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damneddamsy · 3 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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lavender-nerd · 9 months ago

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Before Her

Summery: Azriel having a nightmare about life before meeting Rhysand, Cassian and Reader

Pairing: Azriel X Reader

Warnings: A bit agnsty and abuse

Word Count: 1.7K

(A/N: this is my very first post on Tumblr, so any feedback is appreciated!!)

(not 100% cannon)

Azriel age 11 pov:

Cold, so very cold.

Coldness, that was the only thing I felt, and darkness surrounded me like a blanket.

Drip, drip, drip.

The only sound besides my breathing could be heard in the stone-cold bricked room I'm in. At this point, I don't even remember where I am. The cracks in the wall let in the harsh wind from outside. I could hardly move my wings, or any of my limbs due to the cage I was stuffed in. They were the first to betray me, the ones I called family, my father, my brothers.

Hands and laughter woke me up as I was thrown from the cage onto the snow from outside. Snow, how cold and cruel it was. My two brothers came at me, one with a bottle in hand and the other with flint.

"Give me your hands" Radin commanded.

"What?" Fear slowly rised in me as Thoman held my shoulders to the ground. Snow and rocks pinched my stomach when I started to fight back.

"Give me your hands now!" Radin commanded once again, but with more anger.

"Hahaha come on you bastard, give him your hands" Thoman now sat on my back grabbing at my elbow, raising them up.

"Now be a good bastard boy and keep your hands still". Radin now popping the cork from the bottle and oil invading my nose.

"No stop, please stop no no no NO" Fear now taking full control as oil now coated my hands. Bottle dropping to the ground below.

"Give me the flint now" Thoman now handing the flint to Radin I start to wiggle and thrash around not wanting my horrors to become true.

Clink. clink, clink, WOOSH.

"AHHHHH" I scream in pain as fire now engulfs both of my hands, Thoman now off my back I hunch over trying to put the flames out with the snow, but nothing works. Laughter fills my ear as now the once beautifully white snow has been tainted with my bastard born red blood. My screams reach my father's warriors as they rushed over with a dripping wet rag. Skidding to a stop in front of me both warriors kneel down and roughly drapes the rag over my hands. Tears stream down my face as they desperately try to kill the flames.

"Hahaha, now look at yourself, you think your 'Illyrain healing gift' can help you now?" Radin and Thoman both laughed at me, looked at me as if I was a piece of gum on the bottom of their shoe. Once the flames were out, I laid on my back, tears still coating my face, looking up at the sky thinking how cruel the mother above could be. Picked up by the two warriors, I was hauled back into my cold metal cage.

Blood slowly dripped from the many gashes and burns on my hands. My brothers- no, they were no longer my brothers, not when they did this to me. Those vile creatures. I was left to rot in this cage for what I presume, for the rest of my life. Darkness took over me as I succumb to the pain.

After a long and cruel beating from those vile creatures, I laid quietly trying to regain a steady breathing pattern, relaxing my limbs and my wings. I roll to my side blinking slowly, trying to clear my blurry vision. I realised that they left the door open. I hastily got up and try to open the cage door by lifting, pushing and pulling, hoping it will open.

My freedom is right in front of me, if only I could get this stupid cage to open. I could see the blue sky, even taste it at this point. The snow from outside has never looked so white. I need to get out, I NEED TO GET OUT. I lift and push with all my might, sweat coats my brow. Please, mother above, hear me, please. I fall to my knees and give one last push of every strength left in me. The hinges fall off and the gate swings wide open as I fall onto the bricks below. I pull myself up and made a dash for the door, only to stop a foot away. What if my father and my brothers saw me or or if the warriors saw me? What would happen to me then? Should I just go back into the cag- NO NO I'm never going back into that cage again!!

I step into the doorway and look left then right, all clear. I made a mad dash into the woods in front, snow nipping at my bear feet.

"Stop right there". I hear behind me but I'm not stopping now, not when I'm finally out. The crunch of snow behinds me let me know that the warriors are behind me. I duck left and right, dodging the trees ahead. It's cold, so very cold. My breathing rough and ragged as large cloud of mist comes from my mouth, again and again. My feet snagging on rocks and roots, staggering I keep myself up. I look behind me and the estate has never looked so small, but I don't stop running. Looking forward, I keep running, even though my legs and feet feeling stone cold. The shouting behind me getting quieter and quieter, then nothing, but that didn't mean I would stop running.

I kept running till the sun went over the horizon and the moon rose. I slowed to a walk finding my breath and finally looked at my surroundings. Nothing but snow and trees for miles and miles. As my adrenaline faded, I finally realised just how cold and sore I am. I found a stump to sit on and have a look at my legs and feet. My feet and legs were blue and starting to turn a dark purple in some spots. I needed help and fast. I started to look for higher ground to see if I could see any fires or any signs of life. But there was nothing, nothing at all, no fires and no signs of life. Frustrated tears filled my eyes as I realised that death may just come for me.

I started aimlessly walking but the cold was harsher than I thought. There was no place in sight and had no destination in thought, all I knew is that there had to be someone out there. Sleep started to creep up on me as I fought my lids to stay up. Black dots evaded my vision, then everything went black as I collapse to the snowy ground.

I don't know how long I was out for, but I could hear voices ahead of me. I tried to get up but had no strength left in me. I tried and tried again, over and over again. There's voices and they're close!

"Please" my voice too soft. I was desperate at this point, nothing around me could aid me to get their attention. If I couldn't walk, I'll crawl, and that I did. I clawed at the snow beneath me, longing to see them. to see life. I crawled and crawled, their voices growing louder and louder. I came to an opening and finally see two other Illyirans flying without a care in the world and laughing, then I see the most beautiful being in the world. It was as if the mother above touched her at birth and gifted her the beauty of a thousand. It was as if I was lost in a trance as warmth filled me, but that warmth didn't exist. Then she looked at me.

"Hey are you alright?" She came rushing over to me amd knelt down.

"Oh my god, you're freezing! Cassian, Rhys, come down here!" She called. The two Illyrians dove down and rushed over once they were on land. The snow stirred for a moment before settling down.

"Hey are you okay?" The taller one asks, voice uncertain. I could hardly even answer him, voice trembling as I replied a quiet "help".

"We need to get him to my mother, Cass, give me a hand". And thus, I was lifted between the two and off we walked to who knows where. I could hardly keep my eyes open as winter fought tooth and nail to bring me down.

"It's okay, you can rest now, we're going to my mother. She can help you" and with that, I was out like a light.

I woke with a cold sweat, chest heaving, sweat coating my brow and chest.

"Azriel?"

A soft-spoken voice invaded my ears as I tried to come to sense.

"My love? Are you okay?"

I looked to my side and see the mother touched women sitting up in bed next to me. Her soft skin was kissed by the moonlight that swept through the curtains. I came to sense about where I am. I'm home in our cabin near Velaris, in bed with my amazing mate, y/n. She softly touched my shoulder as I collapsed in her embrace.

"Was it that nightmare again? About your past my love?"

I slightly nodded in her shoulder, and she kissed my head softly and said nothing but reassuring words into my ear and all felt better after those kind words.

"After 500 years you would think I would stop having these nightmares." I said with a breathy laugh.

"My love, there is no shame with having nightmares, it's a part of us, it makes us who we are today. I will always love you, nightmares and all".

"And this is how I know I have the perfect mate in all of the world". I raise my head and look deeply into her eyes before capturing her lips to mine.

"Come on my love, let's go back to sleep". She says through the soft kisses. I nod and I pull the covers over us and pull her onto my chest. She draws lazy lines over my chest that soon stops as she falls back to asleep.

"I will always love you too, to the moon and back I will always be here for you, thank you my love for showing me that kindness still exists to this day". I soft speak to her, kissing her temple before closing my eyes and letting sleep takeover.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #acotar x reader #azriel x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #acotar fluff #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel spymaster #acotar series #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader angst #rhysand #cassian #acotar angst

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corvuserpens · 10 days ago

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A Girl, An Ocean {A Black Sails Fanfic} - Ch. 4

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: Displays of misogyny, gendered slurs Category: Action adventure with romance Characters: Billy Bones, Hal Gates, De Groot, Jean DuBois, OC, NPCs (I don't know how else to name any extra OCs I come up with for plot purposes lmao) Relationships: Billy Bones/OC, Hal Gates/OC (paternal), Jean duBois/OC (bffs) Additional tags: Original character-centric, first person POV, canon character x original character romance, self-discovery journey, kinda alternative prequel to canon, canon compliant, slow burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers, tooth-rotting sweetness, cute but also sexy, angst galore, found family, Hal Gates has two children now, canon typical violence Series: Part One of Six of A Girl, An Ocean Chapters: 4/13 Summary: Mr. Folsom continues to be a prick, so Constance teaches him a lesson about what happens when you disrespect her. Much swearing follows.

Author's note: Trying to post these weekly while doing my Master's project/thesis is HARD but right now this fic is the only thing keeping me sane. Next chapter will be a bit more exciting 😉

Chapter iv.

The following day didn't pan out much better than the previous. Mr. De Groot remained patient as he taught me, and even let me steer the helm for a few minutes so I could gain a feel for it. The wheel was much heavier than I had anticipated, difficult to turn, and the coxswain explained it was due to a combination between the influence of the currents on the rudder and the steering tiller that connected it to the helm. He called on Tanner, his apprentice, to take over so he could take me below decks to show me. Before returning to the surface we passed by the great cabin, where all the maps, logs and navigation instruments were kept when not in use.

There, we found a man around my age with large green eyes behind a pair of wiry spectacles hunched over a ledger, quill flying over the page he was working on. He paused momentarily to look up and see who it was, then put the feather in its ink well to stand up.

"Mr. Dufresne, good morning." De Groot encouraged me forward with his hand. "I don't believe you've been introduced to our newest recruit, yet?"

"I have not." The man named Dufresne walked around the desk to shake my hand. "Hello. Constance, is that right?" "Indeed," I replied with a cordial smile which he didn't bother returning. "A pleasure, welcome aboard." At least he had manners, so I considered myself satisfied. "Thank you, sir." "Oh, please, you may do away with the "sir"." He shook his hands with a blush. "I only have a year of seniority over you. Dufresne is fine." De Groot gave his shoulder a pat. "He is our purser. Any complaints you may have with your wage or if you need access to the ship's funds, he's the man you come talk to." "And if you'll forgive me, I have much work to do. So, with your permission..." "Of course, of course." De Groot let him return to his post with the ledgers. "We won't disturb you long, I just want to show Constance some of our charts." "Take your time." Dufresne adjusted his glasses and took up the quill once more. Meanwhile, De Groot reached into a mahogany drawer and pulled out old, stained charts, which he laid out with care on the second, smaller desk to the side. I hadn't noticed before, but the cabin was furnished with shelves stocked with countless books, like a compact library. Clearly, Flint was highly literate. I wondered what kind of books he enjoyed and if anyone in the crew could have access to them. Not that I would be having much time to read in the following months.

The map De Groot chose for me was a very old, stained map of the west coast of England, complete with the Isle of Man and surrounding islands, plus a piece of the eastern Irish coast. He figured I would be more familiar with that part of the world than the Bahamas. I was allowed to take it with me to study for a few days. The goal was to charter a course from England to Ireland, with Bristol as a starting point.

Afterwards, it was back to knot lessons with Mr. Folsom. His mood had not improved over night, sadly. Before teaching me the two remaining knots I had to learn, the zeppelin and bowline, he made me repeat the other three to make sure I had gotten it through my skull. The stopper and the clove hitch I managed with ease, but the butterfly continued to be a source of endless frustration. I still hadn't figured out how to make it properly. Folsom didn't bother showing me how to do it again; he forged ahead to the other two. The zeppelin, meant to tie two rope ends together, wasn't so bad. He explained that there was a similar knot, the square knot, that did the same job, but was far less secure. He showed me the two knots for comparison and insisted I learned the zeppelin and use it above the square knot.

But the bowline... God in heaven, the bowline. It was a perfectly fine knot, as far as they go. It was the knot to use when you wanted to tie off a launch, a dinghy or anything you wanted so it wouldn't drift away. He made it look so easy to tie off, but when I tried, all I did was tangle myself in the rope. After the first three attempts, Folsom waved me off, told me to practice that and the butterfly, and scurried up the shrouds once again.

I was in in the middle of my nineteenth try when Mr. Gates approached me. In his hand, he held a thin document tied off with a string.

"There you are," he said as a greeting. "Got something here for you to read and sign."

I set my practice rope aside to take a look. My brow tensed into a divot. "What is this, Mr. Gates?"

"The Articles of the Walrus," he explained. "Every ship has them, though they vary from one to the other. Think of it as an employment contract. This lists the set of duties you are obligated to as a member of the crew, as well as your rights. I would encourage you to read them over with care, then come see me to sign them. We'll find someone to serve as a witness, should legal liabilities arise, and once your name is set in them, you will officially be a part of this band of bandits." He smiled at me, eyebrows arched. "Sound good?"

I let my fingers brush over the words, heart beating fast with excitement and anticipation. I returned Gates' smile with my own, forgetting about my struggles with the ropes for a minute. "Aye, it does."

The quartermaster gave me a tap on the arm, satisfied. "Take your time with them, alright? You don't have to sign right away or even today. If you have any questions, come and find me."

"Will do, Mr. Gates. Thank you."

He offered a little bow and was off. Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to take a quick break from my lessons to at least read the first page (there were three of them in total).

Like Gates had said, it was a list of rules to be adhered to while on the ship, and nothing I hadn't expected already: loyalty to the captain and crew, to perform my various duties well, monetary compensation and access to healthcare should I suffer any injuries while on the job and even severance pay in case I decided to leave or circumstances forced my departure. Truthfully, I was flabbergast at such conditions. My cousin in the army complained copiously about the poor wages and the lack of protections should the worst come to pass. This was... surprisingly fair. Had I any way to contact him, I might have counseled him to become a pirate instead. I smiled at the thought of his face, receiving such a letter.

But the most surprising detail of the Articles were the wages. I had to rub my eyes to make sure they were working properly and looked again. How much you got paid depended on the haul wielded by a potential prize and its wealth was to be equally distributed by all members of the crew. No exceptions. Not for the quartermaster nor the first mate, not for the boatswain or even the captain. Aboard the Walrus, all men worked equally, so they shared equally. It was remarkable.

A sharp whistle from above startled me. It was Folsom, hanging from the larboard main sail yard tip, glaring at me.

"Have you got the fucking knots done yet?!" He bellowed.

In a hurry, skin going damp with sweat as I stashed the Articles somewhere safe from the wind, I returned to my practice. I did wish the men wouldn't swear quite so much...

One hour later, I had finally figured out the butterfly, having repeated it correctly five times in a row. The bowline continued to elude me, however. When the lunch bell tolled, Folsom came back down to see my progress. I pursed my lips and dipped my chin while he looked over my knots. He stared at me with malice, causing a chill to run down my spine.

"Took your time, but you finally got it, eh?" He smoothed his tongue over a gap where a tooth used to be. "Don't think I forgot my promise to take you up to the yards. We need to verify if you've learned, right? I hope so, for the crew's sake. Would be awful if someone got hurt due to your lack of talent, wouldn't it?"

I stared at him horrified, chest locking up, making it hard to breathe. He had to be joking. Please be joking, please say you're just hazing me and you're not actually serious.

But all he did was laugh in my face and turn his back on me to follow the others to the mess hall. I remained, feet bolted to my spot and eyes up on the sails as if they were ghosts swaying in the wind.

***

While everyone was having lunch, I sat cross legged on my hammock with the Articles, trying to keep my mind away from my afternoon test. I couldn't focus on the words, however. Before I knew it, I was reading the same sentence time and again without assimilating a single thing.

Maybe I should take it up with Gates. Surely he wouldn't allow Folsom to let me take on such great responsibility so early in my career. If the crew's general safety and the ship's capacity was at risk for it, the quartermaster should be notified and it wouldn't count as my seeking favoritism, would it? I was just doing my job.

Oh God, but what if that spelled trouble for Folsom? He would know I had been the one to rat him out and then my life would really become hell. Plus, he would tell the rest of the crew I was a snitch and I would be kicked out before the ink dried on the Articles. On the other hand, if the rigger was being serious about his test and someone did get hurt (or, heaven forbid, got killed), they wouldn't blame Folsom for it. They would blame me, the novice who didn't learn properly, the girl who had no business being on a pirate ship.

No matter which way I looked at it, I was, for lack of a more suitable term, pretty much fucked. Even just thinking the profanity made me blush and silently beg forgiveness.

Jean found me slumped over the Articles. "Salut! I didn't see you at lunch." He leaned over to get a proper look at me, eyebrows knit together with concern. "What's with that face? Did something happen?"

I sighed and figured he was probably the only person to whom it was safe to talk about my dilemma. Hopefully he could assure me that Folsom wouldn't go through with it, that he was all throat and it was meant to scare me, nothing more.

Boy, was I wrong.

When I finished telling him everything, he had a sour look on his face. "Damn, what an asshole. Oh, uh, sorry." He grinned sheepishly and shrugged when I winced. "You get used to it, I mean... ever heard the phrase "swearing like a sailor?" Anyway, that wasn't at all what it was like with me and Will Robins. No matter how many times we got it wrong, he would accompany us step-by-step and tell us exactly where we were making the mistake. We learned all the knots in a couple of days. And he didn't take us up to the yards but a week from our initiation."

My chest deflated with a long, despairing breath. "Do you really think he's gonna make me mess up on purpose?"

"Jesus Christ, I hope not. Someone could get seriously hurt. And Gates would have his head." He paused and took a minute to think. "Maybe you should tell him about this."

"I can't," I bemoaned. "Folsom would know it was me, and then what? If the whole crew finds out I talked to Gates, they will have grounds to vote me out and he won't have a choice but to accept it or risk mutiny."

"Tell Billy, then." He suggested. "He would get him in line and make sure no one found out about your involvement. Constance, you can't get on the yards without knowing the proper knots and how to tie them effectively, it's dangerous."

I only had one option, then. It wouldn't be pretty, and it would be risky to my reputation all the same, but at least I would be alone in bearing the brunt of the consequences. No one needed to get hurt but me.

With a deep, uneven breath to rein in the anxiety gnawing at my stomach, I put the Articles aside and hopped off my hammock. "Don't worry, Jean. That's not gonna happen. Thank you for your advice. I will take it into consideration." And I walked past him to face my destiny, whatever it might be.

Back on the main deck, I marched up to Folsom at the starboard shroud. He was talking to two other riggers, whose names I didn't know. They were laughing about something. When one of them saw me coming, he tapped Folsom's shoulder and pointed. Folsom twisted around and smirked, arms crossed. "I was starting to think you had bolted. Let's get this over with then, shall we? Come on." He grabbed onto the shroud line and jumped onto the bulwark.

I squared my shoulders and planted my feet firm on the floor boards. "No."

Folsom froze just as he had set a foot on the rat lines. His cold gray eyes narrowed at me. "What?"

"This is dangerous and you know it. I haven't had the time to properly learn the knots! If I go up there with you, it's a recipe for disaster." My voice started out shaky and insecure, but as I progressed, it stabilized and grew more firm. "I won't risk my life or the crew's for your sick joke and your prejudice."

That mean little smirk returned to his toothless mouth. I hated how victorious he looked. It made me want to push him overboard. "I taught you the fucking knots. If you didn't learn them right, then maybe you're just not cut out for this. It's not your fault. Women just don't belong in ships, s'all."

A blinding rage set fire to my innards, for once making my face flare up not with shame, but with rage. "Like hell you taught me the knots. If you had bothered teaching me like you did with Jean and Will maybe I might have learned already, but you didn't!"

By then, our argument had garnered a small crowd which formed a circle around us. I could feel their stare on me, and it unnerved me, but I kept my eyes on Folsom and focused on my point.

"You saw I was struggling and didn't help. You saw me practice for hours on end, going in circles, and couldn't care less, and now you want me to go up the yards with you? It's not my fault you're such a f... F... a FUCKING prick of a teacher!"

I had to shout the swear, or else it wouldn't have come out. The crowd burst into laughter, some of them bending over, clutching to their sides, finding my puritanical hiccup hilarious. But not Folsom.

He dropped onto the deck with a stomp akin to a gun shot, face twisted with anger, murder in his eyes. He advanced toward me and hovered, nose inches from mine, but no matter how intimidated I felt, I refused to move. Maybe I shuddered a little, but that was it.

"What the fuck did you say to me?" He growled.

Despite the fear pumping in my veins and how dry my mouth was, I forced a smile on my lips and seized the opportunity. "If you didn't hear me properly the first time, then maybe you're not as smart as you think you are."

A long chorus of "uuuuu" filled the deck. Folsom raised his hand, making me shrink back in preparation for the blow. "You fucking cunt--!"

"That's enough, Folsom!"

The rigger froze, looked to the side. As I slowly lowered my arms, I followed his gaze: Mr. Gates was bulldozing his way through the crowd, shoving aside anyone who didn't move out of his way in time. His cheeks were red with anger, mouth set on a stern line beneath his mustache. Jean trailed after him, his face a mask of pure anxiety. I hadn't noticed him among the others, but he must have been there and ran to fetch the quartermaster when the argument started escalating.

Gates stopped between Folsom and I, fists on his hips as he turned from one to the other repeatedly, waiting. Although he was taller than Gates, Folsom shriveled under his glare.

"Well? Anyone care to explain what the fuck's going on here?"

I said nothing. Figured it was Folsom's responsibility to tell him, since this was mostly his fault.

"This brat--" he pointed a finger at me. "Is refusing to learn how to manage the rigging and is blaming me for it. Like it's my fault she's too daft to learn or that I'm somehow responsible for her cowardice."

Oh, that son of a... "Excuse me? He's the one who showed me how to tie the knots once and then left me to figure it out on my own! And now he wanted me to climb to the yards and learn the rigging, when he knows I can barely do those knots."

"Shut your trap, you little--!"

"YOU shut your trap," Gates ordered. "Before I knock what's left of your teeth! So she's not learning anything from you, is that it? Funny, because from what De Groot, Thierry and Bjorn said, she's been proving to be hard-working and eager to learn."

Thierry and Bjorn were the two men who had been into storage with me, the previous day. They had given me the worst tasks, ordered me to carry the heaviest weights and laughed when I struggled, panting like a dying animal. I never imagined they would then report back to Gates and praise me.

I scanned the crowd for their faces -- there they were. Bjorn, barrel chested and fiery red hair with a braided beard to match, and Thierry, with round cheeks the color of ebony and an easy smile on his lips. They were watching the whole thing like it was the most entertaining piece of theater they had seen and smirked at me with approval in their eyes.

Folsom's fists clenched and unclenched as he searched for a better argument to make. I crossed my arms and raised my chin, savoring how he squirmed. Gates pinched the bridge of his nose, then snapped his fingers.

"I know how to solve this conundrum. You--" he pointed to Folsom. "Have two days to teach her how to tie the fucking knots. And you--" his finger swerved to me. "Have two days to learn them. If she can't tie the knots with her eyes closed by then, you will both regret it. Do I make myself clear?"

I thought it was unfair that I was being threatened with punishment along with Folsom, but this early into the game, I didn't have the guts to argue with Mr. Gates. Therefore, reluctantly, I bit my tongue and nodded. Folsom swore under his breath, but also waved out a hand air in annoyance. "Fine."

"That's settled, then. Two days. Don't disappoint me. Either of you." Mr. Gates turned his back on us and slid through the crowd. "Don't you people have anything to do? Get back to work!"

The men scattered like roaches to return to their posts. Before he left, Jean and I exchanged a look: his of concern, mine of gratitude. I nodded to let him know I was fine, and he left as well.

"Fucking hell..."

I looked to Folsom, who was still fuming but steadily calming down. He pegged me with a glare which I returned, scrunching up my brow and slitting my eyes to make myself as menacing as possible. I was done letting him or anyone else on this crew treat me like garbage. They could tease and haze all they liked, but when I felt they've gone too far, I was going to speak up.

The rigger shook his head. "Alright. Get over here."

I followed him to the highcastle, but we didn't climb the stairs. Instead, he sat on the steps and motioned for me to do the same.

"Do you have your practice ropes?"

I pulled them out of my pocket and placed them on his extended hand.

"Three times around your hand." He acted out the instructions for me to see. "Finger beneath the bottom row. Grab the middle row. Middle finger passes under that row. Slide them all the way over the back of your hand." He held up his perfect butterfly not. "Got it?"

"I believe so," I replied, then prepared to mimic him.

"Three times around your hand..."

He walked me through the whole knot and, what do you know? I got it right on the first try. I held it up for examination and couldn't rein back a small, satisfied smile when he nodded his approval.

"That's good. Adjust it so it's tight around you wrist."

I passed my hand through the hoop and pulled on the line to close it on my arm. It held fast, just as it was supposed to.

"You got it. Now tie it again."

I broke the knot and repeated it without Folsom's instructions, with full confidence. Again, I managed it without struggling.

"The bowline, now." He put one of his feet up so he could bring the line around his ankle. "One loop. Make a cross. Twist the line up and backwards. Pass the end through it from underneath, then under the line, back into the new loop from above. Pull the line to close it."

Again, he explained what I should do, step-by-step, correcting me when necessary. He tugged on the finished bowline to make sure it was secure, then told me to do it again, without help. On the first try, I twisted the rope downward instead of upward, but I soon realized the mistake and corrected it. When I got stumped on how to get the end through, he was quick to remind me, yet let me finish on my own. And there was my bowline, strong and true. By the fourth try, I was able to tie it without any assistance.

It was so easy after learning, I felt doubly annoyed at my mentor. My eyes shot up from my bowline to Folsom's. "Why couldn't you have taught me like this from the beginning?" I said. "It would have been so much easier for both of us."

"Women don't belong in ships," he shrugged. "It's not natural."

"Says who, exactly?"

Another shrug, until he stopped to really think about it, then stammered. "I don't know, God, I suppose. It's just the way things are."

"At the risk of blaspheming, do you see God come down from the heavens to cast me out of the Walrus as He did with Adam and Eve when they were expelled from Paradise?"

"Well, no, but that don't mean anything. God tells me not to sin, yet He won't come down to keep me from it, either."

"Oh, and I'm to believe you make a grand effort not to?" I arched an eyebrow in doubt. Folsom turned away, hands wringing around the line he held. "Exactly. So maybe people just take pleasure in doing what they're not supposed to. I thought that was what the whole pirate philosophy was about? Do what you want and hang the rules. You want to swear and raid and... visit the "ladies of the night" (that got a snort out of him) and I want to sail. Why should I be denied my wish just because I'm a woman? I'm learning, aren't I?"

Folsom chewed on my words for a couple of minutes. While he was at it, I tied a butterfly and a bowline. Both knots were flawless. When I looked up, I caught him half smiling. I set the rope aside and held out my tar covered hand. "You're a good teacher, Mr. Folsom. I want to show I'm a good student, too. Truce?" He stared down at my hand, but soon took it and gave it a firm shake. "Truce." I let go of his palm and grabbed the rope once more. "Now, you said you were going to teach me the cleat hitch next."

"Aye, that I did." He stood up and lead the way to the bow of the ship. "And I'm also going to teach you how to swear, because that teeny wittle "fucking" you choked out was ridiculous." My stomach lurched, both from the reminder of my silly figure and the actual profanity. "In my defense, I'm not used to using swears. My parents wouldn't allow it."

"Had a feeling you were a pampered brat." This insult came out much more casual, without any of the contempt he'd previously laced them with. So, I let it slide. "Well shit, you're a fucking pirate now, so that means you'll fucking swear like one, goddammit."

"Oh my God, stop!" I brought up my hands to my ears to muffle out his voice. They felt hot against my palms, same as my cheeks. "The fuck's the matter with it? Them's just words! When you stub your toe somewhere during a bathroom run in the middle of the night, do you want to say "oh gee golly, that hurt?" No! You want to scream, "ow, shit, my fucking foot!" So you're gonna say as many profanities as you can and you're gonna let your tongue get a feel for them, until they come out as naturally as any other pissing word."

I winced to Folsom's never-ending string of curses. Couldn't even begin to imagine myself putting so many of them into a single sentence. We got to the fifes. Folsom crossed his arms and pinned me with a hard stare. "You know what this is?" I hesitated, already guessing what was coming. "A fife rail," I muttered. "No," he said. "It's a goddamn fife rail. Say it." I swallowed dry and turned the word over in my mouth like it was dirt before trying: "A god-damn f-fife rail." "What? Didn't hear nothing. Spit it out, you cunt."

I glared at him for using that word again. I hated it. My blood boiled in my veins as that old anger stirred up, so much so that, to my shock, the profanity came out much easier. "A goddamn fife rail."

"That's more like it." He grinned at the way I brought my hands to my mouth, face flaming hot. "And you know what you're gonna do with this fife rail? You're gonna tie a fucking line to the pin. Go on."

Oh, God have mercy. "I'm gonna tie a ffff... Dammit, I'm gonna tie a fucking line to the stupid fucking pin!"

Huh. What do you know. It does feel good when you do it angry. Folsom laughed loud and good, reminding me too much of a gull squawking.

"There! There you have it! Fucking hell." He smacked a hand on the rail with a relaxed sigh. "Oh, which reminds me. I'm not a fucking prick." He smirked like a cat about to jump on a mouse. "I'm a fucking asshole of the worst kind."

"You really are, though." I retorted, arms crossing at my front. "An extremely irritating, prejudiced little shit and a cock-faced son of a bitch." Oh, sweet Jesus, it felt too good. My Mother and Father would have fainted if they even imagined I was using such language.

"Alright, alright, don't get excited, you're gonna hurt my feelings." But judging by his big grin, it was clear he was pleased with my rotten mouth.

He taught me the cleat hitch, which I tied with ease. Just like that, my knots (and my swearing) improved from one minute to the next, and I felt certain that we would both pass Gates' test without breaking a sweat.

Before wrapping up the lesson, I remembered there was something else I needed to do in order to become an official member of the crew. I asked Folsom if he would like to do the honors and, surprisingly, he agreed. Therefore, we descended to my hammock to get the Articles, and then it was off to find Mr. Gates.

He was in the great cabin with captain Flint, which was just my luck since I would likely need his presence as well. The door was open when we arrived, all I had to do was knock. "If I may have a moment...? I will be brief."

"Come in," Flint said. Once again, he was sitting at his desk, while Gates occupied the chair across from it. Folsom and I stepped into the cabin to stand by him.

"I have read the Articles as you requested, Mr. Gates. And I think I'm ready to sign. If it's alright with you and the captain, I already brought a witness."

Gates' dark eyes hopped between the two of us with mild surprise, which he was entitled to, since not an hour ago he had seen us at each other's throats. Flint remained impassive, if a little curious.

"I take it you've made your peace with each other, then?" Gates asked cautiously.

"We have, yes." I answered.

Folsom added: "She's not so bad, now that she's gotten her potty mouth."

"Shush, you," I hissed, cheeks flaring up yet again.

Gates chuckled and shook his head. He looked to Flint. "Any objections?"

"Not on my part." He said while smoothing down his beard. "If this is truly what she wants, then go ahead."

Gates pushed the ink well in my direction. I set the Articles on the desk, dipped the quill and scribbled my name in elegant calligraphy, the product of my high class education. I added a swift, bold swirl to my signature, almost like a personal statement. I'm here, this is who I am and this is what I choose.

My old life as a proper lady was over. My new life as a scallywag had officially begun.

***

Two days later, Gates called the two of us to him and ordered me to perform my knots with my eyes closed. I let Folsom tie a blind fold around my eyes, as a precaution and extra flair. Neither one of us wished me to fail, so putting on a bit of a show, though risky, was sure to fortify our success as mentor and pupil beyond doubt.

I tied all five knots without a hitch. Mr. Gates was satisfied with the results, so Folsom and I came away from our ordeal with our hides untanned and pride swelling in our chests.

As we moved on through the weather deck, Folsom turned to me. "What do we say?"

I set my hands on my hips with a bright grin. "Fuck yeah."

"Damn right."

#black sails #black sails fanfic #billy bones #hal gates #alternative prequel #oc centric #slow burn #canon character x original character romance #found family #friends to lovers #stories by crow #a girl an ocean fanfic

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alpydk · 9 months ago

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The Circling Sky (Part 1)

New story. Gale x OC (F)

Summary: Lissa comes from a troubled background, an alcoholic father who's caused more problems for her than he's worth dragging her around Faerûn. After being in Waterdeep for a short while it's time for her to move again. Gale has been in Waterdeep since the defeat of the Netherbrain. He's lonely and restless. After receiving news of the death of a friend he decides to travel back to Baldur's Gate. The story follows their journey together and the connections the two outcasts build between each other.

Ao3 Link

“Mr. Dekarios?” She watched as the wizard approached the counter of the Blackstaff Academy library. She’d only been employed a short while and yet each day she had seen this same man enter, requesting various tomes on magic and the weave. She tucked her ashen blonde curls behind her pointed ears, making her face a little more visible to him. He was always such a flirt when he spoke with people, and though she had viewed him as arrogant, she couldn’t help but enjoy it a little when his dark brown eyes would fall on her.

“My dear Lissa, you’re looking as beautiful as ever, one might say the picture of radiance.” His voice was smooth and elegant. She liked how he raised her spirits, even on the days when she’d rather have stayed in bed. She watched the way his clean-shaven jaw moved with each word, distracted by his soft lips.

She handed over the stack of books, letting her hair fall to hide the reddening of her cheeks. “Um, your order, Mr. Dekarios.”

He smiled softly at her. “Gale will do, as I’ve told you before.” He placed a hand over hers as he took the books. She could feel the warmth of his palm, the soft pads of his fingertips as they stroked, taking the pile from her.

Lissa composed herself. Her father had always told her to never trust a wizard. They were nothing but snobbery and unbridled ambition, always full of themselves and blind to the realities of the real world. They believed everything could be solved with one spell or another, choosing mind control over diplomacy, a fireball over flint and tinder. They’d lost their way and so they were not worth listening to. “Mr. Dekarios, just sign this, please.” She slid a sheet of paper across the counter. Her heart was pounding. She hated the effect he had on her.

He delicately signed his name on the page, placing the quill down next to it. “I don’t suppose you’ve decided on whether you’re willing to take me up on that offer of a drink, have you?”

She swallowed the nerves that built up. Of course, she’d thought over it; the idea of sipping wine with him discussing topics such as their love of poetry before inevitably leaving for somewhere more private, something she had heard used to happen often amongst the staff of the library when it came to Mr. Dekarios. But rumours also spoke of this not having happened in a long while. That a new woman had entered his life, his nighttime adventures becoming fewer and further between. “I’ve told you I’m not allowed, we can’t have relations with-”

Gale cut her off. “Not relations, my friend. Merely a drink. A chance to get to know one another.”

She sighed. Getting to know one another? That’s not how the others had described it at all; unless it was getting to know physical aspects of one another. She considered the latter before quickly pushing it aside. “I’m sorry, I will have to decline.”

“Well,” he spoke, and she saw a glimmer of disappointment on his face. “That’s quite alright. You cannot blame a man for trying.” He placed a palm on top of the books. “Until tomorrow then, Lissa.” He bowed his head slightly to her and left, leaving her to release the long-held breath she’d been carrying.

***

“Well, I heard it had been going on for some time. Apparently when he was at the academy.”

“But she wouldn’t do that to him that young, would she?”

“Well, you know these deities, no concept of what age is when it comes to mortals.”

“But he was only seventeen!”

“Old enough for some, it seems.”

Lissa tried not to eavesdrop on the gossip whilst she drank her coffee. Normally it was about relationships between the staff, someone’s new haircut, and generally two-faced complaining. Today it was about Gale Dekarios.

“Well, it certainly explains why he stopped coming around here and poaching on the staff. The last fling was a while ago with that young man from Daggerford.”

“The elf? I always wondered why he seemed so glum. To be used like that and tossed aside. What a horrible young man that Dekarios fellow was.”

“Well, it seems his year away from Waterdeep did him some good. Though I do think the beard suited him better.”

She placed her cup down and left, their comments getting under her skin more than she would have liked. What did she care who he was sleeping with? A relationship with a goddess? A year away from Waterdeep? No doubt to explore and find himself. So, he needed to explore a little more than others, what was wrong with that? She gritted her teeth and walked through the library knowing that in about thirty minutes he would come to collect his new order.

***

Thirty minutes became an hour became the whole afternoon. For the first time in two months, Gale had not collected his books as he usually would. Lissa tapped her fingers impatiently on the counter, mindlessly looking to the main door and then back to the small pile of books at her side.

The voice of her boss drew her out of her thoughts. “Lissa dear, your shift ended ten minutes ago.”

She turned and smiled at the elderly gentleman. “Oh, I know, but Mr. Dekarios has yet to pick up his order. I’m sure he will be here any moment.”

“Well, why don’t you just drop them off on your route home? You go past the docks, right? He has a room not far from there.”

***

Lissa stood in the rain. Her clothes were soaked through and though the books were safe in her bag, she’d been forced to pull it under her cloak meaning her one shoulder was now freezing with no protection from the elements. She’d banged on the door to the tower and was hoping for an answer soon, and yet time seemed to slow down. The longer she stood there, the more she considered just taking the books home with her and then he could collect them directly from the library. Something didn’t feel right though, every day he would pick them up at the same time without fail. She banged the door a little bit harder waiting for a reply.

The locks clicked and the door opened a fraction, Gale’s face peering through the crack. “Lissa?” He opened the door a little more, his normally smart robes unbuckled, revealing a section of his chest.

She turned her eyes from him with a blush. “Mr. Dekarios…” A raindrop ran from her hairline down the back of her neck causing her to shiver involuntarily. She glanced over at him and fumbled with her bag, the cold making it difficult to grip the clasp.

“Don’t just stand on the doorstep, come in, come in.” He ushered her into the hallway of his tower, closing the door behind her. She felt the temperature change instantly, her shivering slowing a little. “Let me get you a towel”

She rubbed at her arms, trying to calm the goosebumps and tension in her system. “Oh, there’s no need. I’m just here to-”

“Now, my dear. It’s quite alright. Let’s get you dried off before you catch your death of cold.” He started to unclip the cloak from around her neck and though she wanted to object she could do nothing but look at the way his eyes focussed on her, a soft smile emerging on her face.

“Books…”

“Books? Ah, yes. My order today.” He took the cloak from her and carried it away with him. Lissa followed, trying to open her pack as she went. “Apologies for not collecting them. There was an unexpected interruption.” He flicked a wrist causing the fireplace to light up, the heat of the flames instantly providing comfort.

She placed the bag down and started to pull the books out but then felt the feeling of Gale’s hand upon her shoulder. Her body tensed ever so slightly and she looked up at him, his soft eyes staring down at her.

“Do not worry about the books just yet. Let's just get you warm and dry first.”

She stood and he rubbed at her upper arms. She noticed how close he was to her, how gentle his touch was, how soft his lips were. Words were forgotten to her as his hand crept from her shoulder to around her ear, rubbing the tip gently with his thumb. Her heart pounded in her chest and for a brief moment, all logic and reason abandoned her. She wanted to kiss him, wanted to feel those soft lips upon hers. He leaned in slightly to her, a small creeping smile emerging.

Never trust a wizard. Her father’s words drifted through her mind at the worst moment, causing her to come to her senses and take a step back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dekarios.” Her voice trembled but she would hold her own. “I am just here to deliver your books.”

She hurriedly picked up her bag without giving him any chance to apologise and turned for the door.

“Lissa, I didn’t mean…” He had no words for what he had wanted to do, instead letting her leave, her cloak still lying in front of the fireplace.

***

Gale had been intending to leave his tower for his regular walk along the docks to the library. He’d done this every day since he had returned to Waterdeep over two months ago, a mindless routine that got him outside into the fresh air and prevented him from secluding himself as he had previously done.

Since the defeat of the Netherbrain, his travelling companions and he had all gone their separate ways and though he’d returned in good health, the orb quelled, and him back in good favour with Mystra, he often found himself feeling quite lonely. Most of his colleagues at Blackstaff had not even noticed his four-month absence and some had come to believe he had died much earlier than this during his 1 year seclusion. He couldn’t help but feel out of place again now that he had returned to the one place he had longed to be.

The library was his one place of solace, the many shelves of fiction he could lose himself in, adventures that compared little to what he had lived through himself; the books of magic and spells were almost completely memorised over his years of study. If anything he now attended for the various people, those who enjoyed the literary arts, those who were soft-spoken and knowledgeable. He ignored the whispers of the staff who worked there. Many had known him from his earlier years as a student when he was more rambunctious and eager to impress. He’d been an unfortunate soul desperate to connect with others, a young prodigy who at times felt alienated from his peers. Though his time since Mystra had rectified this, he was still known for his past misdeeds, especially amongst the younger of the personnel.

The young half-drow Lissa was one that didn’t seem to listen to the gossip. Each day she was there with a smile, her light blue eyes bright at his approach, and often he was reminded of Tav. He’d tried several times to engage her in deeper conversation to get to know her more, but each time she stuck to her job, never calling him by his first name no matter how much he requested her to. He had noticed the blush though, the way that after a few weeks, she would tuck her blonde hair back just for him, normally letting it hang down for others. He wanted to get to know her better and each day had become a small mission just to interact with her.

The previous day she had turned him down for an evening together and although he’d been a little hurt he wasn’t going to let it affect him. His near death to the orb, to the Netherbrain, to almost everything during his time on the Sword Coast, had given him a lot more confidence in himself and he was slowly feeling like his old outcast self again. Yes, he didn’t fit in completely, but he accepted that now. He had his magic, his charisma, he liked himself, and that’s all that mattered.

The letter lying on the table is what had been preventing his excursion today. He’d read it over several times trying to make sense of the words, trying to find out why someone would create such a lie and send it to him.

Gale Dekarios,

This letter has been written on behalf of Duke Ravenguard.

I hope this letter finds you well. I apologise for his lack of correspondence during these last few months but my duties towards Baldur’s Gate have kept me quite occupied. I’m sorry to hear about the passing of Tav, I know you both were close.

Enclosed is a copy of the book Magic of the Weave - An Introduction, they said you’d left it at camp one day by accident. I will try to visit Waterdeep during the spring providing I find the time. Look after yourself.

Yours sincerely

Wyll Ravenguard (Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate)

None of it made sense. Tav had been well when they parted, apparently wanting to continue adventuring, but to die so suddenly? Gale turned the paper over trying to find any sign of deception. The seal had been official, the paper and ink of high quality, and even the courier had been official from Baldur’s Gate. The banging at the door didn’t register the first time, the questions taking his attention. As they faded from his mind, he heard the noise and opened the door to find Lissa standing in the pouring rain.

His initial reaction had been to want to grab her and just be held by her, to have someone with whom he could mourn, but he barely knew her and Lissa had always viewed him with complete professionalism meaning he could not burden her with such troubles. He invited her in with the hope that he would not feel lonely on this night, still questioning the contents of the letter, denying that Tav could even be gone. As he rubbed her shoulders to warm her, his emotions had gotten the better of him, making him long for an escape from the realities of his current situation. Lissa had smiled and blushed. She’d gazed up at him caringly in the same way Tav had all those months ago and for a moment he had believed that it was his friend with him again. It was only as she stepped back that he realised his mistake, losing himself in the moment with her.

Gale hadn’t wanted to let her leave, his thoughts spiralling further down than they had in a long time. All he could do was stand and watch the flames of the fireplace, wishing that he just had one friend in this moment of loss.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale bg3 #galemance #bg3 fanfiction #fanfiction #angst #very angsty fanfic being written

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blacksailspolls · 1 year ago

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🏴‍☠️ BLACK SAILS EPISODE BRACKET

ROUND 1, GROUP 2

SUMMARY

VIII. (1.08) — The hunt for the Urca de Lima begins when Silver divulges the schedule to Flint, taking them to the ship's location. Rackham stops paying Ms. Mapleton, which causes her to threaten to blackmail Rackham. She threatens to tell the locals what really happened to Mr. Noonan. Meanwhile, Vane makes his way back to New Providence with his new crew. Eleanor's situation changes when a small band of men take over Hornigold's fort and start sinking supply ships in the bay. Gates threatens to call off the attack of the Ranger, so Flint kills him. The final scenes of the season show that the Walrus has beached itself upon the same isle as the Urca de Lima.

X. (2.02) — A member of the Walrus crew unexpectedly returns, but finds himself cruelly tethered down on a beach. Flint, still stuck in the bowels of the ship, sets his plan in motion to become a captain in two days' time by offering advice to Dufresne on a certain route to navigate the galleon through. Meanwhile, Silver tries to make himself indispensable to his crewmates by reading them gossip that the quiet cook Randall witnesses daily aboard the ship. Meeks asks Eleanor to dispose of his captain, Ned Low since his unquenchable thirst for power is causing the crew to be reckless. After Jack learns about the intimate encounter between Max and Anne, he accepts it and later proposes his next money-making scheme with them.

#black sails #black sails eppoll #R1 #R1G2

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lupismaris · 2 years ago

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The Walrus- whiskey & blues. The "official" playlist for Cobble Hill's favorite queer bar. No, we don't take requests. -X, Flint.

yes i made a playlist for a fictional bar to accompany a fanfic. Sue me.

I approached this as Gates asked Flint to assemble a formal Spotify playlist for the bar that patrons could pull up as a reference after they got the upteenth person asking about what was playing. Flint made the playlist based on the bar's vinyl collection which is predominantly blues oriented, they pride themselves on being an alternative music venue for the facet of the queer community that doesn't enjoy the same club music as their cohorts vibe to in other gay bars.

It'll probably update as I go and yes I'll throw a link to it on AO3 .

#opening act of spring bs mdau fic #my fic #black sails playlist #james flint #well james flint adjacent anyway #black sails modern au #Jamie's Fic Prompt Fills

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moghraidhs · 9 months ago

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back on my terror/black sails soapbox (you should have realised you weren't going to hear the end of this) under the cut

jack/fitzjames. the two great pretenders. are they capable of being honest only with each other, or do they wear masks in private as well as in public? they're always pulling off something great by the skin of their teeth, and somehow it's never enough. will do amazing things to be seen.

sol/silver. it's a perpetual mystery to me how the most straightforward people become attracted to the biggest schemers (re: vane and eleanor), but perhaps it's nothing more simple than opposites attracting. sol fights to protect others and silver lies to protect himself, and yet they fall in love anyway. sol (grudgingly) admires how silver is ten steps ahead of everyone else and stands up for him, and silver gets to experience the mortifying ordeal of having someone actually care about him.

silna/madi. the definition of "some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them". madi is ready for her destiny while silna tries to escape it. they're both their fathers' daughters. very good at knowing what the other is thinking without needing to exchange words. quiet in all things: fear, grief, and loss - so when they love, that is quiet too, and just as unshakeable as they are.

blanky/gates. stories of the old days, of miles of ice and clear blue seas. bonding over good rum and foolish captains whom they genuinely care for. they're always there to back each other up, even when no one listens to them. will to live increases by 90% after meeting each other.

flint/ross. the fearsome pirate captain and the good-hearted idealist who cares more about his men than fame or money? they're a perfect match - even if they don't realise it at first. s1-s3 flint would fight his attraction all the way, because every time he looks at james he's reminded of thomas, and look how that ended. fortunately, james is just as stubborn as he is; once there's someone he loves he won't let go. they balance each other out well, and by s4 are definitely the sanest couple in nassau (mostly).

tommy/billy. it's about the implications. whatever happened to them in the past has made them what they are - the same and yet different. it made billy strong and serious (perhaps too much so) and loyal; it made tommy quiet and withdrawn and loyal. they don't talk about what happened, not even to each other, but they love just right in such a way that it doesn't really matter. basically "where you go, i go". they keep each other from falling.

sol/billy. loyal dog meets loyal dog. their shields are up, not to protect themselves, but those around them, and in so doing they leave themselves wide open and vulnerable. would and probably have killed for each other, and will do so again if necessary. combined anger and grief that is deadly when turned outwards. they have no secrets. a good hug would fix them both, i think.

tommy/vane. violent x soft, but with a twist. neither of them like uncertainties - when you grow up the way they have, you want to know where you're standing at all times. you also (in charles' case anyway) develop a soft spot for underdogs. tommy is loyal, he's good with a gun, and he does what he's told without asking questions. kind of likes it, to be honest. there are no games with these two, not ever. if charles ever allowed himself the luxury of vulnerability, its name would be tommy armitage.

#black sails #the terror #abbie talks #shows of all time #i did briefly consider putting hickey in there but lbr silver would have him for breakfast #hickey is a caricature trying desperately to make some kind of a name for himself #silver is a ghost who just wants to disappear #they are not in the same league #anyway #enjoy my rambles

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sir-gwaine-of-camelot · 11 months ago

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Masterlist of my writing (AO3)

Hey everyone! I write for a variety of fandoms, and thought I'd make a masterlist to help promote some of my work! If you like any of my stuff, let me know! I love reading comments, even though I'm bad at responding to them.

THE QUARRY:

If I Seem Dangerous, Would You Be Scared? (Dylan/Ryan) INCOMPLETE WIP

X-MEN:

We Fear That Which We Cannot Understand (Charles Xavier & Darwin)

Dialed Up To Eleven (Charles Xavier/Eric Lehnsherr)

Silk and Lace (In Black and Red) Can Drive a Man Right Off His Head (Charles Xavier/Eric Lehnsherr) INCOMPLETE WIP

DOCTOR WHO:

Would You Like To Stay For Dinner? (Would You Like To Stay Forever?) (Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones/Jack Harkness) INCOMPLETE WIP

BALDUR'S GATE 3:

Their First Night of Many (Astarion/Gale, Bloodweave)

A Quiet Evening (Astarion/Gale, Bloodweave)

You Need Not Face The Darkness Alone (Astarion & Gale, pre-slash)

DUMBGEONS AND DRAGONS (PODCAST):

Together, We Can Weather The Storm (Thia Amastacia/Flint Firebeard/Nulara Moonbrook)

The End of the End, and the Beginning of a Beginning (Thia Amastacia/Flint Firebeard/Nulara Moonbrook)

BBC MERLIN:

Just Another Monday (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot)

Secret Keeper (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot)

Guilt and Ghosts (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot) INCOMPLETE

Nightmares (Merlin/Lancelot/Gwaine, Merwaincelot)

Death of an Immortal (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot) Temporary Character Death

Camping (Gwaine & Everyone (except Arthur), Platonic, pre-slash)

LORD OF THE RINGS:

The King's Bathhouse (Éomer/Faramir, Éomer/Faramir/Aragorn)

Comfort In The Dark (Éomer/Faramir)

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON:

To Dance Beneath The Stars (Bruno Madrigal/Hiccup Haddock, slash or platonic, crossover)

ENCANTO:

To Dance Beneath The Stars (Bruno Madrigal/Hiccup Haddock, slash or platonic, crossover)

If The Sky Comes Falling Down (Bruno Madrigal & Mirabel Madrigal, platonic) INCOMPLETE

FANTASTIC BEASTS:

Pure of Heart (Newt Scamander & his creatures)

CRIMINAL MINDS:

Career Day (Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid) INCOMPLETE

Would You Be My Safe Space? (Spencer Reid & Jason Gideon, Spencer Reid & Penelope Garcia, platonic, wingfic) COMPLETE, but the first in an INCOMPLETE series

MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE:

Injured...Yet Again (Peter Parker & Tony Stark & Pepper Potts)

Studying The (Actual) Civil War Sucks (Peter Parker & Tony Stark)

Under Open Skies (Perhaps We Can Heal) (Clint Barton/James "Bucky" Barnes) INCOMPLETE

ORIGINAL WORKS:

Mirror Image (poetry)

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alexwatchesshows · 1 year ago

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Black Sails X review (S2E2)

Spoilers for up to and including E10.

"Strange pairs, Lieutenant, they can achieve the most unexpected things."- Thomas Hamilton

Billy's back! I mean, he's being tortured, but he is still technically back. Unfortunately, because my brain only ever wants to cause me pain, my first thought was of what he's going to go through when he finds out Gates is dead.

We go from that awful biblical torture, to Thomas Hamilton reading the Bible (I want to say Genesis, but I truly know so little about it), and I'll get to the flashbacks later but the way the camera pans over to Flint as Thomas reads "it is not good that he is alone" just breaks my heart.

Anyway, first to Nassau, where shit's getting real. Ned Low's quartermaster is mad at him because he did massively fuck up with the blood on the crates and all that, but Low's violent, vulgar humour and whatever the hell that personality is has somehow won over his men. It's a bit like the season 1 Flint/Gates dynamic, in that Low has convinced his men to go along with his bullshit under the promise of some kind of passive payout, while painting the logical quartermaster as some kind of villains for pointing out flaws in the plan. In this situation, however, the captain seems to be completely irredemable and his plan for massive riches is to endanger and exploit a teenage girl. It's a much harder sell for the audience than attacking an empire. Missing the support of his crew, Meeks seeks support from Eleanor, who is less than happy about her reputation as someone who "(deposes) captains", given what it did to her the last time she did it. I mean, as it was with Vane, it would probably be a good idea to get rid of Low, just on the basis of him being kind of evil and also a massive dickhead, but, again, looking at where Vane is now, I can see why she wouldn't want to risk it. Speaking of Vane, he has somehow been talked into attending the consortium meetings, even if all he does during them is smoke and look general detached from everything. Baby steps, I guess.

Vane's attendence is the only thing that's going well for Eleanor and the consortium, though. The whole shipping plan that was presented as the solution to everything last season is barely working, and, even worse for Eleanor, it's her family name that's the problem. Vane's reputation is proving useful, but, as he (at least feels that he) holds all the power, it's down to him to decide whether Eleanor and her consortium can coninue to hold any power in Nassau, which is not ideal, because he's unreliable at best. Still, he's not entirely wrong when he refers to Eleanor as "a tyrant too weak to enforce her own tyranny". It's a harsh interpretation, sure, but it's not necessarily fully incorrect. Maybe it's this accusation of weakness that pushes her to take a harder stance with Ned Low. That was probably a bad place to start, though, because that man does not care about anything and angering him only results in further violence. Like, a lot of violence.

This level of violence is probably what causes Eleanor to relent and go to Vane for help. She knows that she can't appeal to him with her power, as he's already expressed his disdain for her "tyranny", so she appeals to his "concern" for her. Honestly, these two just keep making each other worse, but maybe if Ned Low's downfall can be brought about as a result of their dysfunctional relationship, maybe it's worth it. And then there's the "prize" Eleanor mentions. Poor Abigail Ashe.

And while violent shit is going down at Eleanor's bar thing, soft, romantic shit is going down at the brothel. I love this plotline so much-- the way it shows Anne slowly coming to terms with her sexuality and processing what it means for her and Jack is just so well-done in all its complexity and,,, emotion. Oh god I love them all so much. This is also possibly the first relationship in the show that is portrayed in a genuinely romantic way, and it's a sapphic relationship, which is one of the many reasons I love this show. It would also have been so easy to just take this whole Anne/Max/Jack dynamic and just put Jack in the role of jealous boyfriend and portray Anne and Max's relationship as just cheating, but my beloved Black Sails had better plans than that. Instead, we show Anne's internal conflict between her feelings for Jack and what she feels she owes him and her feelings for Max-- ones she probably hasn't let herself acknowledge before. Similarly, we all know by now that Jack isn't the kind of person to cause a massive scene and confront the other two, nor does he necessarily even want to. Instead, he just turns up to talk about his business plans. I mean, those are some good ideas, but there's a time and a place. They could also have had Jack go down the route of just completely ignoring the relationship, diminishing the importance/significance of sapphic relationships, but instead we get his wonderful reaction: "Darling, I can understand why you wouldn't want to tell me about this, but please know that all I have ever wanted is for you to be happy. Come to bed when you're through." Just everything about it, from the tenderness of the darling, to the acknowledgement of the conflict Anne must be feeling, and the way his love for her just radiates off him. I don't think I've ever loved Jack (or Anne for that matter) as much as in this moment.

Now to the Walrus crew (technically not on the Walrus but I can't be asked to differentiate at this point). Our unlikely couple are finally getting their shit together and making each other worse. Silver is still asserting that he does not want to be a pirate, and is simply sticking with the crew for the sake of Flint's get rich quick scheme. Flint is so committed to being a pirate that he's going to take down the british empire... somehow. These two are obviously going to work so well together. Both of them are using manipulation as their tactic of choice, but on different levels. Flint knows what he wants and goes directly for leadership. He starts with a slightly misguided attempt at small talk about books with Dufresne (he's so me fr), then turns the conversation into a confession, as if he believes that he can convince Dufresne that he's really really sorry and then Dufresne will just let him be captain again. Don't get me wrong, I do believe Flint when he says the guilt is killing him, but I just don't thing D is the best audience for this. Flint also knows this, as he (maybe) goes for a different tactic. It's never made explicit whether Flint meant to deceive or advise Dufresne. I'm sure his intentions weren't purely to help Dufresne, but he might have genuinely been advising Dufresne for the reasons he believed-- that if Dufresne had successfully taken a prize, his position would have been much more secure. I think it's much like the scene with Billy, neither we nor, possibly, Flint, know what his intentions were. Either way, Dufresne goes ahead with Flint's idea, one that De Groot approves of from a sailing perspective, which really says something about Flint's talent not just as a leader of men, but as a sailor. It really makes you think about what would have happened had he not had to leave London for whatever those reasons were.

As Dufresne's mission to capture a merchant ship goes on, it becomes harder to believe that Flint has the crew's best interests at heart. He narrates the whole thing to Silver and clearly knows what Dufresne should be doing, but makes no effor to advise him on this. As a result, the attack quickly goes downhill. Dufresne also runs into another problem-- aside from his lack of experience-- which is that he doesn't have Flint's notoriety and nor does he have the charisma to make up for it. It's probably this that tips the merchant captain off and gives him the confidence to call for his crew to resist. Then Dufresne's lack of experience also comes through as he doesn't know how to handle the crew in such a situation. Controlling a crew under fortunate circumstances is one thing, but, as we've seen with Flint, retaining their loyalty under hardship and chaos is something else entirely. Dufresne took control of the Walrus crew after a patch of difficulty under Flint, then found fortune under his time as leader but, as soon as he has to deal with something like this, he crumbles. As Mr Logan points out "no one is in fucking charge" on the ship-- Dufresne is too stubborn to give up on a mission that the rest of the crew have lost faith in, De Groot, voice of wisdom though he may be, doesn't hold much authority as a leader, and Flint is still disgraced. Ultimately, Flint is essentially decided as the best option, helped by his willingness to immediately order an effective retreat. Then he heads off to the captain's quarters with all the confidence in the world. The vote hasn't even happened yet, but he knows how to lead well enough to know exactly what he's just done.

At the end of the day, he's still nice to Dufresne, reassuring him that the vote was close-- Flint isn't the type to gloat, at least not in such an over way, and Dufresne could still be a powerful ally. And, most importantly, Flint has a new jacket.

Silver, meanwhile, is taking a different approach to winning back his position on the crew. Honestly, this showcases what I love about S1/2 Silver: he's scrappy. He's not necessarily inherently a team player, but he knows how to work with and against people to ensure his own survival, and, unlike (sorry) Flint, he does it in such an entertaining way that he also ensures that he's well-liked. Flint, god bless his autistic heart, has absolutely no idea what the hell Silver is playing at, and Silver gives him some kind of story about his past. Now, given Silver's track record of lying his ass off, we have no idea whether or not this is true, but, regardless, it's the only insight we've got into his life pre-merchant vessel. Honestly, it doesn't tell us a whole lot that we don't know-- well-off men were rarely conscripted onto merchant vessels as crew members-- but it still fleshes out the sense of powerlessness and potential tragedy in Silver's past. Either way, as the days go by, Silver's ploy of playing the men off against each other starts yielding some results, and, as Flint-- who he has formed an uneasy alliance with-- comes back into power, his survival becomes almost guaranteed.

And now we get more London flashabcks, i.e. backstory of Flint's previous unlikely partnership. In this partnership, however, Flint/McGraw is the realist, and Thomas is the dreamer. He's the one who tells McGraw that, in approaching Nassau, he should forget the pirates. Sure, he's not necessarily wrong in framing piracy as a symptom of a wider issue, but very few men, let alone members of the nobility, would have had the optimism and insight to take that approach. McGraw still tries to point out the flaws in the rest of the plan, listing the extensive resources that would be needed to establish stability on Nassau, and still Thomas is unfazed. I'm not sure whether he's being incredily smart or incredibly stupid about this, but honestly I support him.

Then we get a little insight into the other side of McGraw's life-- his relationships within the navy. It's clear that Admiral Hennesy holds him in some regard, and sees his potential (honestly, he's giving father-figure vibes in this scene, not necessarily good ones though), but, because of his class status, his peers don't hold him in that level of regard. This is yet another problem with the empire/civilisation that we haven't explored much yet, but classism is clearly a massive problem in both James' life and British society as a whole. Then, as the taunting continues, we see what we recognise as Flint's kind of passion and violence arise in McGraw, and a fight breaks out. Hell, he even looks more like the man we know as Flint as he gets roughed up and even gets some blood on him (a key aspect of Flint's appearance). I don't blame him for reacting, but Hennesy isn't wrong when he expresses about "the thing that arises in (James) when passions are aroused [where] ... good sense escaped [him]", and what it could become when "exposed to extremes", which we have already seen with Gates, and which I can't help but think is going to make some kind of comeback in episodes to come.

#sorry this one took so long I've been quite busy #black sails #black sails spoilers #black sails review #my posts #tv #tv show review #episode review #spoiler #tv shows #tv reviews

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hunterisnearme · 1 year ago

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Silly Warframe x TTCC crossover stuffs I have brewing in my mind since I now have accidentally opened the gates of both my interests and seeing that people actually unironically enjoy the rambles, here is the list of all managers that I associate them with Waframes and what Zariman Focus they'd major in. (Spoiler free! Just saying which warframe they'd use as operators/drifters)

LET'S GO!

Derrick Man | William Boar

William in my honest opinion would be a Lavos. Lavos in itself is a mish-mash of defense and support, given that William gives off the vibe of someone who would use his body as protection while using potions (or oil in this case) to boost his team mates. William's focus, however, is Naramon. Tactic and whimsical, despite how stern he is as a person.

L.A.A | Alton S. Crow

Alton aka Mr. BIG STEPPY is going to HAVE to be Rhino. While he's a twig, 100% would go for the build of a Rhino JUST BECAUSE of how strong and powerful his steps are. I'm sure if you bonk his Rhino enough his true body will flop out and you can just kick the guy around like a nerd. (I say this with affection.)

An Unairu by heart. He'll assume the best of himself and believe you have what it takes to take down his economy build.

P.R.R | Winston Byrd

Nyx by the automatic. Mind games? Absolutely. There is no way you wouldn't put him in the position as the psychological warfare. Unpredictable, cunning, and uncertain, Winston would definitely use his mind game at the max. (Maybe he's gotten thrown out of existence due to the void overtaking his sanity from the get-go too, honestly. Maybe that's why he's a little looney.) Madurai is what he would be, though with a twist. While most Madurai are known to be brawns over brains, he actually uses that exact brain to demolish his enemies from inside-out.

Duck Shuffler | Buck Ruffler

Zephyr! Mostly because Zephyr is a bird-related Warframe. He'd be the kind of person to swoop from the heavens and raise the stakes of piercing down his enemies with either the beak or talon. He's all about being unpredictable, and of course risking a lot to gain far too little. Another Madurai, simply because he's going in head on!

Deep Diver | Mary Anna

Hydroid, of course! Just like the Warframe itself, she's all about being in the deep-levels of things. Of course, this was a match made in heaven, especially given that they both would enjoy the aquatic life in things such as Neptune's water ecosystem! A vazarin as well, given Mary's need to learn her opponents and as well understand the weak points of an enemy.

Gatekeeper | Holly Grayelle

Styanax, the embodiment of protection and being the knight of everyone's story. Although a different time frame, I'm certain she'd still pick this Warframe simply because of the fact that it represents a true warrior. In her eyes, she believes she is no different. An Unairu for the fact she doesn't step down her place.

Mouthpiece | Belle Dama

Trinity! A supporter, but also a hefty fighter. She can help aid her allies while absolutely DEMOLISHING her enemies. She is wise, given her more in-depth experience in combat than most of the others. And Vazarin, for sure!

Firestarter | Flint Bonpyre

Ember, specifically. He, of course, is far more passive in this team comparing to most. Though at the same time, if it comes to the safety of those he care for, then he will absolutely smite his enemies in the burning hell fires to make sure no one gets killed. (Even if it means he himself gets into the crossfire.)

Naramon, mostly because he's anxious at times but still very much studies what he can against his enemies.

Treekiller | Spruce Campbell

Closest I can say is a Vauban. I would've said Loki, or Oberon, but he is NOT a nature fella. And plus, he can come up with useful tools all while using up materials when necessary. Perhaps he may be on good terms with the Grineer for his hatred of nature? Steel Meridian is definitely buddy-buddy with Spruce. Another Madurai!

Bellringer | Benjamin Biggs

I'd like to think maaaybe a Banshee? It's a mish-mash, honestly between either a Banshee for him always being a loud speaker on gossip, or Ash to "go rogue" and eavesdropping on people. I can confirm though that he is Zenurik!

Featherbedder | Tawney C. Esta

Surprisingly, I see Tawney as a stone-hard Atlas. I'm not sure about them yet, honestly! But I'm sitting on the fence of Atlas, mostly because of the leer that Atlas possesses. A petrifying gaze of Tawney is possible enough, and they have the guts of an Unairu!

Prethinker | Brian [REDACTED]

Xaku! Xaku is the possession of multiple Warframes alike, thinking in one mind much like how Brian does with his jockeys. With the abilities of a mind hive, Brian is a Zenurik!

Rainmaker | Misty Monsoon

You would think I'd pick Yareli for Misty because of the water abilities, but I see her as a Wisp! Yareli is more of an attack-goer, but Wisp suits best in Misty's supportive and skittish behavior. Vazarin by the automatic!

Witch Hunter | Prester Virgil

Harrow! Even if he is meant to sacrifice his own defense for the sake of others, Prester would do it for the sake of defeating the greater evil in which he seeks as filth. Another violent and hostile Madurai, if you ask me.

Multislacker | Cathal

Grendel is what I see as best-choice for someone like Cathal. I'm certain Cathal also happens to be the type of Operator that prefers to work best at his own pod, hidden away while his Grendel is out and about consuming his enemies. He is an Unairu.

Major Player | Dave BruBot

OCTAVIA! It's obvious that as a Warframe of music, of COURSE Dave would aim for one as such. Just even hearing smooth jazz in the dark hallways has never felt so much more dangerous when it comes to the skill of Dave's combat. Dave gives me a more Zenurik vibe.

Plutocrat | Cosmo Kuiper + The Satellites

A man as cold Cosmo, you're destined to see him with a Frost at hand! His strong wield of ice within his hands is what brings him the best strength. And not all, but he has a Railjack that has The Satellites as his crewmen that manage around the ship. While they do not possess their own Warframes, they are useful in defense and attack as Corpus crewmates. Cosmo is a Vazarin!

Chainsaw Consultant | Chip Revvington

Chroma is as versatile and hostile as Chip himself can be. A Warframe difficult to adjust to, but Chip tries his best in order for him to maintain his own inner rage as a Tenno. An Unairu, if you squint real hard despite the Madurai elements.

Pacesetter | Graham Ness Payser

WE ALL know this because of the fact I have been drawing him nonstop in this AU, but he's a GAUSS CERTIFIED USER! A Madurai as well! And of course, because he's also got them Sellbot elements, he half-works with the Corpus.

#20000 internet disconnects later #warframe #toontown #toontown corporate clash #corporate clash #AU rambles #Warframe AU #crossover #i'm not tagging the managers AGAIN but just know it's all of them #excluding maypril fools managers tho

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svenerd · 3 months ago

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Spiele-Vorschau - Oktober 2024

In der Monatsvorschau liefert euch unser Redakteur Christian Fritz Schneider einen Ausblick auf die kommenden Spiele, die im September 2024 für PC, PlayStation, Xbox und Switch veröffentlicht werden. 00:00 - Throne and Liberty 01:01 - KILL KNIGHT 01:34 - Vestiges: Fallen Tribes 02:03 - Wizard of Legend 2 02:34 - SpongeBob SquarePants: The Patrick Star Game 03:56 - Diplomacy is not an Option 04:25 - Until Dawn (Remake) 04:54 - SWORD ART ONLINE Fractured Daydream 05:16 - Anima Flux 05:43 - Global Farmer 06:08 - Rebots 06:45 - Silent Hill 2 (Remake) 07:13 - Dead Season 07:43 - Diablo IV: Vessel of Hatred 08:17 - Heavy Cargo - The Truck Simulator 08:46 - Sky Oceans: Wings for Hire 09:14 - Guild Saga: Vanished Worlds 09:43 - DRAGON BALL: Sparking! ZERO 10:14 - Europa 10:43 - Undisputed 11:07 - Starship Troopers: Extermination 11:45 - RPG Maker WITH 12:14 - Transformers: Galactic Trials 12:37 - Metaphor: ReFantazio 13:16 - Nikoderiko: The Magical World 13:40 - Neva 14:09 - New World: Aeternum 14:45 - Drova - Forsaken Kin 15:26 - MechWarrior 5: Clans 16:16 - Citadelum 16:50 - Super Mario Party Jamboree 17:18 - A Quiet Place: The Road Ahead 17:48 - Blazing Strike 18:16 - Call to Arms - Gates of Hell: Airborne 18:50 - Arizona Sunshine Remake 19:23 - Unknown 9: Awakening 19:57 - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutants Unleashed 20:28 - RetroRealms: Ash vs Evil Dead / Halloween 20:55 - Hot Wheels Monster Trucks: Stunt Mayhem 21:18 - Worshippers of Cthulhu 21:50 - Railroad Corporation 2 22:26 - Factorio: Space Age / 2.0 22:55 - Streets of Rogue 2 23:29 - Lynked: Banner of the Spark 23:58 - No More Room in Hell 2 24:32 - Awaken - Astral Blade 24:59 - ZERO Sievert 25:37 - Age of History 3 26:20 - Flint: Treasure of Oblivion 26:55 - Die Schlümpfe - Abenteuer im Traumland 27:18 - Romance of the Three Kingdoms 8 Remake 27:49 - Romancing SaGa 2: Revenge of the Seven 28:23 - Shin chan: Shiro and the Coal Town 28:47 - Prim 29:27 - Call of Duty: Black Ops 6 29:56 - Sonic X Shadow Generations 30:24 - Ys X: Nordics 30:55 - Fruitbus 31:27 - Reel Fishing: Days of Summer 31:57 - Keep Keepers 32:26 - Blood Bar Tycoon 32:58 - Life is Strange: Double Exposure 33:34 - Post Trauma 24:01 - Clock Tower: Rewind 34:35 - Wanderer: The Fragments of Fate 35:05 - Dragon Age: The Veilguard 35:40 - Shadows of the Damned: Hella Remastered 36:09 - 36:39 - Blasphemous 2: Mea Culpa 37:12 - Alan Wake 2: The Lake House 37:50 - Neue Spiele-Ports mit Horizon Zero Dawn Remastered, Yakuza Kiwami, Broken Sword - Shadow of the Templars: Reforged und mehr Read the full article

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libidomechanica · 11 months ago

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Untitled Composition # 11248

A rispetto sequence

Their Taxes double majesty. Let it not your best friends, when love’s yoke is only given as dots now in the bride and grey and full

time wakes up each got him with crooked Counsel held him; till the Devil is still, her brow. Saw Seames of Woman is but walks by night.

And the sea alone bent over the wheel of thy King. Two name my garden when I have a noose about my Leave a future Truth the

best: kind Husbandry. Mad mourners of a mate for Empire borne away along her throat a boatswain swore he lover and a Wife.

III

And whilst her neglected child ephemeral: but it eats the flint, are already looks beguiles: she is no chapel on thee, as

thy pearls upon our western Skies. The Chaplain robed in white as wax and provident. And wild winds the joint is free; so, when the cellar.

Descend into the best may do their secret deed. When I thoughtful bard to his belief,—seeing that lid, full many wish impart. And

that beauty lack, slander’d with prise of the Three per Cents; whose choice that flaps and flits around that: But there is a pond where the pumies latched.

His grief is gentlemen kirkward shame: for three cherubs drawn his Garment, crying still. When the world let’s prove the turmoil of expiring

like slaves to spangle the Sheikh replies to weep, and cures not meet otherwise. Existed but happely I hym spyde, when clear to all.

To everyone I love the skies. Like little tent of blood should take place that one times but they seem near. Generative earth the earth receive;

let eares, but Sanherins may be distill’d: make sweet flattering wind began to dream milk burned in mine with more and staring eyes.

VII

Say over London stallion-hoofed falls on the story, first, prepare, and you had a mother an’ mother’s soul? So, like the shore, against

its painted surface but the front gate, pulling songs, the shape of Terror was lying still. Then forgo; who banishment to grow older.

VIII

And rashly judge a Cause. Though I and Thou be stilled with the best. Not the three children and sculk’d behind the sky above poor of her Front,

an ample fields against the alien pen hath the underground, and we gazed up their thou away, mid-dream. And Horror stalked before.

Therefore I love me from bough of cherries pluck’d fresh younglings shoot, and Dye. False foul with the best region. Like thee another He, another

Ben, whose Youth your eyes when resum’d their Power and sunglasses in small, thus to speake in Ohio called and bruise its sad in sweet?

Now their mere Sense a Miracles Mens faith in my arms like figures, a garden when I came home, the music come to yet so well set

forth within the world for to lie here. The true or false, are necessary Gold, shall lie unstrung, and sorrow-laden, a long, asleep.

Tho’ father an’ mother. As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe is Treasons: he is gone down, as endless wealthy western friends—as thus;

mine eyes, by Loue direct Hebrew Ballad in your moment. Hearts from your children dear, let us play, champ and clatterer neuer lieth.

XII

Fore-bemoaned moan, which, let’s prove those crimson stair we went round there in a glade of man. In comeliness; when I’m sitting of Leonardo

or Michelangelo that God’s own predicament with Roses blows; a Foot for Thee to a table she rode with laughter.

XIII

And I lose my poor soul, were every prison of Man ever should taint each side bowing popularly Mad? Wars and yet to-day I

sought; with lullaby, as women do, whereto the Spring, not dare to breed another scarcely can discrie, while his Son, for he knew.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #172 texts #rispetto sequence

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corvuserpens · 24 days ago

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A Girl, An Ocean {A Black Sails Fanfic} - Ch. 2

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: Hints at sexual abuse (with no actual SA) Category: Action adventure with romance Characters: Billy Bones, Hal Gates, James Flint, De Groot, Jean DuBois, Randall the cook, OC Relationships: Billy Bones/OC Additional tags: Original character-centric, canon character x original character romance, kinda alternative prequel to canon, canon compliant, slow burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers, tooth-rotting sweetness, cute but also sexy, angst galore, found family, Hal Gates has two children now, canon typical violence Series: Part One of Six of A Girl, An Ocean Chapters: 2/13 Summary: Constance is introduced to the Walrus crew, with mixed results. A new friend is made and Billy reassures her she is safe. Author's note: Just as a quick disclaimer, there will be NO actual sexual assault/rape scenes in this fic, I am sick and tired of seeing them, reading them and thinking about them. I hate this trope and I want it to die in a ditch. For the sake of reality and plausibility there will be mentions of it, as at the beginning Constance will always fear it bc it makes sense. And then obviously there's what happens to Max later on. All warnings will be mentioned above, please be mindful of them! Stay safe and have fun.

Chapter ii.

The sun was barely above the horizon when we were brought up from the sick bay. Our crew and officers were no longer restrained by weaponry, but I noticed they were deliberately sticking to the side of the ship farthest from the pirate vessel. As for the pirates themselves, few of them were still on board. I spotted Mr. Gates somewhere close to the rails, overseeing their operation whilst they finished carrying the last of the cargo that interested them across the wooden planks linking the two ships.

That was when it dawned on me the impossibility of my plan: there were too many witnesses. On deck, on the rigging, on the highcastle, the forecastle, moving back and forth, and I was a lady in a pastel rose dress and heels that clicked loudly with every step. The only other thing that would attract more attention than me would be a bull in skirts. How was I going to get across unseen?

Obviously, I would need a distraction. But what could possibly draw their attention long enough and effectively enough for me to slip past both crews? I could go back down and search for a grenade. Set it off near the helm. That should do the trick. Problem was, it would take too long, and it would be a risk in and of itself. After all, what business did a lady have digging around the shots and munition? I would have to rush down to the shot locker or the magazine (which one of them stored grenades, again?), find the grenade and the flint and come back up, all without notice, then light it up without anyone seeing. By then, the pirates would be off. What else, then...?

My heart was beginning to sink in my chest as I scrambled for an idea. Something, anything. Shoot the pistol at the sky behind one of the officers and throw it overboard? No, that was silly. Take one of my companions captive and threaten her life unless they let me join? No, surely the pirate's charity wouldn't go far enough for them to care if I shot one of my own. Next idea...

Loud voices behind me drew my curiosity. Up on the bow of the ship, one of the officers was nose-to-nose with a pirate covered in tattoos and greasy black hair. I had been too preoccupied with my escape to catch the beginning of the argument. One of them threw a hand at the other's face, I couldn't tell who from so far back. All I knew was that suddenly, a crowd from both sides was rushing forward to break up the fight that ensued. A ruckus rose up as the pirates cheered for their mate, Gates bellowed at the top of his lungs, the officers admonished their compatriot, the children laughed, the women screamed. All eyes were focused solely on those two men.

I could not believe my luck and I wasn't going to wait around to see how the fight ended. Taking this golden opportunity, I lifted my skirts, hopped onto the closest plank and stumbled across as quickly as my dainty shoes allowed.

Before I knew it, I had made it to the other side. On the HMS Delilah, the humors were beginning to cool and the situation brought under control, which meant time was short. I tossed my heels over the rail to avoid making noise and sneaked down to the gun deck, then into the storage. If there was anywhere in that ship for me to hide, it would be in that labyrinth.

It was very dark and cold down there, but at least it was dry. I took one of the lanterns hanging near the ladder with me. The first thing I encountered at the bottom of the steps were the rats – giant rats, the size of rabbits, scurrying about in their dozens. I brought the hand holding the pistol to my mouth to muffle a scream and almost broke my own nose. I hadn't even thought about the possibility of sharing my hiding hole with pests. Jesus Christ, they were awful looking things. I wondered if they would bite. Oh God, please don't let them near me.

I shut my eyes tight and sucked in a great breath to master my panic. There was no time to worry about bloody rats. I had to find somewhere to hide, quickly. Summoning whatever courage I had left, I took hesitant steps forward and tried to shoo the animals out of my path. I recalled my cousin's advice to use the butt of the pistol as a bludgeon after shooting, as they were designed that way for that exact purpose, and carefully maneuvered it around until I held the barrel in my fist. In an emergency, I could always try and hit them.

Finally, many compartments (and rats) later, I found the sails storing room and tucked myself among them like a bird in its nest. It occurred to me that I should blow out the lantern, but I wasn't brave enough, not for that. The idea of being shrouded in darkness with all those rats made my skin crawl. Besides, how would I find the way back out without it? Instead, I used my knife to cut a piece of my underthings and cover up the lantern, to at least stifle the light. This way I could still see, but it would be harder to find me. Gosh, it was cold down there. And it stank of fish and tar and gunpowder. I told myself it was only for a while, which offered little comfort. I huddled tight in the sails, keeping close to the light for a bit of warmth, and waited.

***

It was hard to tell time down there. By my calculations, it should be eight o'clock in the evening, perhaps nine. I couldn't hear much beyond the scurrying of the rats and the creaking wood. Occasionally, I heard distant footsteps and loud voices. I wouldn't allow myself to think of what I had left behind. Regret was a luxury I could no longer afford. The choice was made – now the battle for survival began.

And that battle was announced by none other than my own stomach. In the midst of all the excitement I hadn't had anything to eat and its growls filled the compartment like a beast waking from a deep sleep. It was fortunate then that I had selected the storage to hide in. Food was bound to be somewhere nearby. Just a piece of bread would suffice for the moment, just to dull the throbbing in my belly. A little water wouldn't hurt, either. My mouth was dry as parchment.

However, just as I was getting ready to stand and make as the rats do, I heard more footsteps, much closer than before. Someone had just stopped at the top of the ladder. Holding my breath, I prayed with all I had that they were just making a run of the deck and would be leaving soon, that they wouldn't be coming down to storage and find me.

But it seemed my luck had run out. As the hatch was opened, spilling light in from the gundeck, and the sound of boots came down the ladder, I snatched up the pistol and pulled the hammer, ready to shoot. I blew out the lantern, engulfing the tight space in darkness in hopes of going unnoticed a little while longer, but it was useless. Not too far from me, a stronger light came forward. The rats ran up to me and scattered in the wake of whomever approached. Accepting my inevitable discovery, I took a couple of deep breaths and prepared myself.

A large lantern loomed over the sails, exposing me. And who held it up to look down on me if none other than Mr. Gates in person. He didn't seem too surprised to find me holed up in the bowels of his ship.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He sighed in exasperation.

I froze, scrambled for an appropriate answer. Upon seeing there was none for a situation as strange as this, I swallowed hard and mumbled: “I... got lost?”

His mustache ruffled with a barely contained laugh. When he saw the pistol in my hand, he shook his head and snatched it faster than I could react. “Give me that.” He pulled the safety on, shoved it into the girdle around his wide waist without ceremony, and gave me a stern look, laced with just a hint of concern. At last, he offered me a hand. “Come with me.”

As we made our way up to the surface, I had no clue what to expect. I hadn't thought this far ahead, figuring I would improvise as I went. One thing I knew: whatever was to happen next, I would face it with my head held high, knowing I had tried. Even if it were all to end in failure, I had been brave enough to take a risk, to stare danger in the eye and say "I'm not afraid of you." I had been bold enough to reject the destiny allotted to me and seize a new one, pistol in hand and guts as hard as steel. That, no one could take away from me.

Mr. Gates led me down the gun deck, toward the stern, without saying a word. Staring at his back, I had no way of knowing what he must be thinking. That perhaps I wasn't as smart as he had thought. That perhaps I was just insane. Both excellent possibilities. We passed by many pirates on the way. Upon seeing me, they wasted no time jumping at the opportunity to take a closer look - too close, in my opinion.

"What have here?" One of them barked, immediately attracting the attention of those further away. The thought crossed my mind that this must be how the fox felt when caught by the hounds: cramped, stuck, horribly vulnerable.

"A stowaway!" Another howled somewhere to the right. Now, the men pushed and shoved each other to take a peek over countless shoulders, their hungry eyes running over my figure like wolves salivating at the thought of sinking their teeth into my flesh. "Oy, Mr. Gates! Can we play with her for a minute? We promise to be gentle."

A chorus of laughs and jeers deafened me. Behind me, I felt a hand brush against my skirts, making me jump away with a shameful squeal that only made them laugh harder. Blood rushed to my ears, pumping loudly into them like drums inside my skull, and still it wasn't enough to drown out their cackles.

Another hand touch me, grabbing my sleeve. This time, I was ready: instead of skipping in fright, I let my own hand swing out, palm wide open, to smack those filthy fingers away.

"Don't touch me!" I roared at the top of my lungs, hating how hysterical my voice sounded.

"Oh, watch it!” One of them jested, the tattooed man who had gotten into a fight with the officer at the Delilah. “She bites! I like it when they fight back..."

More hands reached out for me, too many for me to swat away. I could have reached for my knife, but the panic had made me forget it was even there.

Mr. Gates had had enough. With a glare that promised swift retribution should his warning go unheeded, he roared: "Unless you all wish to be tied to the main mast and get acquainted with the cat o' nine one after the other, you will all stay as you fucking were! Right now!!"

To my great astonishment, they obeyed. The noise gradually died down, the pirates backed off and no one else tried to have a go at me.

"Aw, c'mon Gates,” the tattooed man grinned with horribly stained teeth. “It was just a bit of fun!"

"I know exactly what your fun entails, Fred." He snarled. "And you will not have it with this woman. She's a guest of the captain and will be treated as such. Now get out out of my way before I change my mind about that flogging."

Amidst grumbles and disappointed glances thrown my way, the pirates dispersed and returned to whatever they were doing before our arrival. Mr. Gates continued to guide us through the ship until we reached the great cabin, where I guessed captain Flint was waiting.

The image of that infamous pirate commander staring at me from the highcastle flashed back into my mind. My soul had all but departed from my body when he had been a good distance away, so I was not eager to be put face-to-face in closed quarters with him. What was he going to do with me? Throw me off the ship the second we reached the nearest port? Would he throw me off the ship there and then, into the open ocean? Or would he let his crew do as they pleased with me, leaving Mr. Gates powerless to stop it...?

The double doors loomed over us like a portent of doom. They might as well be the gates of hell, the effect would be the same. For the first time since I had set foot aboard the Walrus, I felt afraid. Not frightened; not scared. Completely, thoroughly and undeniably afraid.

Gates rapped on the door and opened without waiting for an invitation. He held it open for me, yet I found myself unable to move. I could see Flint's desk, his hand resting on it and little more, for the cabin was poorly illuminated by a small number of lanterns. My eyes snapped to Gates' in search of reassurance, but all he did was gesture for me to come inside. With no other choice than to face one of the most terrifying men that had scourged the seas, I dragged my bared feet inside and tried not to shudder when the door close behind me. There really were no means of escape, now.

The captain sat back on his great chair, finely carved in black wood, one elbow resting on the arm as he examined me. Like earlier, his hair was tied back, allowing me to see his eyes in full. Outside in the sunlight they were clear colored - blue or maybe green - but in that dim room, they were almost black and ten times as piercing, bottomless as the deep sea. His ginger beard barely concealed a permanent scowl.

Behind him, the vast windows probably offered a clear view of the ocean during the day, but at that hour, it was pitch black outside with the exception of the moonlight illuminating the foamy astern. Was this what it felt like to be put before Satan after one was cast unto Hell? I was certain it was so.

Mr. Gates stepped forward and positioned himself between me and Flint's desk. “Found her in the sail stores, like I told you.”

I stared at him wide eyed. He had known I was aboard the entire time? As if reading my thoughts, the quartermaster smirked.

“What? Did you think no one would notice a woman trying to sneak aboard? My dove, you didn't steal yourself in here with cunning. You were allowed in.”

My fingers grasped the fabric of my skirts. I supposed it really was too much luck. In which case, it begged the question... “Why?”

Both Gates and Flint studied me, the former with curiosity, the latter with a cold, calculating gaze.

I continued: “If you knew I was here, why didn't you reveal me? Why let me hide below instead of returning me to the Delilah when you still could?”

The two men traded a look that made me suspect they'd had that same discussion already. It was Flint who spoke up next:

“I suppose the most important question is: what in the world possessed you to come aboard a pirate ship alone, knowing there was no way in which you could keep yourself hidden for more than a few hours at most?”

I had to pause for a minute and collect myself. This was a test of some sort, I was sure of it. It had to be. They genuinely wanted to know my reasons for this decision; lying was out of the question. As my fate seemed to rest upon my answer, and although I could still have made up a lie or two to sound more convincing and less brattish, in the end I thought there was only one thing I could truly offer them: the truth.

“All due respect... You don't know what it's like to have all your choices taken from you since birth. To be forced into a role you never felt was yours and told this is what you can ever be. I didn't want to be a proper lady, yet they would make me perform as one, and perform perfectly, every day of my life. Nothing short of that was acceptable. But I don't want to become someone's wife and bear his children every other year until it kills me, or be a servant in every sense of the word except in name while snuffing out every instinct to follow my own desires and be only myself. I don't choose that. I will not accept that.”

With each word that left my lips, I was surprised to note I felt... lighter. Like I had been carrying a heavy burden all my life and had finally been allowed to toss it aside and stand straight for the first time. I had never told anyone about how I really felt about my life or my future, afraid I would be reproached, even punished for speaking out of line. Here, on the cusp of something different, something better, I felt as if I could speak my mind without judgement.

“This choice may be my end. I may die today, tomorrow, a week from now, and perhaps it will be you who gives the order to cut my life short, but if I do die, then at least I'll do it free and the consequences of this choice will be mine and mine alone to bear. I would rather spend a minute in total freedom than a lifetime in chains.”

All throughout my speech, Flint's eyes didn't leave mine. They were as unpredictable as the sea and just as unforgiving. Yet, deep enough to engulf me... to accept me. It wasn't spite or scandal that I saw in them; it was understanding.

He brushed down his beard and sat back. “Hmm. I see. What was your intention then, after getting caught? What was it you hoped to accomplish?”

I flexed my fingers and swallowed hard. “I... I was hoping you would let me join your crew.”

Contrary to what I had expected, neither of them laughed or even snorted at the notion of letting me join. A long moment of silence neither I nor Mr. Gates dared interrupt passed. Flint let his hand rest upon the desk once more. “And this is how you convinced yourself coming onto my ship was a good idea, yes?”

It sounded so foolish when he put it that way, that my face warmed. “That is correct.”

That's when he laughed - a stifled, delighted sound that I could barely hear through a toothy grin, but not the kind that found me amusing or ridiculous. He laughed as if I had surprised him and that didn't happen often. He looked me up and down, evaluating my figure: my pink dress, covered in tar and dust stains, my disheveled hair which had come loose from it's original position at my nape, my bared feet, my wide, hopeful eyes. If my Father could see me then, he would say I looked a fright and send me to bed without dinner.

Another long pause followed. Then: “You're wrong, you know?”

I blinked, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

“You're wrong,” Flint repeated. “About us, about them. They do understand what it's like to be forced into conformity by circumstances outside of their control. Many of them are former slaves who found freedom in piracy. Most were working class paupers, oppressed by the upper echelon with miserable wages and unsanitary living conditions to ensure England's regime remains standing. They found a better life aboard ships like this one, where the work is no less grueling, but the pay is far better. They get to choose who they work for, when to sail, when not to sail. On land, they aren't restrained by rules of etiquette or decency: they are free to pursue their desires unconditionally for as long as they have the coin to spare.”

He pointed at the door with a half smile. “Each one of those men have their own story to tell, and if you pay attention, you will find similarities to your own as you get to know them. There are far fewer differences between you and them than you imagine. That is what you will find out in the coming weeks as you acclimatize yourself to this life.”

My heart hammered in my chest to those words, brimming with relief. “So... you will let me stay?”

“As long as you don't become a burden, or worse: a liability.” Just as quick as his grin came, it was gone, that dark expression from before returning to his brow. “Learn fast. Keep an open mind. Pull your own weight. And Miss Tilly?”

I stood straight and attentive, the same way I'd seen soldiers do in the presence of their commander. It was an unconscious gesture, fully unintentional, like my body had already accepted Flint as my leader before I even made the decision to call him captain. “Yes... Sir?”

The faintest flash of a smirk crossed his lips. “Stay alert and don't let your guard down, because if you get into trouble with those men out there, you're on your own. Do you understand? I can't be everywhere all the time, and neither can Mr. Gates. If you find yourself in danger, we may not be able to help you. On most situations, we cannot help you. That would make it look like we're showing favoritism for you, which would breed resentment and lead to a mutiny. If anything happens, you are the only person who will be responsible for your own safety. Are you prepared for that?”

Uneasiness crept up from my toes to the crown of my head. How in the devil was I supposed to manage that, I hadn't a single clue. That was for me to figure out, is what he was telling me. I just... had to search for a way to keep myself safe. Whatever the cost. Knowing the kitchen knife was still in my pocket gave me some comfort. Not much, but enough.

I bit my lip and nodded firmly.

“Good.” The captain turned to his quartermaster. “Mr. Gates, see if you can find her some appropriate clothes and assign her a hammock. At dawn, I want her at Mr. de Groot's side so she can begin to learn the basics. Report back to me on her progress at eight bells after every last watch, please. That is all.”

“Aye, Captain.” the other replied, then ushered me out the door. Just like that... It was done. I was officially a pirate.

“Well!” He smiled at me and wiped the sweat from his forehead.“That went better than I expected. So, as quartermaster, let me officially say: welcome aboard the Walrus. Now, I doubt we'll find anything that fits you, and fair warning, it has been a while since any clothes in this chestnut have been washed...” His mouth pulled into a sheepish line before he went back to smiling. “When we arrive in Nassau we'll find you a better suited attire, not to worry. What's important is that you don't go parading around in your underthings. Come along.”

I followed him down into storage again, which meant having to pass through the crew a second time. I took a deep breath, shoulders squared and head held high, determined to show I wasn't afraid of them. The first hand I felt coming within an inch of me would feel the bite of my hidden blade. See if that didn't get them to stop.

Thankfully, no such thing was necessary. The men were busy washing their warpaint off with spare cloth, or moving things around and enjoying a drink after the fight. They still cast pointed looks my way, with a few making kissing noises as Gates and I walked past, but no one tried anything.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Billy's towering figure while conversing with a man with a thick, dark beard. They interrupted whatever they were talking about to observe the scene. The bearded man ran his eyes up and down my figure like he was undressing me in his mind and hummed what was no doubt a very uneducated comment, which prompted Billy to smack his shoulder with a stern look. He whispered something in return and the other stopped, rubbing his hand where he'd been hit before turning his back on me with a bitter expression on his features.

Good to know at least one person on that ship had manners.

Down in the bowels of the ship again, Mr. Gates searched a chest full of spare clothes and shoes, tossing aside those too large to stay on my back or feet. It took a while, but at last he handed me an off-white linen shirt with only a couple of holes on it, stripped cotton pants in shades of pine green and pastel rose, a leather belt and a simple pair of worn brown shoes.

“I don't think we have spare coats, but should you feel cold at night, there's blankets. You can change here, no one will bother you. When you're done, meet me on the upper deck.” And off he went up the stairs.

After hearing the sound of the hatch being closed, I began to remove my layers, one by one, leaving only my stays to keep my breasts covered. Just like Mr. Gates said, the clothes didn't fit me – they were tailored for a young boy and hung loose off of my shoulders and hips even so. I had to wrap the belt twice around my waist and tie it off, as it didn't have enough holes to buckle. And the shoes... they fell off my feet with each step and I seriously worried they would make me trip and hurt myself. Even so, I wasn't ready to walk around without so much as knickers to bar the soles of my feet from the filthy decks. I simply would have to take care walking.

Another thing Gates had been right about: the clothes stank of sweat and alcohol, enough to make me gag. I didn't even want to think about where they had been. I cast my pink dress one last look of longing. For all the constraints and expectation wearing it put on me, it was still comfortable and, above all, clean. But there was no time to dawdle on what I was giving up for this new life. Gates was waiting for me. Don't be a burden, or worse: a liability. I took Flint's request to heart. Leaving my old apparatus in the chest, I tucked my knife into the pocket of my pants and made my way upstairs. The only thing I brought with me from my old life was my cross, which had been a gift from my older sister when I had turned sixteen. Being a somewhat devout catholic, it had brought me comfort many times in the past.

When I first emerged from the ladder, the pirates didn't notice. Out of my dress and jewels, I blended in a little better among them. It wasn't until I took a couple tentative steps down the deck that heads started turning. At least now there were no hungry looks in their eyes, rather they were confounded at the transformation. I crossed my arms over my front and slouched, somehow feeling much smaller and vulnerable in my men's wear than I had been in my dress. I felt judged, scrutinized out of my appointed clothing and gender dictations. No comments or jeers followed me as I sped up toward the bow to find Mr. Gates, eager to leave their stares behind.

In the galley, where the smell of roast potatoes, bread and broth wafted into my nose and reinvigorated my stomach, Mr. Gates waited for me, and he wasn't alone. Billy, an older gentleman with a mess of gray curls and permanent stone face, plus a younger boy, pale and gangly, were with him. Gates glanced at me without a second thought, continued to talk, then snapped his attention back when he realized who I was.

“Ah, here she is. I hardly recognized you in those.” He laughed, nudging me closer when I stopped at a certain distance from him and the others. “Don't be afraid, they won't bite. Now.”

He held me by the shoulders, facing his mates. “Gents, this is our newest addition, Miss Constance...?”

A bloated pause, then I realized they were waiting for me to give my surname.

“Tilly!” I stuttered, flushed with embarrassment. Fortunately, none of them laughed or even reacted to my awkward introduction. “Constance Tilly.”

“Constance Tilly.” Mr. Gates nodded, patting my shoulders. “You already met Billy Bones, our boatswain. Next to him is Mr. De Groot, the helmsman. He's the one who will be teaching you the basics come morning. And last but not least, this is Jean duBois, also a recent addition to the crew. “

The boy, Jean, tipped an invisible hat and offered a smile. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”

“Hello.” I began to curtsy before remembering where I was and catching myself. Off to the side, in the mess hall, I heard snickers – a small group of rough looking crewmen were watching our introductions like a very interesting play. One of them, a bald man covered in gnarly scars, did a mocked impression of a lady curtesing, fluttering his eyelashes much to his friends' delight. Great.

Billy shot them a foul look over the shoulder. “Don't you idiots have anything to do? 'Cause I can think of a few tasks to keep you busy.”

They hurried and made themselves scarce in an instant.

Mr. Gates released my shoulders. “You must be hungry, aye? You're just in time for dinner.”

He approached the wild-eyed man behind the counter, whom I assumed to be the cook since he was cutting carrot sticks and tossing them into the pot on the stove. “Randall, are we ready to eat or is it gonna take the rest of the night?”

“It'll be done when it's done,” the man growled. I was shocked by his manners; from the way everyone else straightened up and even cowered before Gates, I would assume the whole crew owed him respect as quartermaster, but the cook seemed not to care a bit in how he spoke to him.

And even more surprising was Mr. Gates' reaction to such insubordination: he chuckled and shook his head, dismissing it all as if it were nothing.

“Anyway, there's someone I'd like you to meet.” He gestured me over. “This is Constance, a new member. Try and be nice to her, please.”

Randall turned to look at me, eyes bulging out of their sockets. With a gulp, I took an instinctive step back and gave Gates an inquisitive look, but he just kept smiling, waiting. Randall pointed a three-toothed prong at my chest.

“Bad luck,” he warned. “Women and ships don't mingle. It's bad luck.”

This wasn't the first time I heard such a comment. It was, however, the first time someone spoke it blatantly to my face. I was so struck with disbelief and, frankly, offense, that I couldn't move or even react.

Gates' beady eyes jumped from Randall to me, and back to Randall. “Don't mind him. Got a thorough beating and it rattled his brain half dead. He doesn't mean anything by it.”

“Bad luck,” he grumbled to his carrots.

I decided it was best to ignore him.

Dinner was in full swing at two bells (or was it three? The bell system confounded me, around seven in the evening). I was sat down with Jean duBois and the other new recruits. Mostly, they talked amongst themselves and ignored me, though I caught them glancing my way once or twice before they quickly turned their gaze elsewhere. I half listened to them talk while moving my broth around in its brass bowl. Sticky, with barely any meat to it, and what meat there was it was as tough as the leather of my shoes. The bread was fresh, we had that going for us. I dipped it into the broth and brought it to my mouth. Honestly, I was too tired and famished to care what was on my plate.

“It doesn't get much better than that, I'm afraid.”

I looked up to see Jean smiling apologetically, no doubt having noticed I was playing around with my food. He had a French accent, but not so heavy that I couldn't make out what he was saying.

I shrugged. “It's alright. It's not much different from the food I've had on other ships.”

That was a lie, of course. As a lady of the high class, I'd had significantly better meals than this, no matter the ship. I wasn't about to tell them that, though. They had enough verbal cannon fire to unload on me already. I wasn't going to help them procure more.

I tried the roasted potatoes; those weren't so bad. Jean continued to observe me, I could feel his gray eyes on me.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He seemed to catch himself and sat up straight, cheeks turning rosy. “No, no. Forgive me, it's just... We never had a woman on board. And it's been a couple of months since we last saw one, so...” He shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal. “Forgive me. Never mind what I said.”

The food turned to stone in my belly. With a chill, I looked around at the mess hall, uncomfortably aware of all the men that surrounded me. Two whole months since they last saw a woman, and from what I was told, we were still a few weeks away from reaching port.

The sound of repeated clinking got me to look down. My hand was shaking so bad that the spoon was hitting the bowl like a chime out of control. I smacked it on the table, startling the others into silence.

“Don't worry!” Jean quietly exclaimed in an attempt to reassure me. “We... Well, I'll be bunking next to you, so I'll keep watch. I won't let anyone come near you, I swear. And Mr. Gates wouldn't allow it, either. They're too scared of what he might do to them, should anything happen. To any of us, not just you. So... You're safe. Relatively.”

I stared at him, doing my best to disguise how faint I felt. Because the truth was, no matter his intentions, or whether or not they were truthful, I didn't trust Jean himself not to do anything while I slept. Even if he didn't, he was a lowly deckhand, like me. If the other, more sea hardened men decided they wanted to have their way with me, I doubted there was much he could do. Slowly, I pushed my bowl away from me and nipped on the bread. So much for my hunger.

After dinner, Mr. Gates came to fetch me and took me to the hammock allotted for me. It hung at the far front of the ship, next to the manger with all the animals. The stink of manure and goat hair was so abrasive I had to turn my head so he wouldn't see me gag. What's more, this close to the bow, the ship swayed up and down more heavily. I struggled to keep my footing and had to hold onto a ceiling beam to avoid rolling down the deck.

“This is yours.” Gates laid a hand on the cloth while he spoke to me. “Lights out is at six bells, or eleven o'clock. Toilets are at the back, way down there.” He pointed. Silently, I prayed I wouldn't have to use it that night. “If you need anything, Billy's bunk is right over there.”

I turned to see the empty hammock only four rows down from mine and breathed a little easier. Surely, no one would dare making advances when he was so near and could catch them.

“He goes out for the middle watch at first bell, but you can ask Jean for anything you need. He's a good lad, you can trust him. He will be relieved from duty at the same hour Billy is going out and is staying on the hammock next to yours. I left him orders to wake you for the morning watch. Be at the helm after breakfast and try not to be late. Any questions?”

I shook my head no.

"Good. In that case, I'll see you in the morning. Sleep tight." He gave my arm a tap and marched down the deck. As for me, I pulled off my shoes, tucked them under my hammock and hopped in.

Most of the men were still up and about, doing various things. Some were resting, others were playing cards. At the far side, a short, lightly built man in his fifties was tuning a violin, filling the ship with long notes that weren't unpleasant to listen to. On a secluded corner along the middle, a burly man with deep brown skin and long, dense ropes of hair falling down his back (later I learned these were called "dreads") carved away at a piece of wood.

Since I had nothing to entertain myself with and no one to talk to, I figured I should get comfortable and try to rest. However, my skin was clammy with sweat and grime after all the excitement, which didn't help me relax, but frankly, I was too worn out to get up and find some water to wash with. Plus, I didn't feel very at ease undressing in a ship full of strange men. It was hard enough convincing myself to go unconscious knowing they were out there, no matter how much Jean tried to assure me that I was safe. Between my apprehension, the stink coming from the pen, the rocking of the ship, the dirt covering me and the noise the crew was making, I had a feeling I wouldn't be sleeping much.

I unfurled my blanket to cover my legs, lied back and pulled the knife out from my pocket to hold it tight to my chest in both hands. The blade might be tiny, but it was a weapon, a small security to put my spirit to rest. If I had to use it...

God, what if I had to use it? I could seriously injure somebody, or worse, I could kill them. How would the captain respond, if I were to murder one of his crew on my first night? How would Gates react? Would I be justified if I claimed self-defense? After all, no one needed to get hurt so long as they didn't hurt me first. It was only natural that I respond to violence with violence.

Still... when I held a gun to Billy Bones to protect myself and those women, I had been an adversary to the Walrus and her men. Now I was one of them. Would it be different then, if the worst came to pass and I was forced to use that knife?

I closed my eyes and prayed to God and all Saints who were still willing to hear me as a pirate that nothing would happen. That I would be left alone, and if not, either Billy or Jean or anyone with a little kindness in their heart would look out for me so I wouldn't need to take drastic measures. Sudden loud voices from down the deck made me jerk up from my hammock, but it was just the group playing cards arguing over a wager. Panting, with a heart racing like a rabbit's, I lowered myself down again and stared at the ceiling, listening to the men accusing each other of cheating to the sound of the violin as it played a lively tune. I glanced at Billy's empty hammock and decided I would remain awake until he turned in. Only then would I lower my guard and try to sleep.

Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long. He came down from the main deck minutes after I turned in, doing a quick round of the ship before bed. I noted that every man he spoke to had a ready smile for him and treated him like an equal instead of a superior. It wasn't at all like on the Delilah, where the boatswain enjoyed the reverence and respect of the crew just as much as the captain. Here, he was treated like a friend. They invited him to join their game and re-tell the story of what had happened on my ship (the tale had already been spread during dinner), but he turned them down with the excuse that he needed some shut-eye after a long day. He reminded them that lights out would be soon and wished them goodnight.

He stopped to trade a few words with the man carving on his corner, asking him about an injury he'd suffered during the assault (apparently, he'd been slashed with a saber across the belly). The man said he would live, though Dr. Howell, the surgeon, had instructed him to go easy with the stitches. Billy agreed, wished him a quick recovery and to let him know if there was anything he could do for him. The carving man smiled in appreciation, thanked his boatswain and began to clean up for bed.

At last, Billy made it to his bunk. He sat down to remove his boots and his eyes crossed with mine. There was a moment of awkward hesitation, then he decided to approach my hammock, bared feet thumping softly against the wood floor. As discreetly as possible, I concealed my knife under my right side. He ducked under the ceiling beam and smiled. "Can't sleep?"

I bit my lip and shook my head. "Yeah, kind of hard with all the noise, aye? You get used to it. Lights will be out soon, then it gets easier." I nodded, pondering on whether I should say anything about my concerns or stay quiet. Don't be a burden. If you get into trouble with those men out there, you're on your own. Flint's words echoed in my mind, time and time again. But there was such genuine concern in Billy's gaze. Clearly, he wanted to ask me if I was well, same way he had done with the carving man or the other crewmen. I doubted there was much he could do to help me, but... maybe he could at least offer some advice. I sat up on my hammock and pushed my hair out of the way. Too intimidated to look him in the eye, I kept my focus on the strings of necklaces adorning his chest. "It's not just the noise that's bothering me..." He frowned and kept quiet, waiting for me to elaborate.

Slowly, I revealed my knife, clutched in my hand. "I'm a little... preoccupied by what might happen while I sleep. Jean told me you've been at sea for a while. Y'know... with only the company of other men?"

Like a candle lighting up, understanding softened his expression. He nodded a couple of times while pausing deep in thought. At last, he clicked his tongue and said: "I wouldn't worry too much about it. I mean, they are tempted, of course, but they won't do act on it." I tilted my head aside, surprised by his confidence. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because Gates and I told them if we had even the slightest suspicion that you were being abused, it would be the last thing they would do aboard the Walrus. You wouldn't even have to say anything; we would know." My frayed nerves started to settle, little by little. With the way he stated that so securely, how was I to not trust it? There was a firm sincerity in his words and his eyes, a deep conviction that his command - and by extention, Gates' - were sacred law and broken at one's own peril. Off-hand, I wondered how such an honest soul could ever have become a pirate and mingle with this band of thieves so easily. Maybe because there is a hidden darkness he is yet to reveal, a voice quipped in my brain. Even so... I felt tranquilized.

I turned the knife in my hands, studying the blade and simple wooden handle. "I believe you. Truly. But... let's hypothesize that someone did come at me during the night with foul intentions and I was forced to use this. What should I expect to happen, then?" Now he smirked playfully. "So pulling a pistol on me is fine, but using a kitchen knife to defend your honor in a pirate ship is too much?" I didn't know how else to respond to that except with a shrug and a stutter, which got a brief laugh out of him. Then he sobered up and shifted his weight. "About... half the crew wouldn't be happy, given. The other half would think it was your right to defend yourself. Hell, they might even respect you for it. If you ended up killing him, even by accident... That would be a problem, so.... My advice is, stab away, but don't take it too far."

"How do I do that?" "If someone gets too close, do as you did with me and show you have a weapon and you're not afraid to use it. If they still come at you, aim for a leg, an arm or here." He pointed to a spot on the left side of his stomach, just bellow the rib cage. "This will hurt like hell and send him to Howell, but he won't die. Oh, and avoid the inner side of the thigh. There's an artery there that will make you bleed out in a handful of minutes if severed."

I committed that spot on the stomach to memory and hummed that I understood. Billy eyed the knife for bit and added: "And get a better knife than that. Something you can strap to your hip and reach for quickly. Carry it with you always. Most of the time, a conspicuous weapon is all the demotivator you need."

My eyes roamed to his own waist; there, hanging from his belt next to a flintlock pistol, was a sheathed knife of considerable size. Immediately, I thought I had to get my hand on one of those. I glanced up at him.

"I'll be sure to do that. Thank you... For everything." Then I dropped my gaze, shifted awkwardly on my hammock. "And sorry for threatening to shoot your face off." "That's fine. It wasn't my first time, nor will it be the last. Besides, I thought it was brave. I can count on one hand the number of women I ever knew who would have the guts to do what you did." He winked at me, bid me good night and moved out to get some rest. I stayed up for a while longer, doing my best not to smile so wide or feel so good about those words. Truth be told, though... I did. That was two instances when people saw my worth, regardless of my sex. Never mind it came from pirates. A compliment is a compliment, and I hadn't heard many of those (apart from my looks when I had to dress up, which didn't count). Upstairs the bell toll rang six times, announcing lights out. As the men packed up and occupied their bunks, or else got ready to head out, I curled up on my side, keeping my knife tight in my hand, and tried to relax enough to sleep. I could still feel the stink from the pen and the ship wobbled violently in the waves, but I didn't feel so afraid anymore. In fact, the energetic up and down motion stopped being bothersome and instead lulled me like a rocking chair. I surprised myself with a wide yawn and how heavy my eyelids felt, and, before the lanterns were blown out, I was already half asleep.

#black sails #black sails fanfic #billy bones #hal gates #james flint #captain flint #de groot #stories by crow #a girl an ocean fanfic

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