#casethar

[therunawayscamp]

home.

We all come home to different things, I wrote once, and I said that I came home to two smiles waiting.

There were fewer smiles than there used to be when I wrote that. Hazil's illness was getting worse and we didn't have a lot to smile about. It's why I began writing this manuscript. I want to travel the world like you, Hazil said, I want to meet the people you meet and see the sights you see but I'll never be able to, so I said if I couldn't do anything else then I would try and bring my world to him through these stories. Silly things. But they made him smile.

I came home to something very different after our last voyage. Not even Casethar waiting for me on the sea wall, and when I came home

when I came home

it was so quiet. Our little house. Sunshine filled the garden, autumn, late afternoon, sun on the bench which Sham helped Ethysil build so Hazil could sit outside. Cold inside, except for the sick room, which we never could keep as cool as Hazil wanted it.

That's where they were. In the sick room.  Casethar dragged me through the door and dropped me down beside the bed so I could see him and he could see me and everything went cold and grey, then hot and... a curious shade of orange, and then

He wasn't dead, but he was dying. I think he said my name. His lips were so dry it was hard to tell, but I kissed them anyway and held his hand and promised him I wouldn't leave and

Which brings me to what we knew was going to happen, really, from the moment we met him.

What do I say? What am I supposed to say?

I'll write it down, I said, but every time I think I'm ready to talk about it my hands start to shake and the ink goes everywhere and the parchment ends up too damp to write on. I can't light this damned hackle-lo without getting ash all over the desk. I want to go back. I want him back. I want to write him back into existence and I can't, I fucking can't.

The week after it happened is all in bits. I remember lying there holding his hand for hours (it was cold. It was so cold). I remember looking up and finding he was gone, because I'd fallen asleep and Casethar moved me into our bedroom. I remember staring at a bookcase when R'khan arrived to offer his condolences, but I don't remember saying anything. I remember my hands being too numb to fasten my sash on the morning of the funeral. I remember Casethar's hug hurting as he pushed his jaw against my head, pulled the bones of my shoulders into his chest. I remember a lot of hot soreness in my eyes, my chest, everywhere. I don't remember drinking but there are a lot of empty bottles around here and my head hurts so I think that happened too.

After all these fragmented images appeared and faded I was at the funeral. It was a nice evening. Warm air, purple sky. Dartwings in the firelight. The sort of evening we would have walked up the hill together. Ethysil said a few words and then so did everybody else. I had the violin, the painted one R'khan gave me on my wedding day, the one which sounded so beautiful it would have brought Lord Seht to tears, and I think they expected me to play it. I threw it on the pyre instead because how the fuck was I supposed to play in that situation? How do I ever play again?

And then I came back to a place which didn't feel like home any more, locked myself in here and picked up the quill. Now I know what it's like to lift a feather and find your energy drained. I know how he felt.

I can't go to sea again. I'm not sure I can go outside again, so my history of the Scamps ends here. I wish them well, whatever they find on the horizon, and thank them for all we did together.

I can't write any more, Hazil. I'm sorry.

.

.

.

Epilogue

'How is he?'

'Bad.'

'Can I talk to him? I think I can help.'

'You can try, but he won't listen. He doesn't want to hear any of it.'

'He might want to hear this.'

Vilayn stabbed at the parchment with the quill, blotting the page and upsetting the vase of stoneflower stalks. Before the water splashed onto the manuscript he swept it aside, letting every word fall to the floor, and picked up a new sheet to write on. His hand jerked angrily across the page.

fucking priests and their fucking bloody thrice damned words oh I'm sorry how awful how sad let me know if there's anything I can do think about all the good things he's safe now he's with the gods now isn't that lovely isn't that so fucking nice for them fuck that make them give him back he isn't theirs he's ours I want him back I want him back I want him back why can't any of them fucking do anything

There was a knock on the door. The nib of the quill ripped through the paper and scratched the desk below.

'Vilayn? It's Ethysil. I really want to talk to you. May I come in?'

'Fuck off.'

'I'm going to take that as a yes. I think you'll want to hear this.'

[therunawayscamp]

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

Wanted posters are treasured by the crew. Traditionally, to keep the incriminating evidence safe from prying eyes, R’khan stores a collection of the posters they have managed to tear down in the captain’s quarters, and it is a mark of pride to have a larger collection of posters up than anybody else. The Admiral and Casethar are also known to have such likenesses of their beloved hanging somewhere in their homes.

It’s cheaper than commissioning a portrait, ain’t it?

[therunawayscamp]

Fear [Drabble]

There were many types of fear, R'khan had learned. The most obvious was the fear which occurred in an engagement at sea, or a fight on land, the sort of fear which came sharpest and fastest yet was the easiest to master. It could be harnessed, controlled, and redirected outwards, lashed against the enemy like a wild creature tamed and unleashed. Not everyone had that command, but anyone who survived life aboard the Runaway Scamp would soon learn it. Those who didn't now lay somewhere on the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts, shredded by axes and swords after their first boarding action.

There was the fear of the unknown, or rather, the almost unknown, the fear of that which couldn't be seen but was able filled in by the imagination. That was a fear which settled like the fog. A fear echoing in the voice of the leadsman sounding his way through an uncharted reef, throughout the temples begging the Three to be kind, in the wheels of a caravan at the beginning of its journey. That fear could be mastered, too, and turned into excitement, anticipation, speeding forwards.

Fear of the ridiculous. That was another. Take it out of context and it became a story. Embarrassment a source of fame, or infamy, depending upon how generous the bard's mood was at the time. A fear which laughed at itself and made itself companionable, if only it were embraced, with the power to make a failure a triumph.

Many types of fear, all of them controllable, all of them useful, except for the fear which R'khan had only experienced recently and felt no desire to experience again. Quieter, softer, colder was the fear he felt the one and only time he waited with Vilayn and Casethar on a bench outside a healer's hut. He forgot why. Needing to discuss business, perhaps, and finding them waiting for Hazil to finish an appointment. A beautiful day. Morrowind at its best, aglow and defined at the edges by stark, fractal vegetation, smoke in the air, sun spilling over the Veloth Mountains. A beautiful day, and they sat in silence, waiting. R'khan and Vilayn had faced down enemies across Tamriel together and yet this, this time, this beautiful day, was the first time R'khan felt a fear he could not master.

Hazil left the hut grumbling about his headache and the healer's cold hands, and Vilayn sprang into life. He was full of lies about their exploits during the wait, the lady who hadn't arrived nor attempted to sell them handfuls of dirt as a souvenir, the Argonian he hadn't ended up in a fistfight with, the argument he and Casethar hadn't been having about which was worse, dreughs or slaughterfish, and Hazil listened to them all with eyes which saw straight through them.

R'khan let them go. Whatever business he had been so impatient to discuss before was forgotten. He sat on the bench and let the beautiful day close in around him.

[therunawayscamp]

Cas, Hazil, doesn't it bother you that your husband is a pirate? They aren't known for being nice. Who knows what crimes he's guilty of.

‘Used to be one of them. Committed some of those crimes myself.’

With his explanation out of the way, Casethar carries on with his work on the garden, digging around the ash yams. Hazil pauses a little longer before he shrugs.

‘I guess I have a type.’

[therunawayscamp]

The Right Price

'What about if I kidnapped Barbas and offered him in exchange?'

'My Lord doesn't care all that much for Barbas. I imagine he would be rather glad to lose him for a while, and a mortal lifetime isn't so very long, really, not if you compare it to eternity.'

'What about if I promised him my soul, then gave him the sole from my shoe?'

Her laugh was bubbly, infectious, and utterly infuriating.

'Quite absurd. It might work on one of the lesser Princes, I suppose, but on Lord Vile? How silly!' Another giggle or two spilled over her lips, before she patted his hand. Her fingers sat on top of his, pale and long and so very cold. 'Oh, don't glare at me so. I do like you, Mister Vilayn. You can be awfully funny.'

Mr Vilayn was not nearly as amused as his audience, who watched him from her perch on the table over which her latest projects were crumpled in various states of disarray. The Scamps had taken over the whole upper floor of Candlehearth Hall, having bribed Elda with a splash of jewels from their latest haul and chased out the local Nords with snowballs collected from the streets, and Florencia Aicherius, recognising their particular blend of yells, songs, and colourful insults, had invited herself to their party. Now she was sat on one of the tables with a broken puppet lying in pieces all around her. Silks, felts, cotton, cheap muslin, glass pots of paint and twines of hair threaded each dismembered puppet limb together, like a grotesque tapestry half-completed, and the chaos swirled in on Fria at its centre. She flourished a needle at a dress no bigger than her palm and hummed to herself, flicking the odd glance around the room between stitches, only to stop with a shriek when Vilayn tugged at the thread dangling over her wrist.

'I'm not trying to be funny, I'm trying to be serious,' he said. 'This is important.'

'So is giving me a nice bed to sleep in and somebody to share it with, but you've been horribly unfriendly ever since I got here. After I let you help me build my ship, too.'

'It wasn't a ship, it was a frigate, which the Runaway Scamp isn't by the way, and the way you were doing it the sails would have fallen off as soon as they touched the wind.'

'It was only for a little puppet show. You mustn't make such a terrible fuss about things all the time, or you'll become boring.'

It was one of the worst insults in Fria's repertoire, and ranked highly in Vilayn's, as well. He dropped his forehead onto his fist and kneaded his hair.

'I need to do something,' he groaned. Fria's hand alighted upon his again, disturbingly like a spider drifting down on the end of a cobweb.

'I know you do. I understand, truly I do. But Lord Vile can hardly concern himself with every single mortal who comes along him asking him to cure something or other, or save this person, or kill that person. Why, he's barely even spoken to me! It isn't at all like running a ship, you know. Our affairs seem quite petty to him, I'm sure.'

'You said he'll fulfil anyone's desires, for the right price.'

'Yes, darling, but you aren't offering the right price. The right price means you have to sacrifice something, too, none of these silly games you've come up with. You could agree to let him take something else of equal value from you.'

'What would happen then?'

'He would take Mister Casethar, I imagine.'

Vilayn's grip on the thread tightened so hard it snapped.

'No. Maybe I'll offer him you instead.'

There was a coolness to Fria's eyes behind their deep brown, like the dark water beneath ice, which didn't show very often. It showed now.

'He already has me.'

She fished another spool of thread out of the drifts of materials and went about threading her needle again. Behind them, in the final throes of a drinking contest, Braskan roared an unintelligible challenge at Oran, and someone downstairs thumped the end of a broom pole against the ceiling in an attempt to make them quiet down. Vilayn took a pinch of hackle-lo from his pocket, rolled it up, and leaned sideways to light it on the candle over the fireplace.

'I'll come up with something,' he said. Fria wrinkled her nose and waved away the smoke without turning her head from her work.

'Of course you will, darling. I'm sure I can't wait to hear what it is. In the mean time, pass me that piece of lace, would you? The one next to the red silk. There's a dear.'

[therunawayscamp]

Vilayn’s first serious, long-term relationship ended after a couple of years when his partner, Carrik, called things off between them. They had been living together for a few months, which resulted in Carrik spending more time around the crew, and as a result of this he reached the conclusion that he and Vilayn didn’t have enough in common for a lifelong commitment. Vilayn, who fell in love as abruptly then as he does now and had always been happy with Carrik, was devastated. It took him a long time to get over the experience and he didn’t enter into another serious relationship (well, not a relationship he considered serious, anyway) until he met Casethar.

Once, when he was out to dinner with Casethar and Hazil, they ran into Carrik. They exchanged some awkward pleasantries and carried on with their evening. As strange and uncomfortable as the encounter was, Vilayn was all the more appreciative of his husbands afterwards, as it helped him to realise that as much as Carrik meant to him at the time, what he has now is far, far better.

[This is partly why Vilayn has some anxieties about Willa, even if he doesn’t consciously link the two experiences - he worries that maybe, like himself and Carrik, she just doesn’t know if there’s somebody even better out there.]

[therunawayscamp]

Yet another trick Vilayn picked up from his smuggler cohorts in his youth: hollowing out the inside of a potato, inserting the smuggle, wedging the hollowed-out chunk back into place with fishing wire, then smearing the whole thing with dirt and throwing it in a sack full of normal potatoes.

He declines to comment on whether this ruse has ever been employed by the Runaway Scamp, and they prefer good old-fashioned booty over smuggling for their profits. Then again, it should be noted that they occasionally ship a load of Casethar’s home-grown ash yams, which mysteriously disappear before they can be sold in the markets overseas (or inspected by an exciseman).

[therunawayscamp]

[Happy anniversary, Vilayn and Hazil! Have some crappy mistletoe doodles of Vilayn and his love interests.]

all right there Scroogethar

PS. Yes, I do regret giving Vilayn those arm band things.

Hazil is officially Too Small. I have no idea whether the Yellow Pages joke is a thing outside the UK, but if not, here you go [x].

@hoistingcolours‘s Willa, appearing here with my apologies for my inability to draw.

[therunawayscamp]

What became of Mr Casethar and the author, Mr Vilayn.

We did, for a while. We didn’t touch each other on board, at all, whatsoever, so all those rumours about my arse are utterly false and I’ll thank you to stop spreading them Oran.

Maybe we touched a bit. Not what Oran and half the crew think, though, I’m not that stupid. Things only ever went that far during shore leave when the captain was still aboard the Scamp. But the thing is… I don’t know. Whenever I was doing anything, running the watch, reporting to the captain, helping with chores, whatever, I’d be thinking of Casethar, and the thought of him wouldn’t go away until I’d seen him. If I put off visiting him in the galley then when I finally did see him, it wouldn’t be enough, I’d have to touch him as well, and if I put off that because the captain was nearby I’d have to kiss him for it to stop. Casethar, I mean. Not the captain. The point is, you see where this is going. It drove me insane. Mad God on deck, to be sure. It only worked for a short time, as well. Give it two bells and I’d be thinking about him again.

It was my fault when it all went wrong. There are only so many excuses a mer can make for disappearing into the galley when he’s supposed to be overseeing the watch. I think the captain was suspicious that I was stealing supplies for a while. He kept asking me for things he knew I kept in my pockets, like my telescope and my quill, probably in the hopes that I would scatter incriminating biscuit crumbs over the deck and we could laugh the whole thing away. That, of course, never happened, and the longer he went without an explanation the unhappier he was. His running of the ship became stricter, and his punishments for not keeping up with the new regime became harsher. I like to be efficient and punctual myself

but being so distracted by Casethar, even I had trouble meeting the captain’s requirements by the time we set a course for home a few months later.

I was lingering in the galley one day, not doing anything incriminating thank you Oran, just chatting with Casethar about the cornerclub he planned on running with his share of the plunder while I watched him cook. The watch change wasn’t due for five minutes. Nobody was making a nuisance of themselves. We had nothing to worry about – just us, the warmth from the hidden fire, and the smell of smoked scrib jerky rising from the copper pan. It was like one of those days where the wind is right, the ship is gliding over the water, there isn’t another sail in sight, and the crew can have a make and mend day to unwind. A piece of quiet snatched out of time. It would have been perfect had the captain not crept into the galley himself.

The captain never visits the galley except for his routine inspections before we sail and before we dock. He has far more important matters to concern himself with than food preparation, such as ensuring the brig doesn’t run into rocks and drown us all, minor things like that. When I came down I had been certain he was occupied with Mr Drasonval, discussing a point of contention in the ship’s log. He must have known, or suspected, what he would find, and that was me stood behind Casethar with my head on his shoulder, arms around his waist, laughing into his ear over a joke he’d just made.

There is no need to go into the details of my subsequent interview in the captain’s quarters. The crew heard it all anyway, R'khan shouted so loud. The sum of it was that, as per his Articles, both Casethar and I would lose half our pay, and one of us would leave the captain’s service permanently. R'khan was not prepared to dismiss his first mate – in his words, because he wanted the pleasure of killing me and making it look like an accident. Casethar would be gone when we returned to Blacklight.

It was a nightmare. Casethar wasn’t all I lost at that point: I lost the brig, too. The crew were too busy whispering and sniggering to show proper respect towards their superior officer. The captain wouldn’t talk to me except to issue orders. I was entirely alone on a vessel which suddenly wasn’t my home any more, after decades of service, after I had cared for her and loved her as much as I did Casethar. It led to a sort of numbness. I would leave my cabin, plod up on deck, and run through the motions of the watch. When the bell rang for its end I would run through the motions of the hand over, plod below decks and shut myself in my cabin. Life became a series of cold, stormy days in the Sea of Ghosts and dark, lonely nights in my bunk.

Matters didn’t improve when we arrived in Blacklight. I saw to the unloading of the brig, as I always do, but I didn’t go to the Spear and Shields for our traditional send-off. I couldn’t. At that point I never wanted to see any of the crew again, especially not the captain and especially not Casethar, having ruined his chance of a real profit and killed his hopes to start his own business. I stumped off to sit on the headland and watch the other ships sailing into and out of port until the sun went down, whereupon I sat on the headland and watched the darkness instead, which was about as satisfying, by which I mean not at all.

Obviously the story doesn't end there. It ends, really, with the hand blanketing mine in the darkness, the Dunmer who sat down beside me, the shoulder I leaned my head against. It ends with our rushed, private marriage a few days later, attended by the two of us, the priest, and not many others. It ends with a new-found knowledge that whatever happened and whoever disapproved, Casethar and I had said we would make it work, and we meant that promise. We meant every word. I told the captain as much the day Mr Azareth informed me he was planning to sail again and had requested my company, and he said -- well, what he actually said was,

‘I wasn’t going to mention the bloody cook, Vi, but since you brought it up, I wish you all the best. Can we get back to work?’

After that things were as they had always been between us.

Casethar and I were joined by Hazil about ten years ago now. I love Hazil in a different way and just as much. I have never been happier than when I have the two of them for company. We said we would make it work, and we did, and we do, and we will.

[therunawayscamp]

tucked into the front of a handscrawled manuscript.

When Hazil first suggested to me that I should write, record our voyages for him and Casethar to read, I laughed. I can't write. I can wrestle words down and batter them about until they look like lyrics, and I know fifteen words for... well, for a particularly striking part of the human anatomy, none of which rhyme with “Muatra” by the way, but I can't write.

And here I am with my quill in my hand.

I want to please you, Hazil. I want to do you proud (stop smirking, you know what I mean). I want to, so much it hurts, but I don't know where to start or what to do.

There are two empty glasses on my left and one still with the dregs of sujamma in it, along with the sludge where I dropped my smoking hackle-lo. On my right, stoneflowers. Papery now. Stalks in a blue glass bottle, a label slapped across its front. Property of the East Empire Trading Company. Postmarks. A signature smudged away by petalwater. A pile of notes bound in string, some mine, some Hazil's, some Casethar's.

This is all there is. Flowers and vices on a desk. If I listen hard, I can hear the ocean, and Casethar begging me to open the door now, please.

I will write.

[therunawayscamp]

Mr Casethar has an Interview with Captain R’khan Concerning the Author, Mr Vilayn.

That sort of thing was the sum of my conversations with Casethar for the next few months. Whenever I heard him speak to anyone it got worse – he was professional, and intelligent, and efficient, and honest, and everything else which makes me feel the need for a swim in the coldest ocean I can find as soon as possible – so I avoided talking with him at all. In fact I wasn't brave enough to open my mouth around him except to give him orders, or to upbraid him for a fault, or to insult him on an imagined pretext, hoping to convince the captain – and maybe myself – that there could not possibly be any interest between us whatsoever. It was a sort of pre-emptive defence. I think I knew really that I would make a mistake eventually, but if Captain R'khan believed I found Casethar particularly irksome, he might not attach any meaning to it should I accidentally drop in a compliment, or smile at him, or get drunk as Sanguine during shore leave and deliver an embarrassingly long and rambling speech detailing all the intricacies of my feelings for him while he was carrying me back to bed. One of those three things happened and I'll give you a hint: it wasn't the first two.

Casethar has told me since that on the same day, before we left the brig, he went to visit the captain in his quarters. Obviously the ship's cook visiting the captain in his own cabin is not the done thing, by which I mean it goes against all naval etiquette and a lesser mer would have been strung up on the mainmast for his impertinence, but Casethar had earned himself a reputation. Unlike whoever our current cook is (the name escapes me),

who can take some old biscuits and seaweed and somehow make them worse, Casethar can take some old biscuits and seaweed and turn them into something you would be happy to serve the King of Morrowind. Samphire and crouton salad, with a Breton dressing distilled from Shein and seasalt – that sort of thing. It makes my mouth water thinking about it so I should probably remember what my point was and get back to it.

Casethar, the captain, yes. Right. So given Casethar's talents, the captain was prepared to entertain his request for a private conversation. It also helped that Casethar was one of the most formal and well-behaved sailors on board. He saluted when he walked into the captain's quarters, a salute so sharp you could win a sword fight with it.

'Captain.'

'Mr Casethar. Sit down.'

You will note that the captain remembered Casethar's name. I have nothing but praise for our captain, praise and admiration and respect. I merely mention this detail because normally, trivialities as unimportant as a cook's name would be beneath him, so this mark of recognition was high praise indeed, as was the invitation to sit in his presence. Casethar lowered himself into the chair which sits forrard of the captain's great desk and sat bolt upright.

'I wanted to apologise, captain.'

The captain, who had been expecting a request for a larger share of the voyage's profits and was almost prepared to grant it, didn't do anything so common as to look surprised, but he did stroke his moustache.

'What for?'

'My work is not up to the standard it should be.'

'What makes you think that? Meets all of my standards, and if anyone aboard has standards more important than mine I'd like to meet 'em so I can throw 'em to the slaughterfish. Can't think who that'd be, though. Not only is the crew fed, which is all I asks, but they're happy, which is a bonus.'

I'm going to assume Casethar had a conflicted pause here while he decided whether or not to mention my name. If he didn't we will need to have Words when I get home.

'It's... Mr Vilayn, captain.'

'What about him?'

'Not him personally, captain. But I'm afraid he isn't happy with my work.'

'Really? Said to me just yesterday he'd never eaten better.'

As it turns out, I may have been less subtle in my adoration of Casethar than I believed at the time, but at least I restricted it to his food rather than the mer himself. This announcement was not what Casethar expected, I can confirm that much. He ran a hand over the tattoos on his head.

'He did? Captain? He told me if I kept using our supplies so quickly he'd have me paying for them out of my share.'

'That's for Mr Azareth to decide, and Mr Azareth informs me he has never known somebody make so much out of so little.'

'It’s not just that, captain. I apologise for saying so, but I can't do anything right for Mr Vilayn. Perhaps it would be better if I left your service.'

Now that I think about it I believe I may have felt the ship rock from all the way up on the weather deck when the captain slammed his hand against his desk.

'I don't bloody well think so. I'll tell Mr Vilayn to correct his behaviour first, and if he's insulted you that much I'll have him--'

'Permission to speak freely, captain?'

Interrupting the captain mid-tirade is another bit of risky business, the sort of thing usually only attempted by Mr Drasonval when we are actually in the process of capsizing. Once again, R'khan didn't notice something that would usually trigger one of his twisted, impatient smiles, and nodded.

'Go ahead.'

'I've nothing against the first mate. I'm sure if he criticises me it must be justified. I would like time to speak with him openly before any punishment is inflicted on him.'

Have I mentioned that in addition to being intelligent and efficient and all those other things, Casethar is patient and understanding and forgiving? The captain pinched his moustache and sighed through his nostrils.

'I'll send the two of you ashore early to pick up supplies. We'll meet at the cornerclub, or tavern or whatever they call it in whichever blasted province we're in, and if you haven't been able to make him see reason by the time I arrive, I will deal with the situation as I see fit.'

'Aye aye, captain.'

I took some convincing to leave the brig in the second mate's hands for the process of dropping anchor, I admit, but when the only reason the captain gives for asking you to leave your post at such a critical point is because I bloody said so you must admit a person has a right to be curious. Even so, I couldn't disobey a direct order, so I took Casethar ashore in the boat and that is how we came to have our first real time alone.

[therunawayscamp]

In which Mr Casethar arrives and immediately ruins the author’s life.

Some of the crew seem to have it in their heads that the captain caught me and Casethar naked in the galley banging each other against the stove or something. I know exactly who started this rumour, Oran, and I will see to it that you are brought to justice for it, preferably some kind of justice involving hot pokers and your second aperture.

The way it actually happened was like this.

Casethar volunteered himself to the captain while we were anchored in Blacklight for the winter. Our last cook had left us a week before the end of our previous voyage, claiming – entirely falsely I might add – that I had been harassing him and we could starve for all he cared, so the position was open and Casethar looked like a good fit. He could have made a fortune on land with his skills, or at least sailed with a navy ship which would have done more for him than we were capable of, but he had told the captain, in the blunt way which is his habit, that he was in it for the money. We had a bit of a reputation in Blacklight at the time, having made a small fortune with a voyage around Tamriel, and the idea appealed to him. There was no future for him in Morrowind until he gained some capital. This was his once chance.

The first time I recall seeing him was when I went to inspect the galley after we were under way, to check our new cook would have something ready for mess. I must have seen him while I was reading out the roll call, and it's possible the captain introduced him to me before the voyage, but what I remember as our first meeting is the way he looked then. Tucked away in the lower hold, smoke-stained, broad shouldered, hunched slightly to keep himself from hitting the deckhead, and rattling a ladle around the copper cauldron half buried in a box of sand to keep the fire below from spilling onto the wood of the ship. He worked so loudly he didn't hear me appear behind him. This was just as well because I think I stood with my mouth open for a whole minute and this would not have been a becoming introduction to the first mate, his superior officer, and his future husband.

Some people fall in love gradually over time and maybe don't even like the other person much at first. I'm told this makes for a more enduring relationship and I'm very happy for those people. It doesn't work like that for me. I saw Casethar's back dripping sweat behind his canvas shirt and I knew I found him physically attractive, and then, when he finally realised I was there, I heard his voice and I knew I would find him... whatever the opposite of physically attractive is.

'Sir!'

He couldn't straighten, because there wasn't enough room, but he saluted, the smartest salute I've seen in two hundred years of herding this thrice-forsaken crew around. The galley smelled of seasalt and smoked cheese and scuttle. It didn't matter. It was over. I was lost.

I also knew the Articles off by heart, and I resolved, there and then, that not only would he have his chance at a future without me ruining it, but that I would find a way to ensure that chance gave him all he wanted. This would mean not voicing any of the thoughts I had, holding my tongue, and keeping my mouth shut.

The captain could not be allowed to find out. Casethar could not be allowed to know. I turned on my heel so I didn't have to look at him and barked,

'Mess at eight bells. Hurry up.'

[therunawayscamp]

(Vilayn) 🏷️Do they give their partners cute nicknames?; ↕️Are they sub, dom or switch?; 🎶Do they have a type?

🏷️ Do they give their partners cute nicknames?

Vilayn never used to, and in fact was vehemently opposed to it, refusing to call Casethar by anything other than his proper name for a long time. He was convinced to shorten it to Cas on occasion after things had been patched over with the captain, an experience which taught Vilayn to relax a bit more, but nothing cute.

This changed when he and Casethar discovered that Hazil, to his own embarrassment, quite enjoys traditional, cutesy little romantic gestures, despite his insistence on the contrary. Vilayn promptly began calling him Hazlet, Hazbo and Hazbean to wind him up, and the names have stuck whenever he wants to tease him.

↕️ Are they sub, dom or switch?

Switch. It depends on the person and the situation.

🎶Do they have a type?

When it comes to his flings and one night stands, not really. The majority of his long-term partners, however, have been male Dunmer. R’khan has also remarked in the past that given Casethar’s stoicism, and Hazil’s quiet manners (in public), Vilayn presumably prefers quieter people so that they won’t interrupt his own yapping. 

[therunawayscamp]

There is no “boss” in the relationship Vilayn, Casethar and Hazil share. They all pull together, sharing their happiness and their problems, endeavouring never to let facts like Vilayn’s absence or Hazil’s illness affect how they treat each other. All three are open and honest with each other, and they are all on equal footing.

This doesn’t stop Vilayn and Casethar from joking that Hazil - the smallest and quietest of their trio - is very much in charge and rules their home life with an iron fist.

A veritable slave driver, he is. If you’ll pardon the expression, Brass.

[therunawayscamp]

VILAYN: This is my son, Dorian, and his sister, Mixolydian.

HAZIL: [From the next room.] We're getting a divorce.

[therunawayscamp]

Through Hell and High Water

R'khan did not take much convincing, that was the first surprise. When Ethysil presented his idea to the captain, with Vilayn sat numb and mute beside him like a corpse propped up in the chair, he watched R'khan frown, the same way it did when the officer of the watch presented him with news he didn't like, then settle his brow into a familiar line of determined resignation.

'You sure this'll work?'

'No, relkhan. Not in the slightest.'

'Very well. Give me time to think on it.'

Three days later, the permanent crew of the Runaway Scamp crammed themselves into Casethar's cornerclub atop the hill. The last of the daylight clung to the walls long after the rest of Blacklight fell into darkness and shone on the river until it burned. The name Firewater for the club had been well chosen. Before anyone could settle in with a glass of its other namesake, however, R'khan stood up on the bar. Although the wood was still gleaming, untouched since the day of Hazil's wake, Casethar didn't bat an eye at the boots scuffing across it. He had an arm around Vilayn's shoulders and seemed oblivious to anything else, least of all the sailors sneaking towards the bottles on the shelf.

'Hold yourselves, lads, I want you clear-headed for this.' R'khan paused, eyes settling on a cheerful, patient smile in the front row. 'Mr Braskan, what is Mistress Morinah doing here? I made it pretty damn clear that this'd be crew only.'

After a long silence, presumably spent hoping his captain would forget asking the direct question, a nudge from Morinah's elbow finally prompted Braskan to answer. He threw in a lazy salute as well, clearly hoping this would win him some favour from R'khan's stony face.

'Well, R'khan... there's this rumour, see, that ya's gonna ask us ta sail inta Oblivion, an' I might a' mentioned it ta Morinah. Only as a rumour, like, but she said if we was then mebbe she'd be useful, seein' as she works with all that Daedric shit.'

Everybody else in the room leaned forwards slightly while R’khan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Gossip spread through the crew faster than ataxia. It took the wind out of his sails somewhat, but then again, they had heard the rumour and turned up to the meeting anyway, which at least meant they hadn't dismissed the idea out of hand. He cleared his throat.

'I don't know how you does it, but you ain't far off. Most of you knows Farel Hazil, our own Mister Vilayn's husband, and his recent passing.' He paused, expecting Vilayn to flinch, or close his eyes, anything to show he was still alive, but no. Only stillness. 'And you also knows we can't go fishing every lost soul out of Oblivion, or wherever they ends up. But for reasons I ain't telling you 'cause it don't bloody concern you, this is different. Mister Ethysil believes that although the Oblivion Crisis sealed off paths from Oblivion to, ah--'

'Mundus,' supplied Ethysil, in an undertone. R'khan swept on as if he'd said the name himself.

'--there's still gates as go in the other direction, like the one Lord Seht used in 2920. There's reports of one underwater, out in the Sea of Ghosts, but with Ethys's magic and a bit of help from our... mutual friends, he believes we may be able to access it.'

He waited to see what effect his words would have. Perhaps he should have waited to make the announcement, let them get a good amount of the bar's contents down them before proposing such madness, but something had prevented him from doing so, in the knowledge that being tricked into an undertaking of this scale would kill their morale. Besides, he couldn't be alone. The years had been catching up to them recently, cold and relentless, and he knew no person could outrun them forever. Time and tide waited for no man.

So far the general attitude seemed cautiously positive. Most of the crew were talking amongst themselves, and there were heavy looks on all their faces, but only a few were glancing towards the door or outright scowling. One or two, most notably Braskan and Sham, were not excited, exactly, but already decided. They nodded unconsciously, settled, assured, eyes on their captain. Drasonval, sat beside them, seemed less certain, and as soon as the muttering died down he stuck a fist in the air.

‘What about getting back again?’ he asked. ‘Let’s say we find this gate, face whatever’s inside, and find what we’re looking for. How do we get home?’

R'khan stamped his foot on the counter until the whispers subsided.

‘You want the honest answer, Mister Drasonval? I don’t know. Could be a one-way trip to hell.’

‘Ya’s always sayin’ ya wants ta get away from th’wife,’ said Braskan. Somehow, faced with the prospect of his imminent doom, he still managed to maintain the lazy smirk. ‘Here ya go. Perfec’ chance.’

Before the exchange could develop into a scuffle or, even worse, a ruckus, R’khan kicked the counter again.

‘Some of you -- Mister Azareth, Mister Braskan -- you lived through the Oblivion Crisis, I’m guessing ‘cause even the Daedra couldn’t find a use for your worthless hides, so you knows what we’re up against. But you’ve also sailed with me and Mr Vilayn a damned long time, and not once have you turned your backs on a challenge.’ He lowered himself down so that he was sat on the bar. Although he spoke quietly, he had their attention now, even over the temptation of the bottles behind him. 'I don't think I need to tell you, my lads, that this ain't just about Mister Hazil. We've all felt it, and been feeling it for a while now. We been on the sea since the last era and that's a bloody long time. But if we're going to finish it, if it's got to end, I ain't retreating quietly into a comfy house where I can't feel the wind on me face. I'm going to die where I belongs, and that's on the deck of me brig, the sea beneath me feet, doing something outrageously bloody stupid just because people told me I couldn't. Now, I ain’t making of you do this. I’m telling you now it’s madness, so none of you is obliged to follow me, and there ain’t no hard feelings for those as stay behind. But by the Three, those who do, we’re going to leave you a damned good story to tell and you'd better bloody tell it. So -- who’s with me?’