#aracae don't fuck around

[chuckling-chemist]

A Rise to Power

((Decided to write a scene shortly after Aracae becomes the head of the pirate council in Shipwreck Cove, back when things were...well...all locations go through periods of decay, and Shipwreck Cove is leaving such a time. Aracae’s about 14 sweeps at this point (as opposed to the 30-something in the piece with Valeba that’s floating around on my blog), she’s got an established set of hunters, but fully leading anything this big is new. General warnings for death, juggalo slang and religious zealotry, just to give a heads up))

“Welcome to Shipwreck Cove, wine stain. Enjoying your stay?”

Aracae loomed over the purpleblood kneeling next to her in a muddy puddle, her stone-faced expression contrasting his manic grin. He wanted to move, to attack her and continue ravaging the cove like he had been. Just like a predator caught in a trap, the twitches in his legs and arms gave it away. But he couldn't. Her hunters (the psionic ones specifically) managed to keep him held down and down on his knees, stopping him from attacking her or anyone else. Perhaps he would break free. Perhaps not. She trusted her girls to do the job.

Even this rainstorm she trusted. It was unexpected, sure, but this execution was the first major action since acquiring the position of head of the council. She couldn't back down. She couldn't change the date. Aracae needed to look in control for her transition to power to move smoothly, and nothing proved that better than a little rain.

The smearing and running face paint that turned the puddle into a Rorschach painting was also poetic, in a way.

“You dare kill me for performing the Messiah’s Will?” he snarled. “I cull to keep them happy. I cull to bring the cove fortune. Dihora never cared. Why should you?”

Aracae let out the barest hint of a frown, tips of sharp canines protruding from her mouth. “Do I look like Dihora?” she asked coolly.

“Both look like blue bitches to me,” he spat.

“Hm. Maybe you need your occulars checked. You might be suffering from colorblindness.” Aracae took her gun, a beautiful hunting rifle made out of dark wood and steel, and placed the barrel underneath his chin to force him to look up. “I’ll explain it for you. Dihora ran around our little cove for longer than she deserved and made a mockery of us. I, meanwhile, will not allow our highbloods to act like spoiled wigglers.”

The muscles in his legs spasmed violently, but the subjuggalator still couldn't break free. “The Messiahs bring the motherfucking money! To me! To this fucking port! To go all up and deny them is heresy of the highest motherfucking order!” he shouted. He wiggled and shook within the psychic imprisonment, but it held fast.

“You caused more costs in damages than you ever brought in as a captain,” Aracae said.

“Bullshit!”

“I've crunched the numbers myself. Between your ritualistic murders of lowblood trolls from Sandyhorn, that of which is strictly prohibited, and your berserking rage which destroyed buildings, the costs to both which are astronomical, versus the money you brought in, makes you a liability even the other members of the council couldn't argue with.” She withdrew her gun from his chin with a quick snap, the motion echoed by a sharp clap of thunder in front of her. It was only a matter of time before the worst of the storm to hit shore. His wild eyes continued to stare, unblinking, at her, but she continued. “You’re a wiggler with a license to cull. And yet here you stand, purple eyes and nearly seven feet tall. A wiggler in all but stature.”

“I act like all the motherfucking high ninjas of the Good Faith. You’re a motherfucking heretic to the faith. You will motherfucking burn! Burn alongside your most un-wicked of brethern - the shitblooded trash that you surround yourself will bring the most unrighteous of destruction!”

Aracae rolled her eyes, tucking a spare strand of long hair behind her ears. Of all the castes she took issue with, purplebloods were among the worst. Specifically those blinded by a religion bent on teaching senseless violence, insane ramblings disguised as doctrine and a criminal inability to shower in water. If they chose to act like a normal, functional troll with a handle on emotions outside of smash, rage and horny, she doubted she'd have a problem with them.

Of course, if that were the norm, this annoyance of hers could be resolved differently.

Aracae squatted down, black dress pants just missing the dilapidated wood path in the closest thing a makeshift city built on cliffs and coasts had to a square. “Do you truly believe such?” she asked.

For a brief second, she let her eyes leave his to gaze at the sky. The rain seemed to be tapering off. For now, at least.

“Of motherfucking course. The blue bitch, Dihora, she fucking knew it. The demise of the blasphemous cove will be the introduction of gutterbloods incapable of the Faith necessary,” he growled. Now that Aracae was this close, he was quieter. Nearly impossible to hear, actually. He still bared his teeth and glowered at Aracae, but he stopped yelling. It would be an improvement if it wasn't such an obvious ploy for him to stay in control of the situation.

“And you feel my coming to this cove heralds the end,” she said evenly. Unlike him, her voice retained its normal volume as she spoke.

“Not your coming. Your rise. A blue bitch bending to the blasphemous colors, fit only to paint the motherfucking walls of Hell’s Pit red with their blood,” he said. “I cull to keep the Messiahs happy despite your motherfucking sins.”

“So you say.” She stood up tall and turned around to the yellowbloods behind her, pointing to a lanky one sparking off pink and blue in front. “Turn him around.”

“But Aracae!” she squeaked. “What if he breaks free?”

“Then we resolve this here. But this wiggler must be made very clear about something important.” A rueful smile played at the edges of Aracae’s lips, but no more. Now wasn't the time.

The yellowbloods exchanged nervous glances. “Um...oh...okay. I hope we don't disappoint,” she said.

Aracae’s smile turned maternal as she said, “Such is an impossibility.” With a brisk turn on her heel, she turned back to the purpleblood.

Sparks of all colors encompassed him as slowly, deliberately, they fully turned him around in the city square. His struggle, having calmed into soft shudders, became violent more violent than initially as he attempted to force himself out. She watched, rifle in hand and at the ready, as his muscles tensed and veins popped out. His head flailed, whipping hilariously dirty hair even for pirates in the pitiful attempt it would hit someone. She heard a few groans of pain from behind her and winced. She wasn't the one holding him down, not really, but the empathy towards them and guilt for putting her girls through this washed through her, giving her no choice but to push it down and revisit it when there wasn't a criminal in the streets.

Slowly, eventually, he exhausted himself. The purpleblood let out a pained shout as he kneeled on the ground, letting the psionics hold him up exclusively.

“Look up, wine stain. What do you see?”

“Fuck you,” he growled.

“Hm. Always a difficult one.” She strode over, gripping his hair tightly and pulling, forcing his limp head up. “What do you see.”

Silence. Rebellious, angry silence. “So I take it you are blind, if you can't answer a simple question such as seeing something,” she said. “A wonder how you supposedly made us all that money.”

He grunted something out - another insult likely, but Aracae wasn't going to push, and said, “Statue.”

“Of what?”

“Fucking landdweller,” he said curtly. “Long hair. Big antlerbeast horns.”

Aracae smiled. “So they do teach you basic communication. Good. That statue is of the founder of Shipwreck Cove, Stikla the Lady-O-War. And do you know what she was?”

“A heretic,” he said.

“A lowblood.” She let go of his hair and took a few steps back, positioning the rifle squarely for a kill shot, right at the back of his head. “A bronzeblood, specifically. Your idyllic highblood afterlife was created by that which you condemn and cull. Your murderous, childish ass has always been tainted, wine stain. Remember that in the next life.”

“And what will you motherfucking do about that you--”

A loud crack echoed throughout the square, coupled with lightning darting about the sky. Rain poured like buckets onto anyone outside, herself included, but Aracae didn't care. She looked back to the yellowbloods and nodded, rifle still at the ready in case it was necessary. You never knew with some castes.

As the psionic energy dissipated, the kneeling body slumped, face first, into the muddy path. Not a single body, crew nor onlooker, came by to collect him and give him a pirate’s burial. Perhaps it was the rain discouraging them. Somehow though, Aracae figured it was more likely his terrified crew was secretly thankful the capricious disaster reached such a timely end: face down, ass up in the mud.

It would be poetic, if Aracae had time for poetry right now.

Instead, she whipped back around to her hunters, briskly walking back to the council chambers. She made a mental note to request someone collect his body and feed it to a lusus, or shove it in the water to feed the Heiress’ leviathan of a lusus for her. After all, she was already cleaning up one gargantuan, possibly century-sweep long mess left by a highblood. No reason to start another now.

((Enjoy what I write? Maybe buy me a coffee to encourage something other than nonstop schmaltz?)