parents that were never coming back.

“I could stay, if you’d like.” Did Fjord say it after all, then? He doesn’t think so. He would have remembered - but the trip from kitchen to bedroom is still rather hazy. “Do you want me to stay, Fjord?” Caduceus asks again, uncertain, like he doesn’t already know the answer to his own question. That’s a first.

“M’ fine,” he mumbles into his pillow. Now that it comes down to it, the prospect of having someone else there when he wakes goes back to being terrifying, though the reason why eludes him, lost somewhere in the sparking cavalcade of exhausted thoughts. Maybe there isn’t a reason. Maybe he’s just scared of everything. That tracks.

“... alright.” Caduceus isn’t pleased with his answer. That tracks too. He’s not usually good at giving them. He’s not usually good...

“Sleep well, Fjord.”

And he does, for the hour or so before another dream comes, and when he wakes it’s to the visage of a yellow eye burnt into his eyelids. But somewhere beyond that, in the periphery, there’s another sight too: the memory of two pink irises, and a soft hand against his throat, so different from Avantika’s sharpened nails or Uk’otoa’s slithering grip.

It’s been a while, since someone has touched him there, and not meant for him to choke.

—-

It’s fitting, he’ll think many years later, that the end of it all came in a dream too. That he should have woken again in the ocean’s embrace, but safe on dry land as well. The kelp that embalms his limbs protects rather than pulls: warding against an icy death, rather than dragging him to it. There is no struggle to reach the surface - no call to fight, to destroy, to dominate, to consume. There are only gentle words, gentler warmth, and an ever-greening light - not a promise of salvation, but a path towards it.

He dreams, for as long as it takes for his friends to pull him from his cocoon. Once he’s finally found his feet again, his legs are stronger beneath him than they’ve ever been. When he reaches out to summon the sword, his fingers are steady. No hint of a tremor in his wrist.

It feels like being awake, for the first time in a long time.

—-

They take a long, long rest in Halas’s armory, or what’s left of it. Honestly, Fjord would have rather kept going. He’s all too cognizant of the time that’s passing in the outside world. The last time the group went on an indefinite sojourn into the unknown, they came back to find Felderwin in ruins, destroyed in their absence. He hasn’t forgotten how Nott could have lost her husband and child for the sake of his stupidity, his hubris. How they all could have brought about the end of the world if he’d just pushed it a little farther. How even now that he’s left that life behind, even now that the Wildmother has - somehow, impossibly - deigned to make him her paladin, he still has a lot to make up for.

The rest of the party is already asleep, all pressed to the edges of the dome like fish in a barrel, circling Caleb’s huddled form beneath the apex. Even in the faint light from the glowing runes of the two magical ballistae, Fjord can make out the beginnings of an angry bruise at the base of his throat, where the golem’s collar snapped shut and bit into the flesh. Caleb’s hand twitches every so often towards the injured spot, worrying the absent collar even in sleep. He understands; Fjord doubts he’d be able to forget something like that any quicker than Caleb.

From his perch in the gunner’s nest, there isn’t much to see - just a closed door to the tower, and the still-smoking remains of the golem at its foot.

Off.

Who knew it could be that simple? One word from Caduceus, and the lights go out. If he’d known, he thinks with more humor than bitterness, he might have asked Caduceus to try it on him months ago, just to see if it stuck.

Fjord told the others that he didn’t need to rest with them, that he felt fine. And it was true, truer than it’s been in a long time. He’ll be tired when the party wakes, but not deliriously so. That’s the thing - when you get enough sleep on the regular, missing a night or two here or there isn’t unbearable.

And funnily enough, he has been. Sleeping, that is.

At first, he thought the shift was Melora’s doing - a depth of dreaming she invoked to keep Uk’otoa’s eyes off him. He was alright with it being nothing more than her failsafe against his being taken back - anything for an extra few hours of shut-eye. But the change wasn’t all at once, a one and done thing. There are still plenty of nights that he tosses and turns, wakes sweat-soaked and exhausted, paces the length of his room while he waits for a socially appropriate hour to start on breakfast. Still, he’s found that not dreading the mornings to come is helping at lot with staying asleep. There are still problems and worries to face when he gets up, but far fewer that he has to handle on his own.

He didn’t really realize, until now, how much the facade was taking out of him.

Though he wishes he could, Fjord doesn’t meditate the way Caduceus does, at least not when he’s alone. He’s tried before, but he never seems to know the right words, the right rituals, the right state of mind. But he’s learning. He’s getting there. In the meantime, Fjord does what he can: he thinks the night away. He ponders lakes and dustlands and marshy swamps; all the places they’ve been, all the ones they haven’t visited yet. He hears her voice in the remembrance of crashing waves, and calls that close enough to worship.

He thinks, for him, it is.

When the rest of the party finally comes to, Fjord hasn’t slept a wink. Still, he doesn’t feel exhausted. He’s fine, actually.

And you know what? This time, he really might be.

—-

The girls have their tattoos finished by the time the three of them return to the ship, bellies heavy with greasy food and hearts a little lighter. Caleb goes to check on Nott, already asleep in their room, and a wincing Jester drags Beau around the middle and pulls her off to bed, both trying not to jostle the other’s fresh ink. Which just leaves Fjord and Caduceus on deck, and Orly, who’s in the process of wrapping up his tools into bundles and tying them off with leather twine.

“Your cabin’s waiting, Cap’tn,” Orly says, catching Fjord’s eye. “Finally got the last of Avantika’s things cleared out, if you’ll be wanting a bigger space.”

He’ll never quite be comfortable with that title, nor the privileges it seems to afford. “No,” he hedges, “that’s- my old room’s fine. Plenty of space for me.” Caduceus clears his throat and Fjord flinches, all at once reminded that he’s not the only one impacted by his refusal. “Unless you’d rather have the room to yourself, Caduceus? I could- or you-”

“Whatever you prefer is fine with me,” Caduceus says, pleasant but noncommittal, then heads for the hatch to the lower level. Fjord stares after him, not really sure what to do with that.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” Orly says, finally breaking the awkward silence. “Night, Cap’tn.”

“Night,” he echoes back. Orly disappears below deck, and then it’s only him, left with nothing but his indecision to ward off the night chill.

It’s not like he has to make the choice right away - Avantika’s former quarters are on the way to the rest of the crew berths. He’s somewhat surprised to find that no one else has taken up residence there. Like Orly said, they’re far more generous than the typical room. But the way he had said it… it’s almost like they were keeping the space open. For the Captain, whenever she- whenever Fjord returned.

Fjord staunchly swallows past the lump in his throat, then turns the doorknob to Avantika’s quarters.

There it all is, just as they left it, if a bit more barren - a desk, a bed, a poorly sealed hole in the floor, an empty alcove where a shrine once sat. It’s a fine room, and well insulated from the outside world. With the doors to the balcony closed, he can barely hear the ocean’s rock against the hull.

Fjord sits on the double bed, presses a hand to the sheets. Still the same mattress as when- as the last time. He can tell. It’s not hard like a typical berth; Avantika had a taste for the richer things in life. She was particular. She was…

His throat closes up a little more, not from emotion this time, but a memory. He looks down at the pillow, and sees red hair spilling like silk from a careless hand, sees his own grip come up to match hers. Sees how easily a slender throat can snap, with enough pressure. If the mood is right. If it’s what has to be done.

Avantika never once asked him to stay.

He doesn’t know what it’s like, to wake up in this bed. He doesn’t want to.

...He doesn’t have to.

Caduceus is still awake by the time Fjord finds his way back to their old room. There’s a little kettle going on the dresser, which has to be against some sort of shipside regulation, but without an open flame he can’t find any reason to complain. Caduceus doesn’t comment on his tardiness, but he does offer Fjord a cup.

Fjord can’t help but notice that there were already two set out.

“So, how’s it feel?” Caduceus asks as Fjord takes a seat on the opposite bed.

“How’s what feel?”

“Being back here, on this ship?”

Fjord sips his tea - herbal, loamy, not bad - and takes the time to consider his answer. He wants to give an honest one. He’s been working at that. “Good,” he decides. “I missed this.” What this is is somewhat nebulous, even in his own mind, but it feels right when he says it.

“Good,” says Caduceus. “Glad to hear it.”

They sit a while in silence after that, drinking their tea, exchanging the occasional friendly glance over their respective cups. This feels… safe, in a way that Avantika’s chamber didn’t.

“Hey, Caduceus? Can I ask a question?”

“Mm?” Caduceus hums, setting down his tea and giving Fjord his full attention. “Sure.”

“It’s just… something that I’ve been wondering about.” He laughs, the old self-deprecation still creeping into his voice, though not as heavily as it once did. “It’s stupid... you probably don’t even remember this. But there was a night, back in Xhorhas, when you helped me clean up a broken glass in the kitchen.”

“...I remember,” Caduceus says after a moment, expression unreadable.

Fjord’s heart is pounding harder than it has any right to.

“Did I… did I ask you, to stay with me?” Fjord ducks his head, knowing that his embarrassment, as always, shows too clearly on his face. “I mean- just because you said, you know- I wasn’t sure.” He cuts himself off before he can stumble back into the neverminds and forget its. They can only protect him so far, and he really does want to know, as much as he fears the answer.

Caduceus breaks into a soft smile. “Well, not in those words, no. But it seemed to me that you were asking for something, for a very long time. We just weren’t very good at hearing you.”

Fjord laughs again, rubbing at his neck. “You have to actually speak for people to hear what you’re saying.”

Caduceus watches him, rolling over Fjord’s self-effacing tone with painfully solemn honesty. “I don’t think that’s always true.”

Fjord stares at the walls, not really able to keep on meeting eyes that always seem to see right through him. “I wanted you to stay,” he admits - not quite a whisper, but not quite there either. “ I was afraid to.”

“Why’s that?” The question betrays nothing more than curiosity, but Fjord treats it with the seriousness it deserves.

“Vandren always taught me that there’s nothing weaker than saddling other people with your problems. I didn’t want... to need that kind of help. To be weak, like that.”

“Even if I wanted to give it?”

It’s Fjord’s turn to look at Caduceus, to really look at him. Insight has never been his strong suit, but Caduceus seems genuine, in the way that Fjord wants to be, has been trying to be.

“Why?” That’s the crux of his confusion, the one thing Fjord can’t wrap his head around. “Why would you want that?” What am I to you, that you keep on giving, when all I do is take?

“Because I care for you.” He says it like it’s true, like it’s what he really feels. I care for you . What does that mean? “You don’t believe me,” Caduceus states, impossibly understanding, but still disappointed.

“No,” Fjord is quick to correct him, not wanting to throw his words back in his face, “No, it’s just…” Why bother with me, of all people? “It just seems like it shouldn’t have to be your responsibility.”

“You make it sound like kindness is a burden.” Fjord shrugs. Caduceus leans forward, knees a breath away from brushing his own. “You are not a burden to me, Fjord.”

His eyes are burning again. Fjord grips the edges of the mattress, tries so hard not to hear those words for what they are, and what they mean, because the moment he does he knows something will break.

“You don’t have to believe me. But can I… may I show you?” The other mattress creaks, and then his own dips as Caduceus sits down by his side, waiting for an affirmation. When Fjord nods, he takes both hands and places them on either side of his chin. He turns Fjord until they’re nose to nose - breathing the same air, filling the same space. The pads of his thumbs soothe along the rabbiting pulse that courses beneath Fjord’s skin.

Fjord closes his eyes, overwhelmed, as Caduceus lifts one hand and traces it along the edge of his cheek.

“I wondered, for a very long time, if I was on the right path. Whether what I was doing was really what the Wildmother intended.” His fingers move to the line of Fjord’s nose, pausing over the scar that cuts a jagged crease over his eye. “You were the first sign, that I had found my destiny. I knew, from the moment we met, that there was something broken in you.” Fjord flinches, but Caduceus’s other hand squeezes his neck gently, keeping him from turning away but not forcing, never forcing. “But you found your way out from the darkness. I may have lit the way, but you pulled yourself out. And I am so proud of you.”

Fjord’s mouth parts involuntarily as the words seep into his chest, caught between a gasp and a whimper. The burning behind his eyes finally spills over. “You- every part of you, even the ones you hate- deserved to be saved. So if anything, it’s me who was selfish in all of this. Because I wanted to be the one to do it.”

He doesn’t remember the last time he cried in front of another person. He’s not sure he ever has. He should be mortified. But as Caduceus’s thumbs smooth away the wetness from his cheeks, he can’t bring himself to feel any shame. The tears seep like poison from an old wound - too long held inside his chest, too long carried beneath his skin, and hidden away.

He lets his head drop to Caduceus’s shoulder. Lets himself be held. Lets himself hold on in return. And doesn’t feel guilty, for any of it.

—-

Crew quarters aren’t nearly as finely made as the captain’s cabin. Here, you hear everything - every groan of the hull, every buffett of wind, every shuffle of rigging from those still above deck.

Fjord wakes to all those familiar sounds, and some that are new - gentle snores, puffs of warm breath, a heartbeat slower than his own. The seagulls are just beginning to herald the dawn, their cries sharp and biting, urging him to get up and start the day.

A little longer, Fjord thinks hazily. Just a few minutes more.

He pulls one elbow out from where it’s fallen asleep beneath Caduceus’s side, then presses the tip of his cold nose back into the warmth of the silken shirt in from of him. Caduceus stirs, but doesn’t wake, and the arm that covers Fjord’s shoulders pulls him in a little closer. He lets himself be pulled. Lets his eyes fall closed.

Before he knows it, he’s asleep again.

#critical role #critrole fic #critrole angst #fjorclay #fjord #caduceus clay #cr spoilers #(only tagging because there are very mild ones from the last episode in this)#me: this is going to be a quick drabble #me (5000 words later | crying): oh no #my writing

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gigi-sinclair · 5 years ago

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Short fic: “Turmoil On the Inside”

For my @theterrorbingo square “indifference”, and @terrorafterdusk‘s prompt “Cold Snap” (although I’ve taken some liberty with the interpretation of that one.)

“Turmoil on the Inside”, Thomas Jopson/Edward Little, rated M, 821 words. TW for referenced sexual harassment and canon flogging.

Turmoil on the inside needn't show on the out.

As a maxim, it has served Thomas well. Both in his career—a steward has to smile when he wants to scream, must suppress all fits of temper even when they are well-earned—and in his life. As a child, there was no use in crying from hunger, when everybody he knew was just as hungry. There was no sense in wallowing in self-pity, when there was always somebody much worse off.

Thomas has witnessed floggings before, of course. Many of them. Mr. Hickey is only the second man he's seen whipped as a boy. Most sailors are too intelligent to let it get that far. This means Hickey either possesses no sense of self-preservation, or is so monumentally stupid he is a potential danger to them all. Perhaps the two are not mutually exclusive.

As usual, Thomas schools his expression into one of polite indifference. He looks on disinterestedly, as if he were serving at table, or polishing the silverware, or helping the captain drunkenly piss in the general direction of his chamber pot. When the first strike hits, a bloody squelch on the smooth, pale skin of Hickey's backside, Thomas' stomach seizes.

Dirtiness, the captain said. Everyone has heard the rumours about Hickey, of course. Captain Crozier is apparently no exception.

“Disgraceful,” he muttered to Thomas, as if Thomas did not know all there is to know about the captain.

“Indeed,” Thomas agreed, as if he himself had not skylarked with more than his fair share of men.

Not always by choice. The officers aboard Terror are honourable men, but not all of their Naval brothers can say the same. Thomas has encountered more than a few who find it acceptable to shove their cockstands into his face when he kneels to help them with their boots, who slide their uninvited hands over his body when he steps into the private domain of their cabins. A forthright man, such as Lieutenant Little for example, would scarcely believe the things these depraved officers have said to Thomas, the lewd suggestions they've made, the speculation they have forced Thomas to hear about what he might like them to do to him, and what will happen to him if he disagrees. Lieutenant Little, who has only ever spoken to Thomas with the utmost respect, would be shocked to hear what Thomas has endured from other men. Appalled. Angry. Perhaps jealous?

Thomas cannot allow himself to venture any further in that direction. Instead, he focuses on the scene before him. Thomas has to give him his due; Hickey is taking it well. He's known men given fewer lashes who wept, screamed, pleaded for it to stop. Thomas wonders, sometimes, how he himself would react. He has spent a lifetime developing his unflappable facade, but pain like this, not to mention the humiliation, might be enough to crack it.

He has no intention of finding out. Hickey's punishment, as unpleasant as it is to witness, will be a good reminder over the months to come, as the voyage drags on. As Thomas, spending day after day in Lieutenant Little's presence, might be tempted to do something supremely inadvisable.

Thomas dreams, at times, of the supremely inadvisable. Of putting himself on the lieutenant's knee in some convenient moment alone, of kissing his handsome face, of introducing him to delights Thomas is certain Lieutenant Little has never experienced, but which Thomas could render so incredibly appealing, the man would at once wonder how he ever lived without. Only if the lieutenant was agreeable, of course. In Thomas' dreams, he is always very agreeable.

Reality and dreams are two different beasts. That's something else Thomas learned very early in life. Dreams are sweet kisses, a secret romance, making love with a handsome, worthy man who wants nothing more than to protect Thomas and honour him and love him in return. Reality is this: an overcrowded room stinking of sweat, with blood on the floor and disgrace in the air.

When they are at last dismissed, Thomas sees Lieutenant Little cast a glance in his direction, with the same hesitant subtlety he often shows in the wardroom. Thomas doesn't look back. Instead, he hardens his heart, shores up his mask, and turns away. It's for his own good, as well as the lieutenant's.

Thomas can live with disappointment. He's been doing that his whole life. Turmoil on the inside needn't show on the out. And neither should want, or desire. Or love.

A polite smile, an obedient, rule-abiding demeanour and indifference to all but his master the captain. That's what's brought Thomas as far as he's come, and that's what will keep him sane, safe and healthy for however long the expedition lasts.

Hickey might take the same lesson from this experience. Thomas doubts he will. Not that it's any affair of his.

#theterrorbingo #terrorafterdusk

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theateared · 5 years ago

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I’ve Got You. ❜

Summary: I made up a lot of constellations and stuff.

“I’m surprised you had time for this. And that you even remembered.”

“You wound me, Grace,” he said with a complimentary chuckle as he came to stand beside her, a long, thin bag slung over his shoulder. They stood there atop a tall hill like cursed scarecrows, a brisk chill burrowing its way beneath their clothes. A lone bench sat a ways behind them, smothered in shadows cast by overhanging trees.

She peered at the bag curiously as he shrugged it off of his shoulder, squinting at it as it was offered to her. “... what is it?”

He considered his answer before settling on an enigmatic: “A gift.”

After a few moments of feeling her stare scalding him, she huffed quietly and reached out to take it. When the weight disappeared from his hand, it flopped to his side as if he’d lost all sensation in it. However, his ears remained upright, trained on her so as to gauge her reaction. The zipper was tugged slowly, as if she expected a snake to spring forth and lock its jaw around her fingers, before a small gasp was released. Edgar could barely stop his lips from twitching, a rare genuine smile threatening to rise to the surface.

The telescope was thin and light in her hands, though it carried with it a quality that she was unfamiliar with. In all her time star-gazing, the closest she had gotten to a telescope was an ancient monocle she’d stolen from a deceased man many moons ago. Its silver finish glistened in the moonlight, glinting like a knife catching a streetlamp. After a moment of silence, her eyes found his, round with amazement.

“Where… did you get this?” It was a question posed with bated breath, wonderment laced in every fine syllable. She finished with an awestruck: “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s… complicated.” The truth was, he’d made a deal for it with an incredibly intelligent young boy. To think that the only thing he’d wanted in return for his high-end star-spotter was a passing grade in his P.E class. It had been exceptionally easy for Edgar to frighten his teacher into altering the pitiful ‘E’ into an acceptable ‘C’. Why it was so important to the child, he couldn’t understand. If he had to guess, it was likely something to do with the relationship with his parents. I don’t care about that. I care about impressing Grace.

It looked as if she was going to start asking questions, so he took the opportunity to sweep close to her and point at the sky, his free arm winding around her shoulders. “So! What’re these ‘’constellations’’ you’ve been telling me about, hm? You said tonight was perfect for them.”

Her sigh of resignation was like music to his ears. “They’re like… sky-pictures. C’mere and I’ll show you.”

Gently, she wrapped her hand around his closest wrist and tugged him with her to the bench. His body folded obediently beside hers, head on a permanent incline towards the sky. She briefly considered how odd it was to see him looking up at anything; him being over eight feet tall meant that he was almost permanently tilted downwards.

Even without the telescope, she could see the beginnings of Huron’s Trail, though when she raised it to her eye, the picture became clearer than she’d ever seen it. Her heart skipped a beat, a glimmer of wonder entering her eyes as she honed in on the dotted line. It was so familiar. She knew every starlit swirl, yet she felt as if she had never laid eyes on the pattern before. It was so crisp and bright as she peered through the glass that she briefly considered the possibility that she was dreaming.

“Grace?”

She blinked hard, returning to the present so quickly that she experienced head-rush. “Oh,” she said gingerly, lowering the telescope into her lap as a meek laugh escaped her, a stray lock of hair tucked behind her ear. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Edgar replied, a smirk turning the corners of his mouth to sharp points as a slight blush rose to her face. “You’re so endearing when you’re embarrassed.”

“Oh, leave me alone…” she muttered, nudging him with an elbow before she handed him the telescope. “Just hold it up to your eye and I’ll show you Huron’s Trail properly.”

When he followed her instruction, she reached out to adjust the object oh-so-slightly, making sure it was properly focused on the arrangement. Huron’s Trail was special to her, namely because it was one of the only constellations to have received its name from somebody outside of the district.

“Do you know about Huron’s Trail?” she asked, secretly hoping that he didn’t.

“I’ll be honest, I know nothing about any star,” he replied, grin unwavering. She found it sweet that he would admit that. Though she’d come to expect surprises from him at this point, she still found it somewhat staggering that an authority figure was willing to acknowledge when they didn’t know something.

“Okayokayokay-- I’ll be your teacher, then!” He said nothing, keeping the image of Grace in a tight pencil skirt whilst brandishing a ruler to himself. “So this constellation was actually previously known as Starla Geddon, a subtle nod to the tale of General Geddon. He was apparently separated from his men in enemy territory for days and eventually found his way home through smoke and ash by following the direction of that jagged arrow right there--” She drew it out with her finger even though he couldn’t see her doing so. “-- but was renamed by a mysterious traveller after it was discovered that General Geddon was actually a traitor to huros. During the war, he worked as a spy, selling out his comrades. He spun a tale to cover his tracks, though it was eventually uncovered several centuries later. As you can probably imagine, lots of people were upset about this. It was left nameless for ages until that weirdo came stumbling into town, offering it a new name because of how it led him into the district. Apparently, no matter where you stand, the arrow always faces us.”

“Valor?” Edgar asked, keeping the fact that he knew the tale of General Geddon a secret. “Ah, yeah. I… forget his name all the time.” “Heh. He’s an interesting fellow.” “You’ve met him?”

“Oh, yes!” Edgar exclaimed, finally pulling his face away from the telescope so that he could look at her properly. His hands moved as he spoke, spinning her a tale of equal intrigue. “The most fascinating part about him is that he’s painfully ordinary! Though he’s become a legend at this point, he’s a very humble creature. His only desire is to explore. He lusts for nothing except the thrill of the journey. He just... accidentally saves people along the way.”

Grace tilted her head, smiling. “Really? If I had that many stories about me, maybe it’d go to my head a little bit…”

“You and I both,” Edgar replied, sinking in his seat somewhat. His head was very close to her shoulder, she noted, though she didn’t do anything to push him away. “Go on. Show me another.”

Overjoyed, she took the telescope from him and searched for another nearby. She knew where most of them were at this point, though she still had to follow the map she’d conjured up in her head. Eventually, the glass settled on the bow of The Renegade. She gasped with excitement, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and drawing him nearer, as if trying to share the scope with him. At last, she had the sense to pull it away from herself, shoving it in front of his eye.

He made an audible sound, one that was akin to a laugh but not quite, before he tried to focus on the vague outline of a ship. It was a massive thing, even condensed into a single lens; a fleet that appeared to have cannons withdraw on either side, a large swirling star serving as the ammunition it had fired.

“That’s a big boat,” he mused, prompting Grace to giggle quietly.

“You could say that about The Renegade, I guess,” she replied. “It’s just a story, but it apparently belonged to a weary sailor who ran out of water to explore. Apparently one day he became so weary that he took his boat on one last voyage, only he never returned. Legend says that Raku gave the boat the ability to fly after He saw how sad the man was, and he went to the Astral Plane to pick a place to rest.” She paused, allowing a self-aware chuckle to slip out. “Likely? Not really. But I like the story.”

She lowered the telescope slowly, though noticed he was still staring. Huron’s night sky was a wonderful thing; a live Van Gogh painting, some would say, swirling lights illuminating the horizon in dim shades of blue, yellow and green. Seeing it every night did nothing to deter the people from appreciating its beauty. Even before Edgar had struck a deal with the Sheriff of this region, Grace had found herself skirting the border, keen to watch it. On some rare occasions, she had caught a glimpse of the Astral Plane too, a myriad of waves that glistened an aqua blue before fading from view again. There’s magic in this realm, she thought whenever she saw something that wonderful. There just has to be.

“This is… something,” Edgar murmured. He looked at her when she nudged him.

“C’mon. Say it.” “Say what?”

“That you’re impressed!” Her mouth split into an amused grin. “You totally are. You think this is neat.”

“No,” he replied through a strained smile, though gave in a moment later, not keen on the idea of breaking her heart quite yet. “... perhaps. A little. It isn’t completely dull.” He found the little roll of her eyes adorable, his smile only widening as she stood up. She muttered something about ‘’going home then’’, prompting him to reach out, snapping a hand around her wrist. Even before she’d turned around to look at him, he knew she was smirking; knew that she was proud of herself for catching him out in his understatement. You surprise me, Grace. You just keep surprising me.

“Wanna see something else?” she asked expectantly, though her smile became warmer when he nodded his head as a genuine response. Briefly, she adjusted her skirt before raising a leg, climbing up onto the bench. The Alpha seemed to leap into action, standing up quickly as if he expected her to topple over, his hand closing around hers. When she looked at him curiously, he wasn’t looking at her.

“... I’ve got you. I don’t want you to fall.”

She could have refused, could have brought her hand back to herself, but she left it there. His skin was cool, calloused in some places, but ultimately inviting. As she brought the telescope back up to her eye with her free hand, she let her fingers close loosely around his.

Her search was gradual, her gaze slowly shifting to the right as she tried to locate the constellation she was looking for, and whenever she shuffled slightly along the bench upon finding nothing, he followed her movements keenly, keeping an eye on where she was placing her feet.

Suddenly, the glass caught a brief flicker of cyan, prompting her heart to catch in her throat. She gasped softly, her fingers now tight around his as she attempted to follow it, eventually catching it for a second time. The colour rippled across her glass much like the ocean would, and she felt excitement explode inside of her.

“Eddie! Look up!” she exclaimed, the telescope lowered to her side. When he followed her command, he laid eyes on a curious sight: a series of meandering lines that glimmered a brilliant azure, seeming to fade into the unknown. What is this? As if she’d heard the thought in his head: “It’s the Astral Plane!”

It passed much like an airplane in the distance might: slow and steady, but never stopping. Eventually, it ebbed away into the dark, as if it had never been there at all, and it had a sense of mystique unfurling in his chest like a flower in spring. Nothing surprised him much anymore, but as he watched that light, he was plagued by wonder, by a lust for adventure that wasn’t there before-- that had never been there before--

-- and then he found himself looking at her. As the ethereal light made its rounds, his gaze naturally drifted along its curves until it found itself staring at the thing that amazed him the most. Her smile was radiant, eyes bright, almost glittery. The natural oddity complimented the cobalt in them perfectly, giving them a glow that he hadn’t seen before. You look alive. So alive. I’ve never been so happy to see something breathe.

When it had vanished completely, her grip on his hand was tight, so tight he thought that the tips of his fingers might pop free. She jumped down all at once, shoes making a dull thud against the concrete, and her excited chatter began. “Did you see that?!”

“I did,” he replied with a chuckle, watching as she spiralled into a ramble built only on ecstasy, her hands curled into the lapels of his coat and shaking lightly in an attempt to expel it in some way. She was talking up a storm, and not once did the light leave her face.

You really do love space, don’t you? I saw the Astral Plane. I saw The Renegade and Huron’s Trail and all the stars and sleeping suns, and yet I recall none of them like I recall your face while you talk about them. I saw them all, but I saw you too. You’re what I remember the most. You’re your own constellation - The Adler. The thing that points in the direction of my heart; the name that makes sense; the shape that compliments mine. I saw you, really saw you, and I can never forget it.

You’re my favourite star.

#🞮 — if i could i'd trade my heart for a second brain. ❜ ( edgar. )#🞮 — that vixen﹐she's a master of disguise! ❜ ( grace. )#☆ — i never promised you your dream boy. ❜ ( main. )#☆ — i'm just here to destroy. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#/ hMMMMMMMMMM

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imjustthemechanic · 6 years ago

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Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle Part 10/? - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/? - Athens in October Part 12/? - The Man in Black Part 13/? - Mr. Neustadt Part 14/? - The Other Side of the Story Part 15/? - A Favour Part 16/? - A Knock on the Window Part 17/? - Sir Stephen and Buckeye Part 18/? - Books of Alchemy Part 19/? - The Answers Part 20/? - A Gift Left Behind Part 21/? - Santorini Part 22/? - What the Doves Found Part 23/? - A Thief in the Night Part 24/? - Healing Part 25/? - Newton’s Code Part 26/? - Montenegro Part 27/? - The Lost Relic Part 28/? - The Homunculinus Part 29/? - The End is Near Part 30/? - The Face of Evil Part 31/? - The Morning After Part 32/? - Next Stop Part 33/? - A Sighting in Messina Part 34/? - Taormina Part 35/? - Burning Part 36/? - Recovery Part 37/? - Pilgrimage to Vesuvius Part 38/? - The Scent of Hell Part 39/? - She’ll be Coming Down the Mountain Part 40/? - Stowaways Part 41/? - Bon Voyage Part 42/? - Turnabout Part 43/? - The Apple Part 44/? - Vesuvius Wakes Part 45/? - Fire At Sea

Today was a much better writing day.

They chose the panels that disguised the ship’s smokestacks. Not only would a fire there be easily visible, but it was also away from most of the people. As a bonus, the huge slats with the Zodiac Lines logo were entirely decorative, so burning them wouldn’t interfere with sailing the ship. Clint slipped a fire arrow into an overhanging part from on the Lido deck, and then they wandered off to the other end of the ship before he pressed the button to set it off.

It took a few minutes, during which time they’d all pretended to be interested in somebody’s game of shuffleboard. Then a fire alarm began to ring.

Ladies and gentlemen, if you could all please get your lifejackets and go to your designated emergency meeting points, Director Cunha’s voice said over the PA. This is just a precaution. We are not abandoning ship. There is a small fire on the superstructure but it is no cause for alarm.

“Where are the assigned meeting places?” asked Jim.

“They’re posted on the insides of the cabin doors,” Nat said. “They’re places like the clubs and the theatres that can hold large groups of people and have sound systems to give them instructions. And they’re all down in the bottom of the ship, because that’s where lifeboat access is.”

“Which means we can set more of the top on fire,” said Clint cheerfully.

“Are you enjoying this?” asked Sir Stephen.

“It’s probably more fun than lobster races,” Jim observed.

“Damn right,” Clint agreed. “The little bastards refused to run in a straight line!”

“I’m so glad the fate of the world is in safe hands,” said Nat.

It was hard to imagine that a cruise ship, a giant vessel with nearly three thousand people on board, could do anything quickly, but the crews did regular emergency drills and they had it down to a science. The passengers had less practice and were more likely to panic, but they’d been through a quick emergency muster drill just before leaving port, so the information about what to do and where to go was still fresh in their minds. All Nat and the others had to do was not get swept up in the crowds as they hurried to their meeting points.

They accomplished this by hiding among the tubes and smokestacks, while crew calmly shuffled the people who’d been on the deck below along to their meeting places. Others handed out lifejackets. Passengers complained and refused to leave their martinis behind. A woman carrying a bichon frise shouted angrily in Italian at the steward who told her she would have to leave the dog in her stateroom, and had to be escorted below decks by a couple of security personnel. More crew arrived with some industrial-strength fire extinguishers to put out the blaze.

“Now for the big one,” said Clint. He fitted an arrow to the string and aimed it straight up in the air, and a little ahead and to the right, to compensate for the movement of the ship and the prevailing winds. It was the sort of shot Natasha would have thought nobody, not even a trained sniper, could just make on the fly… but some part of Clint Francis was still Robin of Barton, the greatest marksman who’d ever lived. He had an instinct for it that was nearly as magical as Sam’s ability to talk to birds. The arrow went up, and then it came down, right into one of the smokestacks, where it exploded.

Now it was time to panic. Not only had the smokestack blown up, but black smoke was pouring out of the hole – from a smoke arrow, of course.

“How many of those things do you have?” asked Sam.

“Oh, I had those two kids come down to the farm for a while and we tossed ideas around,” Clint replied cheerfully. “Laura taught them to milk the cows, the sheep, and the goat, and then told them they were doing so well they might as well try the pigs.”

“Nobody milks pigs,” Jim protested.

“That’s the joke,” Clint said with a nod. “Although it sure was fun to see them try!”

Several alarms were going now. Clint set off a couple more fire arrows just to drive home the gravity of the situation, and then they crouched among the slats and pipes and watched as the crew began to launch the lifeboats.

This is just a precaution, she heard Director Cunha’s voice over the PA. I’m sure once they have the fire out we’ll all be back on board in time for a nice nightcap! There was a slightly manic edge to this announcement, and Nat wondered if the woman were remembering what had happened in the casino and wondering what the hell was going on.

There were twelve boats down each side of the ship. Nat counted as they hit the water in the gathering dark. The PA started to call specific names, looking for people who’d failed to show at the meeting points. One of the names was Herr Isaak Neustadt, but it was only announced once. They asked for Madame Helene Desrosiers several times before giving up. In the gathering dark, the twenty-fourth passenger lifeboat hit the water with a splash.

“Okay,” said Nat. “The captain and a skeleton crew will still be on the bridge. We need to get rid of them.”

“Should I put the fire out now?” asked Clint.

“No,” said Nat. “Wait until we’re moving again. We can’t put it out until they can’t get back on board. Now split up – as far as I can tell there are two entrances to the bridge, and we’ll have to surround the remaining crew.”

They climbed down, broke into two groups, and headed for the front of the vessel. They didn’t run, because they didn’t want to arrive out of breath, but they walked with a purpose.

“Why don’t people milk pigs?” asked Allen, who’d gone with Sam, Clint, and Natasha – Sir Stephen, Sharon, Desrosiers, and Jim were on the other side. “Aren’t pigs supposed to be the animal with the physiology most like humans? You’d think pig milk would be the best for us.”

“Have you ever tried to milk a pig?” asked Clint.

“Well, no,” Allen admitted.

“They don’t appreciate it.”

“What about horses?” Allen wanted to know.

“People do milk horses,” Clint said.

“And the nomadic peoples in Siberia milk their reindeer,” Natasha added.

They climbed the outdoor steps from the Lido Deck to the Stargazer, and from there Nat vaulted the railing and dropped onto the catwalk to the bridge. Over the alarms she couldn’t hear if the group on the other side had made it, but she believed in them.

“Masks,” she reminded everyone. They’d ‘borrowed’ re-usable bags from the shops on board, cut holes in them, and now tied them over their heads as masks. It wasn’t the surest way of concealing their identities, especially with Sharon and Natasha still in rather distinctive evening dresses, but they were improvising.

Clint kicked the bridge door down.

Inside, crew members were assessing damage, trying to find the source of the fire that they assumed must be in an engine room, while the first mate demanded to know why new fires kept starting instead of the original one going out. The captain, a Frenchman, was rubbing his temples as if he had a migraine coming on. Everybody was wearing lifejackets already, which was good – it would make what happened next much faster.

The nearest crew member noticed the door opening and turned, and was surprised to see Natasha. In her pink dress with a bag over her head, she must have been quite a sight.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked. “Are you passengers?”

“We’re pirates,” said Natasha calmly, and punched him in the face.

The fight that followed was frenzied, but short. Those who could took down the crew members in whatever way they could – mostly with fists and feet, but Sharon had a gun and was happy to use threats. Desrosiers opened what appeared to be a makeup compact and blew some of the contents in the Captain’s face, whereupon he staggered back and fell over.

“You couldn’t have just filled the bridge with that stuff?” asked Sam, punching a sailor in the stomach.

“I only had one dose, which I was saving for Newton,” said Desrosiers. “You’re just lucky he hadn’t done anything to make me use it yet.”

One by one, they felled the sailors and dragged them out to throw them over the side. Their lifejackets would keep them afloat, and Nat could see the lights on the lifeboats moving to pick them up. People must be wondering what was going on.

“Twelve!” she said, throwing a groaning woman over. Nat had broken her wrist.

“Lucky thirteen!” Sharon pushed a man over after.

“And the Captain makes fourteen.” Sir Stephen had carried him out, slung across his shoulders, and tossed him down to join the rest. “I believe that’s the last of them.”

“There are probably some emergency workers and crew members still on board,” Nat said, “but we can take them as they appear.” She brushed her hands off on her skirt and pulled her mask off, then looked around at the others. “Where’s Jim?”

Other masks came off, and people looked around. There’d been eight of them who’d set off for the bridge, but now there were only seven. Nat’s stomach sank… perhaps Jim had been injured in the fighting, and something had hit him in the neck? If they looked around the bridge, would they find another empty tuxedo lying there?

“We can worry about him in a minute,” Sharon decided. “Right now, before the people in the lifeboats decide to do anything about the fact that it’s raining sailors, we need to get underway. Does anybody know how this boat works?” She looked at Natasha, then at Sam, as the most likely people. “I’m sure we can figure it out, but it would be easier if somebody knows.”

“I’m good at boats,” Clint offered.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Good at boats?” he asked.

“When I was a kid we took a boat across the Channel, and I got to visit the bridge,” said Clint. “I can do it.”

It was therefore Clint who took the wheel. Somebody had left their peaked cap, complete with embroidered Zodiac Lines logo, on one of the instrument panels. He picked it up, spun it in the air, and then put it on his head. “All right, furl the sails! Man the crow’s nest!”

“We don’t have any sails,” said Nat, already regretting this.

“And we are the crow’s nest,” Sam added. The bridge was high up on the ship to give it the best view of the surrounding ocean.

“Humour me,” said Clint. “Engines should be this one if I remember correctly.” He took the handle of the chadburn and pumped it forward. “Full speed ahead!”

They felt the same shudder run through the vessel, which had been stopped, as had when they’d left port in Naples. Nat looked out, and saw them begin to move relative to the lifeboats.

“Hard a’port!” Clint declared, spinning the wheel left.

“That’s starboard!” Nat, Sharon, and Sam all said at the same time.

“Hard a’whatever!” he said cheerfully. “We’re turning around!”

#fanfic #steve rogers #natasha romanov #clint barton #sam wilson #sharon carter #bucky barnes

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dfroza · 4 years ago

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A terrible shipwreck

but even through this, life was saved and Paul’s mission to Rome continued on. and much of Paul’s writing has been conserved in the Letters he wrote to illuminate spiritual truth.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 27th chapter of the book of Acts:

The date was set for us to depart for Rome, and Paul and some other prisoners were transferred to the custody of a Roman officer named Julius, a member of the Augustan Division. I, Luke, was permitted to join Paul for his journey to Rome, along with Aristarchus, a Macedonian brother from Thessalonica. We boarded a ship from Adramyttium that was stopping in ports along the coast of Asia. We stopped the next day at Sidon, and Julius kindly allowed Paul to visit friends and be taken care of by them. We sailed from there north of Cyprus because the winds were unfavorable. We passed Cilicia and Pamphylia on our right and then came to Myra in Lycia. There Julius found a ship from Alexandria heading directly to Italy, to which we transferred. The winds were still contrary, so we made slow progress for a number of days and with difficulty passed Cnidus and sailed south toward Crete and past Cape Salmone on its eastern end. Sailing conditions were adverse to say the least. Finally we came to a place called Fair Havens, near the city of Lasea on the south coast of Crete. We had lost a lot of time already—it was late in the year for sailing—following the Day of Atonement, and conditions had deteriorated from adverse to dangerous. Paul tried to warn those in charge.

Paul: Sirs, if we proceed, I can see that our voyage will be dangerous and will involve heavy loss, not only of cargo, but of the ship itself; not only of the ship, but also of our lives.

But the officer ignored Paul and instead trusted the ship’s pilot and owner who felt they could proceed.

We had two choices. We could anchor in the harbor at Fair Havens and spend the winter, or we could proceed west along the coastline, hoping to reach Phoenix and wait there for calmer spring weather. Fair Havens was not a good option, though, being vulnerable to winter storms; so most of us agreed we should try to reach Phoenix, whose harbor was more protected. One day a moderate south wind began to blow, which made an attempt possible. We weighed anchor and sailed west, staying near shore. Then things got scary. A violent northeaster, the Euraquilo, blew down across Crete. We were caught. We couldn’t turn and sail into this fierce wind, so we had no choice but to let it drive us. We briefly found a bit of shelter from the wind near the island of Clauda. We had been having trouble securing the ship’s lifeboat; but we were able there to hoist it up and send down cables to brace the hull, which was in danger of breaking apart under the strain of the storm. The wind was relentless, and soon we were again being driven southwest at the mercy of the storm. We feared it would drive us all the way to the Syrtis Banks, down near the North African coast, so we threw out the sea anchor to slow us down. All through the night, the storm pounded us violently. The next day, the crew threw the ship’s cargo overboard; and the day after that, they discarded any of the ship’s equipment they could do without. Days passed without relief from the furious winds, without a single break in the clouds to see sun or stars, even for a moment. Despair set in, as if all hope of rescue had been cast overboard as well. On top of all of this, the crew had been unable to eat anything because of the turmoil. Paul saw the crew had reached a critical moment. He gathered them.

Paul: Men, if you had listened to my warning, we would still be safe in Crete and would have avoided this damage and loss. I was correct in my warning, so I urge you to believe me now: none of you will die. We will lose the ship, but we will not lose one life. So keep up your courage, men! The God I belong to, the God I worship, sent a heavenly messenger to me this night. He said, “Do not be afraid, Paul. I’m not finished with you yet. You are going to stand before the emperor! You can be certain that God has granted safety to you and all your companions.” So listen, men: you must not give up hope! Keep up your courage! I have faith in God that things will turn out exactly as I was told last night. Here’s what I foresee: we will run aground on some island.

Imagine what happened: It’s the 14th night of our nightmare voyage; we’re being driven by the storm somewhere in the Adriatic Sea. It’s about midnight, and the sailors are taking soundings, fearing we might run aground. “Twenty fathoms,” somebody calls out in the darkness, then a little later, “Fifteen fathoms.” We’re nearing land! But hope quickly gives way to a new fear. At any moment in this darkness, they realize, we could be smashed onto unseen rocks. So they drop four anchors from the stern and pray for first light.

Then some of the crew decide to make a run for it on their own. They say they need to let out more anchors from the bow, and this will require lowering the ship’s lifeboat. They actually plan to abandon us; we realize what’s going on. Paul quickly speaks to the officer and soldiers.

Paul: Unless these men stay on board, you won’t survive.

So the soldiers intervene, cut away the lifeboat, and let it drift away. We wait. Just before dawn, Paul again gathers everyone on the ship—all 276 of us. He urges everyone to eat and encourages us not to lose hope.

Paul: Listen, men, we’ve all been under incredible stress for 14 days. You haven’t eaten anything during this whole time. I urge you to take some food now because it will help you survive what we’re about to face. And I want to assure you—not one of you will lose a single hair from your head. We’re all going to make it—all 276 of us!

Then Paul takes a loaf of bread and gives thanks to God in front of all of them. He breaks it, takes a piece, and begins to eat. A fresh surge of courage seems to fill their hearts as they also begin to eat. After satisfying their hunger, the crew lightens the ship by throwing the remaining wheat overboard. Day finally breaks. They survey the coastline and don’t recognize it, but they do notice a bay with a beach—the best place to try to run ashore.

So they cut the anchor ropes, untie the steering oars, hoist the foresail to the wind, and make for the beach. But then there’s a horrible sound, and we realize we’ve struck a reef; the bow is jammed solid, and the waves are smashing the stern to pieces. The soldiers start talking about killing the prisoners so they won’t swim away and escape; but the officer wants to save Paul, so he stops them. He tells those who can swim to jump overboard and swim to the shore, and those who can’t, he tells to hold on to planks and other pieces of the ship when it breaks apart. Some hours later, we reassemble on the beach, each one safe and sound.

The Book of Acts, Chapter 27 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 18th chapter of the book (scroll) of Isaiah where God acts to humble pride:

O land abuzz with the whirring of wings,

far away past the Ethiopian rivers,

With papyrus-reed boats shuttling ambassadors back and forth!

Go quickly, you messengers, to those impressive people,

Those fearsome and terrifying people so lank and smooth.

Theirs is a powerful nation divided by rivers.

All citizens of the world, every last inhabitant of the earth, pay attention!

When you see a signal raised on the mountains, look!

When the trumpets sound the alarm, listen!

Because the Eternal told me,

Eternal One: I am in control—calm and serene.

I am watching quietly from where I dwell

Just as surely as the heat shimmers in the blazing sun

and the dewy mists cool the warmth of a harvest day.

For even before the harvest begins, when the buds blossom

and the flowers make way for the ripening grapes,

God will cut back their shoots with pruning shears,

lop off and clear away the spreading branches.

He will leave the trimmings for the birds of prey

and the wild animals on the mountain.

The vultures will feed on their flesh during the summer,

and the wild animals will be nourished on their bones through the winter.

Then those terrifying peoples—the lank and smooth from far away,

from the land divided by rivers, powerful and domineering—

Will honor the Eternal, Commander of heavenly armies, with gifts.

These proud people will bring them to Mount Zion,

Where the Eternal, Commander of heavenly armies, has placed His special name.

The Book of Isaiah, Chapter 18 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, june 26 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A set of posts by John Parsons that looks at the significance of the inner life and how our actions begin there:

It is remarkable that the traditional morning blessing recited at synagogues around the world begins with words attributed to Balaam, the enigmatic and self-styled prophet: Mah Tovu: "How lovely are your tents, O Jacob; your dwelling places, O Israel!" (Num. 24:5). The sages say that the word "tent" (אהֶל) refers to the inner life – how we really feel inside – whereas the word "dwelling" (מִשְׁכָּן) refers to the outer life - our place or circumstances. Together, the inner and the outer mark the quality of our lives, but the inner is the starting point, since we must first learn to live in peace with ourselves. This is vital: we must first tolerate our shortcomings and practice compassion toward our frail humanity... This is sometimes called shalom ba'bayit, "peace in the home" (of the self). Such inner peace is the greatest of blessings, since without it we will cling to pain, fear, and anger, thereby making us unable to find our place at the table in God’s kingdom of love. [Hebrew for Christians]

The "doctrine of Balaam" (ἡ διδαχή Βαλαάμ) is the wicked strategy of enticing others to sin by encouraging them to "eat food offered to idols" and to engage in sexual immorality (Rev. 2:14). This was how Balaam was able finally to curse the Israelites at Baal Peor, after all (see Num. 25:1-10; 31:16). In short, Balaam's doctrine was one of "syncretism," advocating a mindless "tolerance" that arrogantly claimed that all religions are equally true, and therefore all are equally false... Such "tolerance" is a charade for moral and spiritual nihilism that creates weakened people easily controlled by political fascism. In ancient Rome, official "tolerance" led to the brutal intolerance of the "Imperial Cult" where the power of the State (represented by the Emperor) was worshiped. In our age, the doctrine of Balaam first entices people to "eat food offered to idols," that is, to partake in the irrational dogma of "absolute tolerance" and unthinking universalism. After opening the heart to accept such idolatry, sexual immorality is the natural expression, a consequence of self-deception. We must remain vigilant: God sets us free from the slavery of surrounding culture to become a witness of the truth. Assimilating with this world and its political ideals and cultural idols is a form of spiritual adultery. Do not fool yourself: Whoever makes himself a friend of the world is an enemy of God (James 4:4). [Hebrew for Christians]

6.24.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

June 26, 2021

The Meek of the Earth

“Seek ye the LORD all ye meek of the earth, which have wrought his judgment; seek righteousness, seek meekness: it may be ye shall be hid in the day of the LORD’s anger.” (Zephaniah 2:3)

This phrase, “the meek of the earth,” occurs three times in the Bible (see also Psalm 76:9, which promises their salvation; and Isaiah 11:4, which assures them justice). Our text promises deliverance from God’s wrath.

“Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth” (Matthew 5:5), said Jesus, referring to the promise of Psalm 37:11: “But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace.”

There are many other similar promises: “The meek will he guide in judgment: and the meek will he teach his way” (Psalm 25:9). “He will beautify the meek with salvation” (Psalm 149:4), so we need to put on “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price” (1 Peter 3:4).

That meekness is not weakness is made clear from the first use of the word in the Bible. “Now the man Moses was very meek, above all the men which were upon the face of the earth” (Numbers 12:3). Moses was strong and courageous, but also deeply humble and self-sacrificing; a man of prayer and trust in the Word of God, willing to defend it at all costs. The Lord Jesus defined meekness in terms of His own human character: “Learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart” (Matthew 11:29).

A meek spirit enables a Christian to maintain composure in the face of opposition, to accept adversity without complaint, promotion without arrogance, demotion without resentment. It produces a peace that no trouble can disturb and that no prosperity can puff up. Therefore, as our text commands: “Seek meekness!” HMM

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fuckyeahjamieandclaire · 7 years ago

Link

Were you attracted to the show that appeals to men and women?

Caitriona Balfe: “One thing we’ve always said about our show is the female character of Claire is at the center, but it’s not just her. It’s the fully formed characters of Jamie and Frank and Black Jack as well. Where some shows maybe you have the central male character and surrounding him are two-dimensional female characters. What you get is a balanced look at relationships. I think that’s why so many people relate to it. It’s giving you a realized version of people.”

Did you all read the books prior?

Caitriona Balfe: “I’ve read every book that we’ve filmed. I read book 1 before we filmed season 1, same season 2 and 3. I’m currently halfway through four. I like to have read it. It gives you an overview where your characters’ going to go. Obviously once in production, the script is your guide.”

Sam, you barely move in episode one. How hard is that?

Sam Heughan: “I think that’s fair enough, yes. The first episode was something we were all looking forward to shooting. The battle of Culloden was something not only the crew and Highlanders were anticipating, it’s a real important part of our history. I think it was a great start to the season. Certainly, Jamie does suffer horrendously. Brendan our director was great and really worked through the journey of Jamie and his loss, coming to terms with having lost Claire and not expecting to survive the battle.”

Sam and Caitriona, can you describe working on the ships?

Sam Heughan: “I think we really relished being on these boats. They’re on wheels. You’re in the middle of a plane, a desert but when you get on board those ships, they really transport you somewhere else. With all the sails going in the wind, we had a crew of trained sailors who did the rigging, it really transported you somewhere else. That’s what Voyager does. We also had a gimble on a lot of these boats. I got seasick and Caitriona maybe did as well.”

Caitriona Balfe: “We had one particular sequence of scenes where we were inside the set that’s on a gimble inside the studio. It was about 35, 36 degrees. We had some fake vomit that needed to be made but someone made a decision to make it with milk. It was made on a Friday. We filmed on Monday so it smelt a lot like real vomit. You’re inside indoors, the floor’s going like this and the smell was rather pungent. It was challenging. No acting required.”

Reading one book at a time, did anything make you say, “Oh crap, I never saw that coming?”

Caitriona Balfe: “I think anyone who’s read Diana’s books will say, ‘Oh crap, I never saw that coming.’ It’s just a sequence of twists and turns. I think that’s the great thing about this series of books and the great thing about our show. I’m sure this is the reason Ron and Maril were so hungry to make it. You’re constantly being kept on your toes. Who would’ve thought we’d end up on ships and in Jamaica this season? The great thing about being a time traveling fantasy is the story can go anywhere and frequently does.”

Sam, what is your favorite part of playing Jamie?

Sam Heughan: “I think we’re very lucky. As we said, Diana Gabaldon’s created this remarkable world. What makes our show different is it’s constantly moving, constantly changing. It’s not all set in one studio. Not only every season but every episode is surprising. We go somewhere else. This season feels very strong. Each episode has its own individual feeling to it. The characters grow up and change but Jamie’s a lot of fun to play. He is the other side of Claire and they’re a great team together. I’m enjoying growing up with him over the last four years. We’ll see how much longer and further he can go. Keep writing, Diana.” Caitriona Balfe: “The great gift of doing a series like this is you’re given time to really get to know your character and explore different elements. Being able to create this woman over a certain period of time is really interesting. Especially because of her lost of love to Jamie has shelved a certain side of herself. How does that experience wear on somebody? How does that change how they interact with people in their lives, everything? I loved being able to play that and going forward, when she gets reunited with her love, how do you unravel all that? How do you break down the walls someone’s built around their heart? I don’t know that you get to do that over an extended period of time in many projects.”

How difficult was it playing 20 years older than you are?

Caitriona Balfe: “Yes, I’m going to say Claire is 20 years older than I actually am. I think we all approach this from a place of how does experience and how does time change you? On a certain way, last year, the end of season two, I had to start doing a lot of that work. I watched certain actresses, so I watched an early film and a later film. People don’t change that much but certain things change about them and how they carry themselves. The older they get, a lot of time there’s just a certain gravitas or a certain authority people gain through the fact they’re more comfortable with themselves or they know themselves better. For Claire, I thought someone who’s become a surgeon and all that responsibility, getting to that place professionally would add to this authority to her. That was one of the things I wanted to play with, rather than crow’s feet or a monobrow. We thought about it.”

Can you talk about handling the leads being apart 20 years and working in two different worlds?

Ronald D. Moore: “As always, we take our cues from the books first. The book laid out this episodic story of Jamie to begin with. You had five chapters of his life, the battle of Culloden to Lallybroch, to prison to ending up in a print shop. It was clear that’s five episodes right there. We needed to construct a parallel story for Claire. The most interesting thing was her relationship with Frank, dissolution of that marriage… We never varied from that. It felt like the right amount of time. It was enough to build a desire in the audience to want to get Jamie and Claire back together, but it wasn’t dragging it out too long. It’s two decades. To do that justice, you had to give it some time and some space.”

#outlander #outlander starz #caitriona balfe #sam heughan #the battle joined #3x01 #tv news #tv: s3 #TCA #people: ron moore #people: sam heughan #people: caitriona balfe #otp: jamie x claire #character: claire beauchamp #character: jamie fraser #queue

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cuppykin · 7 years ago

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The Adventures of Tintin: The Dressed Cattle, Chapter 1

This is the beginning of a few chapters of fanfiction for the Adventures of Tintin series, BUT, the focus here is my dear self insert, her name in this being Terry Westenburg, the shy baker who develops a feeling for a certain old salty seadog.

YEP this is mostly a self ship fanfiction but extended to be loyal to the source material (or as loyal as I could be), but if that isn’t your cup of tea, you’re not pressured to read it. If you are interested in reading, hopefully I’ll have Chapter 2 posted in maybe the next week or two weeks. So with that, enjoy!!

It was a nice, cool morning that day, the perfect weather for something warm and sweet. Terry was awake at a nice hour like any other day of her life, and was dressed, a nice skirt, blouse, and pretty black shoes. She brushed out her kinky black hair, short for a woman to have, even for a black woman to have, but it was easy to manage.

She could say she was in a nice mood, but something last night really shocked both her and her aunt. Outside her street, she couldn’t hear too much, but her aunt said she heard a confrontation, before a loud gunshot, which is what woke Terry up in the first place. They didn’t wanna dwell on it too much, and went to sleep, sure that whatever happened was just an incident that meant to happen to a specific person and not somebody random in the streets. The tension seemed to have been all around the apartment building, as nobody called the police until dawn broke

Terry had been greeted by her Aunt Ines, who had cooked breakfast for the both of them. Ines was her primary caretaker ever since Terry had moved back to Brussels after spending a good portion of her life in America. In some ways, Brussels felt very unfamiliar to her, but Ines loved the company Terry brought her.

“Good morning dear,” Ines smiled, the two of them putting up a casual front despite what they had both heard last night. “Are you sure about going to work today?”

“I gotta, it’s good to have spare money in the house, for nice things,” she said.

“Oh you would know something about buying nice things,” Ines chuckled. Terry was a bit girly, always wore pink with nice earrings and pretty shoes. It was all for her, she didn’t have much in the way of money for a while growing up. But she always was there to spend money on whatever Ines needed if the time came.

Terry got a piece of bread and spread honey on it, her aunt poured a cup of tea for her as she sat down.

“That reminds me,” Ines said. “That Mr. Laurent, you’ve been working with him for what, two years? He should’ve given you a raise by then.” Mr. Laurent was Terry’s boss. Her aunt never really liked him, despite his friendly exterior there was something about her she didn’t like, but Terry liked him. He was a good boss and she went to work in the back preparing food, since she was nervous actually talking to people during the day. But he was also old and she knew that for a little while he had trouble keeping the business afloat.

“I don’t mind, but I’ll ask him eventually,” Terry commented. “I think in the past few months the business is improving and by then he’ll have enough to increase my wages.”

“Alright, if you say so dear,” Ines said. “Want something else aside from bread dear?” Terry shook her head and stood up. “I get plenty to eat during work, love you Aunt Ines, I’ll see you later today.” Terry hugged her aunt and left the apartment they lived in, taking her coat and walking out into the streets of Brussels. She was immediately stopped by two very similar looking detectives, whom she only slightly recognized.

“Good morning miss,” the two said simultaneously with a tip of the hat.

“Good morning er, Thomson and Thompson was it?” Terry said.

“Right you are miss,” Thomson said happily. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

“About what?” She had figured it might be for that gunshot heard last night.

“Did you witness the murder of last night?” Thompson asked. It was a murder? Terry froze up in fear.

“N-no, just heard it.”

“At what time did you hear it?”

“I-I think it was a few minutes before midnight, but that’s all I know, I never looked and saw anything.”

“I see.”

“And you didn’t act on the murder at all did you?”

“What? No I could never,” she exclaimed.

“Very well miss!” Thompson smiled.

“You have a nice rest of the day,” Thomson said. Terry nervously walked past them, not daring to look any place where the murder might have taken place. It sounds much worse knowing that somebody was found dead not far from where she lived.

She quickly arrived at work, Mr. Laurent already there as he was the one who opened up, and Terry walked in with a smile. Mr. Laurent grinned as she came in. “Terry! How are you doing dear?”

“Great, it’s nice to come in,” she said, going into the back to put on her apron. “What’s the plan for today?” She wanted to go straight into talking about work, cause the murder was just eating at her after she found out.

“Start making a fresh batch of bread for the day, your hot cross buns recipe is getting rather popular,” Mr. Laurent smiled.

“Happy to experiment when needed,” Terry said. She went to the kitchen, getting all that she needed to cook some nice fresh bread rolls brushed with honey.

As she was beating dough when making the bread, she heard the phone ring in the other room. Mr. Laurent never really let her answer it, and she didn’t know why, but she didn’t think too much on it. Mr. Laurent took the phone, and Terry went back to focus on working at molding the dough into its proper shape for buns. Mr. Laurent soon came into the kitchen, as Terry put the buns in the oven.

“Terry dear, can you please do me a favor?” he asked. “I’ll pay you extra for it.”

“Yes sir?” she asked, wiping off her hands.

“Please, can you operate the front for me, there’s something I have to do urgently, and I’m not too sure how long I’ll be gone.” Terry stiffened a bit. Very, very rarely did she ever work in the front, Mr. Laurent preferred that, and it made her extremely anxious talking to others and taking their orders. But, this was her job, she had to overcome it eventually.

“Uhm...yes sir,” She said. “But right now I just put something in the oven, but no fears, I’ll monitor it while I look after this place.”

“Thank you so much, so so much,” Mr. Laurent smiled through his bushy grey mustache. Something about him seemed nervous, but Terry didn’t want to ask, as not to butt into his boss’s business.

“Of course sir, happy to help,” Terry smiled nervously. “I’ll make sure to do my best while you’re away.” Mr. Laurent smiled down at her, before he left in a hurry. Terry took a good look at the buns as they were cooking, and then went to the front of the bakery to start helping as saw fit.

The day seemed to start out a bit slower than other days, but of course people did come in for things like breakfast pastries. Terry was mousy and quiet, but got people what they needed, and soon grew a bit into it. Talking to people for her was the equivalent of stepping into a pool of cold water on a hot day. Hard to get used to, but forcing yourself to dive in is more comfortable when you get used to it.

It was past noon, and her boss still wasn’t back, and Terry had just sold a few slices of pie to a mother and her kids. The door opened again minutes after the mother left, and Terry had came to attention to help them.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Laurent’s, how may I help you?” she said as she did to others coming in. Walking into the bakery, a red headed young man and his pure white dog, and a dark haired older man with a bushy beard, who looked more irritated than anything. “Good afternoon miss, sorry to come in so suddenly, but can I ask a few questions?”

“Uh, yes, of course,” Terry said in surprise. “About what?”

“The recent murder not far from here near an apartment complex.” Her face dropped.

“Oh, that, I lived right where it happened,” she replied. “It kinda scares me, the thought of why whoever was killed was killed.”

“Whoever did that is a coward!” the dark haired man said loudly behind the red haired one. “Coming after a disabled sailor like that! To kill a man who can’t even run away from you is an act of a weak man with a gun!”

“Wait, who now?” Terry said in response. She might know the murder victim. She knew him as Wout. He was a bit of her aunt’s friend, and a sob story. He was a sailor for years and went on multiple voyages in his lifetime to many places, but one injury made his legs crooked and painful to walk on. As a result, he lost work, and went to live with his already elderly mother in the same apartment as Terry. She never talked much to him, but when she did, he seemed like such a nice man. Who would want him dead?

“Was his name Wout?” Terry asked.

“It-”

“It was!” The bearded man interrupted his younger friend. “When I find out who in the world would kill such a harmless man I’m gonna-”

“Captain, please!” the red headed man said, trying to calm him down. “This must be rough to hear, and you’re upset, and right now, we need answers from whoever we can.” He turned to Terry, a similar expression of concern as on her face. “I’m so sorry, miss, my name’s Tintin, you?”

“My name’s Terry,” she replied. “And uh...sir?” she turned to the bearded man, obviously enraged. He turned to her, trying to calm down in front of her.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said sadly. “I knew Wout too, but not as much as you might have.” She went and got a slice of cake from the stand, holding it up to the older man. He looked surprised to say the least.

“Miss no I can’t accept that, I’m just having a rough-”

“I uh, well, you know, even a little bit of sugar makes the most bitter medicine better,” Terry said. He took it, but went in his pocket afterwards for money.

“It’s on the house sir.”

“I know, but, if we’re gonna be at a bakery, might as well order something for the rest of us.” Tintin smiled a bit.

“I appreciate it, Captain,” he said. “I’ll have a berry tart, and, maybe a meat filled bun for Snowy here.” Terry leaned over to get a good look at the small dog at Tintin’s foot, and grinned.

“Awww what a cutie!” she grinned, the cute little dog yipping in response.

“A best friend of mine as well,” Tintin smiled.

“My name’s Haddock by the way,” the older man told Terry. “Captain Archibald Haddock.” Terry smiled a bit.

“A captain, what a nice title,” she said. “A man I’d figure have a care for former sailors.” She presented the pastries to the group, and they sat at one of the two tables there at the bakery (nobody really sat there in all honesty). As they ate, Terry went to Tintin and Haddock, and began telling Tintin what she could, which admittedly, was very little on this case, and did explain a lot about her reaction to the ordeal.

“And nobody called the police, at all during the time of the incident?” Tintin asked.

“Not to my knowledge, because I didn’t see the police until the morning when I left for work,” Terry answered. “Poor man wasn’t the richest, in fact was very very poor, how him and his mother could still afford to live in that apartment I have no idea.”

“He was only out of commission for the last six months,” Haddock said. “An injury like his could change a man so drastically in such a short period of time.” Terry looked to him sadly, and went to pour the group some glasses of water.

“Bad things can happen to such humble people,” Terry said. “But uh...I’m sorry, I didn’t know Wout nearly as well as I imagine you’d have.”

“No, it’s fine,” Haddock said. “I feel better knowing that people knew him fondly.”

“Captain, hopefully the man who did this will be brought to justice, and we don’t have another tragedy like the one last night,” Tintin look to his notebook, closing it after that. “Thank you so much Terry, say, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten here before.”

“That was a really nice slice of cake,” Haddock smiled, Snowy barking as to agree with them. Terry smiled.

“Thank you both, hopefully you all can come again, but I might be in the kitchen instead of up front.”

“Don’t like to show your face much do you, lass?” Haddock asked. Terry blushed a bit in response.

“I get nervous around customers a lot,” she said.

“You’re doing just fine with us aren’t you?” Haddock smiled. Terry smiled back, rather flustered. Such a friendly duo, and a rather charming captain despite his anger earlier. She didn’t expect to be so comfortable around these men so fast.

“Thank you so much,” Tintin stood up. “Stay safe going back home tonight.”

“Thank you, have a nice day,” Terry smiled at the two. “Come by again, maybe, if you want.”

“I’m certainly stopping by if the sweets here taste that good!” Haddock grinned, as they left. Terry smiled, and she let an excited chill run up her body. Despite the discussion of something so grim, Terry enjoyed her time around those two. A rare feeling that was so unfamiliar it was weird. She wanted to see them again, maybe be friends, if they even wanted to be her friend in return. Her default assumption, sadly, was everyone only tolerated her until she was told otherwise.

It was the evening, an hour before her scheduled time to head home, and yet, Mr. Laurent wasn’t there yet. Terry didn’t want to be worried, and yet, she was wondering what he was doing for so long. She spent the entire day baking, cleaning, and serving customers all at once. How that man could do so much on his own before she never knew. But the radio on the shelf of the bakery tuned into the news. Terry listened in closely as she mopped the floor. It was about the murder, and she wanted to start to drown it out, until one feature about it stood in her mind.

“...the murder victim was shown to have a mark of an X branded into his cheek, and is one of three other men in the past several months that have been murdered in this fashion, shot, branded, and left on the side of the street.” Terry knew about these incidents, 3 men before him murdered, with a single gunshot wound to the head, and an X branded into their cheek. She never thought that this would be a reality until it happened so close to where she lived.

The door to the bakery opened again, and Terry wondered who would come for cake at 6 in the evening. She turned around, and there was the man from earlier. Haddock, the dark haired bearded captain.

“Oh! Good evening sir,” Terry said. “What brings you here?”

“Don’t you have another one working with you?” he asked too abruptly. “You look too young to be owning a shop on your own.”

“My boss has been out all day, actually,” Terry explained. “I don’t know what for, but I don’t really mind, I think.”

“Hopefully you’re not a total pushover to him,” he said. “I came back to order a devil’s food cake slice, and apologize for earlier.”

“Apologize?” Terry went to the glass case to get a slice of cake for the captain.

“I imagine just bursting in here yelling shook you up a fair bit, eh?”

“Well, I mean, it’s fine, really sir, what am I to judge?” She gave him a slice of devil’s cake. “You’re rightly upset, I’m more shook up at the fact that it happened right in the apartment building I live in. You never think this stuff can happen so close to home, and to you, but then it does.”

“Oh, Tintin and I know a thing about that,” Haddock chuckled.

“You all get into danger a lot?”

“That ain’t the half of it.” Terry’s eyes sparkled in curiosity.

“That, that sounds really nice, I would love to hear some stories, but I have work right now.”

“I don’t see anybody in the shop except for you and I, how about we sit down and spin a yarn or two?”

“Oh! No I can’t do that what will my boss say?”

“Don’t worry, he won’t mind you taking a few minutes to chat, he’s the one who's been gone all day anyhow.” Terry smiled a bit. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t happy to see this man again, and did sit down, putting the mop aside. “Tell me anything you can, sir.”

Terry listened with great interest to Haddock, his life as a captain on the high seas, meeting Tintin in the first place and find the riches of his ancestor that got him to own Marlinspike Hall, travelling to the arctic to discover an odd asteroid and competing against a boat on the race to claim it. She was intrigued, it was so much more of an intriguing lifestyle compared to how she lived for a good portion of her young life.

“Sir, that sounds so, well, I’d say fun but a lot of that sounds borderline life risking,” Terry said. “I’d wanna experience that, maybe just once.”

“Be careful what you wish for, dear,” Haddock said. “You just might get it.”

“That’s why I wished for it in the first place!” Terry giggled in response. The door opened up, and Terry looked to see who it was. It was her boss! Terry stood up. “O-oh, good evening sir, don’t worry I kept the bakery running-”

“Terry, don’t worry, you did great in my absence,” Mr. Laurent said. Terry looked at her boss, and noticed the state of him. He had a horrible black eye, there were several bruises across his face and his lip was bleeding underneath his mustache.

“Sir…? Are you alright?” She asked, Haddock stood up and took a good look at him as well. “Looks like ya got into a nasty fight.”

“What? No, no, this was all in an accident on my way home,” he said. Terry noticed something very, very faint on one of the bruises across his face. It couldn’t been seen unless you were really staring, but there was an odd X on one of the bruises on his face, like something hit, or even slapped or punched him.

“Terry, you did good, and you can go home for the day, you’ll get a good sum of money for taking care of the shop for the day.”

“Will you be okay sir?” she asked.

“Of course, no worries, you can go home and rest for the night, I’ll take care of everything else.”

“A-alright sir, I’ll pack up for the night.”

“Oh, I still have to pay, don’t I?” Haddock said. “I ordered a cake, sir.” Terry went to the back and removed her apron, coming out and grabbing her coat to leave. “Have a nice night, Mr. Laurent.”

“I can walk you home, miss,” Haddock offered. “With what’s going on it’s not safe for a woman to be out here on her own.”

“I uh...are you sure?” Terry asked. “I don’t wanna be a bother.

“Of course, come on, get enough rest sir.” Haddock left with Terry down the street.

“I don’t live far from here, it’s quite alright,” Terry told him.

“Still, doesn’t feel a little better to walk home with someone for the night?” He was right about that, and Terry just nodded in response.

“Sorry, it must be creepy for an old man like myself to be so buddy buddy with a woman your age.”

“It’s fine, really, I don’t talk to people much because I assume well...I’m just an inconvenience in their space.”

“Nonsense, you’ve been a delight so far, if you don’t mind me saying.” They eventually made a stop right by Terry’s apartment building.

“This is where I live,” she said to him. “Told you, it’s not very far from the bakery.” She saw the police tape and chalk on the side of the road, where the man was murdered, and sighed. “I guess it is rather dangerous, but I don’t really, have friends to walk with me after work.”

“None? No friend in the world?”

“Just me and my aunt, I get scared finding my place amongst others, and I just fade out and not talk to them. I guess it’s gotten worse for me living here, I don’t look like anyone here as far as I’ve seen.” Haddock furrowed his brow, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“There’s no need to feel like that, I know this seems odd but, perhaps I can come around when you’re able to, and we can maybe go on walks or get a drink or two.” Terry blushed, looking at how Haddock had his hand on her shoulder.

“You...you want to do that with me? Are you sure, because I was just ranting about my own stupid issu-”

“Of course, you seem nice enough, a part of me wishes we bonded over something less…” he looked to the chalk lines of the body once there. “...tragic, but, it’s still something.”

“I’d love that!” Terry smiled. “I live on the second floor, the only door on the second floor that’s black, so it’s not hard to spot.”

“Can I count on you being there tomorrow?”

“In the morning, I leave for work at nine, but…” Terry thought back to the injury her boss had. “I’m not sure I’ll be in work, Mr. Laurent will probably have to close because of that nasty injury.”

“That one, I noticed…” Haddock thought about it. “What kind of accident gives a man that look?” One that makes you run into a fist and boot multiple times.

“I hope he’s alright, the older you are, the less likely you’ll bounce back from injuries like that.”

“I can agree, but still, have a nice evening dear.” Haddock left at that, and as Terry entered the apartment his face went bright red in embarrassment. “I’m an idiot, a dunce! What kind of a man my age just asks a young woman that?” He hopes Tintin could join them, at least he’s closer in age with that young woman, but she was awful nice to him.

Terry breathed a sigh of relief as she arrived home. “Hello? Aunt Ines?”

“You’re home early,” she smiled, on the couch with a book and tea. “I haven’t even started dinner.”

“I had to leave sooner, Mr. Laurent looked to have gotten hurt pretty badly.”

“What happened to him?”

“He just told me it was an accident.” Terry took off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. “But since I am early, how about I help you with dinner?” Ines stood up and smiled, walking off with her young niece into the kitchen to cook for the night. They talked as they do usually at the end of the day, Terry bringing up how she met Tintin and Haddock.

“They sound like nice men,” she said. “And this Haddock man is coming over tomorrow morning?”

“Maybe, we never really confirmed anything solid.”

“It’s nice seeing you make friends dear, I love being with you, but a girl your age, living here for two and a half years with not a friend in site, I get worried sometimes.”

“I’m fine Aunt Ines, really.”

“I know, but I care about you, as any guardian figure would.” Terry smiled, her forehead being lovingly kissed by her aunt. The two finished a simple dinner for the both of them, and they sat and ate, in silence, but a nice, comforting silence that only two people with a strong bond could experience with each other. A nice, comforting end to a day that was both pleasant, and a little scary.

#cuppywrites #the adventures of tintin #self insert #selfship #the dressed cattle

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therunawayscamp · 4 years ago

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And here's something else that winds me up about people always blaming us for everything: yes, all right, maybe it we did cause the explosion near the Shrine of Azura, and maybe there wasn't anyone else involved, but did you ever stop to consider that we might have had a perfectly good reason for it? No, you didn't, so now I'm going to explain that very reason and you'll be forced to admit that we were justified, and also that you ought to pay us some sort of reparations for the slander against the good name of the Runaway Scamp.

Over the course of a voyage, there's always a bit of a rivalry that builds up between the two watches. Sometimes there isn't much of a contest. Obviously the Ald'Varay (my watch) is superior when it comes to the art of sailing.

It's areas like mage drills where things get interesting. I'm no mage myself, so far as I'm concerned, both Mr Oran and Mr Ethysil are equally talented in their field, and the same goes for the mages under their separate commands. By the end of a voyage, however, when they've had time to train them to their full potential, they like to settle the question for themselves and the best way of doing that is through a competition.

If Oran had his way, the competition would always be settled by whichever team can blow up the biggest rock, but as Ethysil argues, this doesn't bear much resemblance to their skill in an engagement. Any ship worth its gilt will have wards cast around the hull, something I haven't noticed very often on your average rock, and it requires a bit more thought than simply hurling magic around. R'khan came up with the alternative: both teams have a camp containing an idol, and whoever finds the opposing team's idol first is the winner. They signal that they've found the idol by blowing it up because Oran threatened to mutiny if explosions weren't involved somewhere along the line, but I don't think anybody could object to a few little explosions here and there. They keep life interesting. If the other team defend it properly and prevent it from blowing up, it doesn't count. The idea is it showcases their intelligence and creativity as well as their power, but personally I think they just like having an excuse to run around on land after months at sea.

I will spare you the boring details of the hunt for the opposing team's idol. The competition took place, as I say, near the Shrine of Azura in Winterhold, so mostly it consisted of sailors climbing halfway up icy cliffs then getting knocked down again into a snowdrift, to the mirth of their shipmates. They apparently enjoyed themselves. Personally I think R'khan, myself, and the rest of the non-mage crew enjoyed ourselves a lot more sat next to a campfire on the beach singing a few songs and sharing the rum around, but what do I know about the ways of mages? Instead we'll get straight to the point.

Ethysil was the first to find the idol. Presumably working on the basis of hiding things in plain sight, or perhaps because he knew it would piss Zannammu off, Oran had tucked it between the statue's legs, propped up against somebody else's offering so that it was staring up Azura's robe. Like all of us, Ethysil appreciates these little touches, but he had a mission to complete. His reputation was at stake. Magic sparked briefly in his hand and illuminated all life in the immediate area with a glow visible to his eyes only. Nothing but a fox tearing through the undergrowth. That in itself should have been a warning – even Oran isn't stupid enough to leave his prize totally unguarded – but victory was only an arm's length away. Ethysil reached forwards.

As soon as his fingertip touched the idol, the world fell into fire. He tried to reel backwards and found the ground was gone, his feet milling aimlessly in the air, tumbling and burning. If there was any noise, he couldn't hear it. His ears rang with the aftermath of the explosion and when he finally landed, with a thud that cracked the back of his skull against the ice, his vision shook for a few minutes. Moving was not an option. He lay flat on his back and waited to see whether he would die.

Ice melted and dripped across his forehead. Eventually the cold convinced him that actually he might be alive after all, and a little while later that maybe he really ought to move if he didn't want to be soaked through. He struggled upwards, blinked a few times, and realised that the rock formation towering over him was in fact Oran. In his hand was Ethysil's idol, which ought to have been hidden safely on the beach, buried beneath the tideline. He grinned, and the idol exploded into dust in his hands, shooting a pillar of flame into the sky.

'I win.'

Things still weren't entirely straight in Ethysil's head. He let Oran drag him back to the beach, telling everyone they met along the way about his victory, and accepted a bottle pushed into his hand without questioning the contents. It certainly took the edge off the cold creeping into his bones. When half of it was gone and when he could feel his extremities again, he jabbed his elbow sideways into Oran's stomach.

'What in Oblivion did you enchant it with?'

'Modified fire rune.'

I don't know what it is about Oran, but he can do a more infuriating smug look than anybody else I know.

Undoubtedly he treated Ethysil to it now and was well-rewarded by a huff. Ethysil's breath swept across the bottle and turned to fog in the frosty air.

'You, muthsera, are a bastard. Since when do you use runes?'

He expected a smart remark, an insistence that he ought to own up to his own fault and oversight. Instead Oran conjured up some flames in his hand, surprisingly modest ones for him, and shook them onto the sand, where they burned without fuel and formed a small campfire. Such a thoughtful gesture is practically unheard of for Oran, and Ethysil stared at him with the appropriate amount of shock, although not until after shuffling forward to feel the fire's benefit.

'Maybe I learned something from you,' said Oran, and cleared his throat in the way which means people in his vicinity ought to run for the hills if they don't want to be treated to what he thinks of as poetry. 'We've been sailing together for so long now, over the aeons, through tide and tempest, forging a bond in the darkest nights and the wildest--'

'All right, all right.'

'Something was bound to rub off eventually.'

'Are you saying is that it was my influence? I rather think that means it was my victory after all.'

The campfire flared into a bonfire momentarily as Oran scowled.

'Fuck off. I won fair and square.' The flames simmered down and their faces were half darkness once again. 'What I'm saying is that I may be no House Dunmer, but I think I understand what it means. Together through hell and high water. A bond of sheer courage and unshakable faith, as the learned Sera Ravel describes it. A clan of one blood, whom one follows unto death and beyond, if such is one's calling, for they cannot deny a shared destiny which--'

'Oran. Please. Have mercy. I've still got a headache from your blasted rune and this is not helping.'

Obligingly, for once, and I can only assume Ethysil cast some sort of enchantment or tame beast spell on him because Oran has never once been obliging for me, Oran said no more. They watched the magical fire twist against the sand in a companionable silence, the only sound the rest of the crew in their own huddles and the waves hushing along the shore.

Until Luca trudged up and, in her characteristic way, shattered the moment of peace. She dropped a pile of cloth, formerly draped over her arms, at Ethysil's feet.

'Here. R'khan said it's about time you put this back on.'

It was the cloak Ethysil wears when we're in Morrowind, to cover up his Tribunal tattoos from the more zealous brand of Reclamationists. Its warmth wasn't exactly unwelcome, sat outside at night in Skyrim, but as Luca went off scuffing sand behind her, Ethysil dragged it slowly over his arms.

'I suppose I shall be wearing this for the next few months.' He fingered the sleeve distastefully. 'You know, the disrobing ceremony is far more enjoyable than the robing.'

'You'll be taking it off soon enough.'

'Will I?'

The air was cold that night. I remember. That was all it was. That's what the little pause was, the chill, the shiver. Perfectly normal. Why wouldn't it be? Skyrim is always cold. Anyway, everyone always feel a bit strange at the end of a voyage, as if something is coming to an end. Which it isn't. Obviously. It's only a feeling, and feelings always pass, given enough time.

When this feeling passed, which it did, Oran grinned behind a swig from his own bottle.

'Yeah. When you meet a certain beautiful lady you took a fancy to last time we were home. One glimpse of her dark, lustrous locks and her buxom chest and that cloak will be straight off.'

'Closely followed by the rest of my clothes?' Ethysil laughed. 'I'll drink to that, serjo.'

#the works of master vilayn #oran #ethysil #luca

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