#pyratezlife / charles vane

[oceanbreathessaltyx]

Charles Vane has served on the Queen Anne for most of his life. Recruited off the street as a scrappy cabin boy, it’d been something like three years before he was allowed anywhere near a raid. But eventually even Blackbeard himself couldn’t keep Charles away from the fighting. That same year he was just sixteen, the youngest amongst them when he led the boarding party that took his first prize.

Captain Teach had always treated Charles with more attention than he seemed to give any of the other hands, but the naked pride he’d expressed at the success still ripped through him. It was all it’d taken to commit to chasing that high. He threw himself into shooting up the ranks, and a few short years later the men elected him their quartermaster. 

It’s a shit gig. The men follow him in battle, but he has no mind for the other side of the position. Politics. It’d been easier when he was still stationed on the same vessel as Izzy Hands. Charles never pushed back whenever Izzy took over managing grievances, content to focus on what comes as second nature; killing and reaving.

So it's almost a relief to have Izzy over from the Revenge to check on things, even in the face of the bitching Charles has long since learned to tune out. He towers over Izzy as he stalks at his side on deck, jumps in the moment there's room to speak, "We need to make port." The crew needs to let off steam. They need to refit. It would probably be wise to make some visual changes to the ships so they aren't recognized by any authority on sight, what with how active they've been. "Fucking wrangle him already."

@pyratezlife

[vocesincaput]

@pyratezlife (Charles Vane) liked for a starter [x]

It had been years since Sam had returned to the Republic Of Pirates and it felt to them like so much had changed but so much had stayed the same all at once. Some establishments still remained but most of the faces were unfamiliar to him. Though given how they had seen some of their crew age, it wouldn't have surprised them if they had known several of those they had walked past since arriving and just didn't recognise him. None of them seemed to recognise him so far, which he both liked and felt almost insulted by considering they felt they had aged well considering the bitter sea.

Samuel had heard stories about the pirates that roamed the seas since he had last been set foot in the place he had helped found at such a young age. He'd heard stories about his old friend Edward Teach and those who has been associated with him over time. Including the man he now saw stood facing away from him. A man who intrigued Sam the more he heard.

A smile upon their lips, Samuel slowly walked to stand beside Vane without saying a word at first. Glancing at the other man out of the corner of his eye and taking stock of the figure the man cut against the backdrop of Nassau. Not bad.

"This town has become quite the lively, interesting place. Not what I had anticipated years ago, but not a disappointment."

[phoenixduelist]

@pyratezlife

It was the crew's idea and curiosity. Pirate heaven Nassau, rich with the mixture of cultures. They all heard about the place & desperately wanted to visit it at least once. As a well deserved vacation. Rozália refused every time, unease always settling within her whenever the place was mentioned. Perhaps it was only her paranoia. Therefore, she finally gave in and let Mátyás dock in the famous port. They didn't plan to sell anything, had more than enough in their pockets to enjoy pleasantries such place can offer. Turned out, she was right after all. Whispers arose whenever someone witnessed her gold fangs, caught word a price higher than she remembered; high enough for most to overlook all she had done.

It was swirling chaos in its finest, the tightly knit family forced to separate to survive or to avoid captivity as their leisure turned into a nightmare. One million Gulden. Just for her alive. The rest of the crew, all thirty of them roughly half million, with Marcell the second highest with one hundred thousand. Both because of his past status and his closeness to her. Nassau closed in like a deadly trap, blades, pistols, shackles gleaming in every corner, men lost in the golden cloud of greed. How Rozália loathed being right.

It was nearing sundown when Marcell pushed her into a cramped alley when her heart acted up. Just before he was swarmed by too many men, too many for him to cut down, too many for her to attempt in this state. So she watched as they wrenched the man closest she had as a father from her, unable to help him. Just like when the Habsburgs beheaded her true one. Sára's unconscious form also registered in her mind along with how the fort's entrance swallowed them.

Something switched within her. The darkest pits of her bestial rage ignited, consumed until near nothing remained from the woman; instead The Hungarian Devil stood in all of its grotesque, gruesome glory. Miklós had managed to sneak back to the Vihar, sneaking onto HER OWN FUCKING SHIP and retrieve a few weapons; she took the longbow instead of the recurve one, it needed more strength to draw, Jancsi was better off with other. Miklós disappeared back into the darkness of the night as if he had never been there in the first place and Rozália set her attention towards the eastern wall of the fort. By the time she should arrive to the top, dawn should be cracking. The night watch tired but not relieved of duty yet. The sun behind her and if she was honest, no one truly expected her to scale the wall.

Fugitive Countess: they thought of an easy prey. A scared, lost, dainty little thing. She almost laughed at that as she shred the crimson coat from broad shoulders rippling with sheer power. Quiver of arrows along with the bow secured on her back, swordbelt firm on her hips, knives tucked into her boots. Confident fingers found every tiny crack, stone eroded with time and weather, each move morphing into an another one to not give herself the faintest time to think of anything else. Her family was inside and their chances of survival depended on her. That was more than enough to occupy her mind than what woulds.

Her calculations proved to be right, first rays of sun piercing through the dusty shroud as she was approaching the top and stilling for a moment and finding a secure position. From the faint sounds, one guard near; left hand clenched the jutting stone harder, her right reached for one of the many knives. She let out a small noise, enough to make him curious to check but not to raise alarm. He glanced over the edge. His gaze locked with the predator. The millisecond of sheer disbelief was enough time for Rozália to lunge upwards and plunge the knife between the jawbone, penetrating tissue with terrifying ease. She withdrew just as swiftly and seized her body over the edge with catlike grace while he dropped to his sure death.

She didn't waste a moment with resting, drawing the longbow immediately to end the closest guard, the arrow tip exiting on the other side of his skull. The clang of his weapons drew attention and the Devil truly began to unleash her frenzied fury. She didn't feel the ache, each draw was quick, precise with brutal strength behind them, sometimes enough to knock the corpse back a few feet. Her positioning couldn't be better in terms of sight and defense, not many reached stairs of the walkway of the eastern battlement, if they tried to approach from any other direction, their advance was quickly and literally shot down.

Eventually the barrage of arrows came to a halt, longbow discarded with no more to shoot, the gathered crowd in the courtyard began to advance slowly but steadily. Her eyes held no fear, only urgency: after all she was human (or was she ), there was simply too many to cut through to reach her family alive. Her attention fell to the canon at her side, the promising axe with a metal coated grip from the second victim of the massacre. With strength she didn't know she possessed, she began to lodge the canon from its original position of overlooking the bay.

Heated yet ice cold pain shot down her spine at the almost impossible physical feat, every muscle worked to the utmost and beyond, her father's severed head rolling on stone vivid in front of her eyes. The axe brought down two times in rapid succession, shattering the wooden wheels upon impact and dropping the canon's angle right at the center of the mass of people.

Sweat soaked her shirt thoroughly, no traces of mercy found behind eyes burning brighter than the torch she used to ignite the wick. Deafening roar, the kickback strong enough to send the canon tumbling from the walls, plummeting below. A mess of unrecognizable bodies, a bloody sea of torn, mangled libs, agonized cries. She leapt from the last four steps of the stairs, through smoke and still burning fire; the first arched strike of her saber strong enough to completely sever the man's head clean off. The Devil itself fenced like lightning among the ruins, a brutal force of nature personified, seemingly never tiring, never slowing in her vicious whirlwind.

Steel sliced through flesh, soaked the charred ground with fresh blood, silencing battle cries. Her tempo only increased as her physical limits started to catch up even in this state, one sword cutting through the front of her shirt without touching her body; the now wine red linen shreds were only considered as possible leverage. A serpentine thrust back and forwards at the same time, burrowing her sabers into chests for the moment she discarded her clothing without care of fully exposing upper body.

Swords pulled from their temporary body sheaths, back to rapidly severing tendons, arteries, smaller cuts she couldn't twist out the way of barely registering. When one thought she would be caught off guard at a grabbed breast was mistaken, her lunge animalistic along with her bared fangs, hands brutally closing around his throat without any room to give. And her sharpened nails started to dig. Feel his windpipe beneath. Corded arms coated in a sheen of sweat, the wrathful frenzy behind her otherwise empty glare bone chilling. It took two men to wrench her off: with the motion came the torn windpipe.

Moments were all she ever needed, sinking her teeth into an another's and also ripping it out with one jerk before whirling to block the strike of a steel tipped mace with the latest corpse's hatchet. Heavier weaponry than what her body was used to, yet she didn't hesitate in bringing it down with force. Her blow blocked by the wooden part before it could reach bone, she immediately changed the direction, the upwards strike splitting the wood in two. Using both hands and the momentum she brought it down again, the edge fully sinking into skull.

Then she felt a presence behind that simply demanded more through attention. Dislodging the hatchet in time seemed unlikely, so was finding which bodies her sabers rested buried in the mountain of corpses and moaning men spitting their last misery. The sun half slid over the eastern wall, giving her a fiery contour, the elaborate inkwork of her tattooed wings deep contrast against her skin. Even with no weapon in hand, Rozália turned slowly with smoke still rising from the hole in the courtyard. Sweat slicked her body, each chiseled muscle even more prominent and defined, utterly unashamed of her undressed state. She was beyond that. Rapid yet controlled the rise of her chest, blood dripping from her maw onto her clavicle before sliding further down the ridged planes of muscle.

“My crew.”

She spoke probably the first time she had...arrived, accent roughening the words even further. More foreign blood flowed from her mouth, a glimpse of gold fangs.

“You. Took them.” bestial savagery oozing from every part of her, her words promising a brutal end for the man responsible. The remaining men dared not to intervene, nor approach anymore, not after their numbers were so mercilessly culled in many different visceral ways. Only watched the creature seemingly risen from the very depths of Hell itself.

[seafavoured]

❛ you look good like this. ❜ @pyratezlife / charles.

𝐆𝐎𝐃, 𝐈𝐅 𝐔𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄, 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓. the veritable cherry atop the heap of shit that was his week. perhaps there was some poetic justice or irony to the situation which would prompt a smirk, days from now, when they were long since removed from it. but here and now ? he was well and truly FOCUSED on his captain's stare, and his own, immovable limbs.

bound as he was, by strips of cloth, to the bed. well and truly knotted they were, by anne's own skilled sailor's hands. arms stretched and tensed in their efforts of freedom, wrists twisting to no avail. his legs were in a similar predicament, and thus utterly unable to withdraw, to bend at the knee, to provide them with any modicum of modesty. no, he was stripped bare and still mercilessly wanting.

❛ yes, yes, laugh all you like. i'm so glad you find this amusing. ❜ heat of embarrassment joined with the heat of desire, cheeks red with it. head tipped back against the pillows, gaze flitting resolute to the ceiling where it remained. UNWILLING to focus upon charles vane nor his own desperately aching cock which twitched against their abdomen at the man's arrival. they swallowed thick, toes curled and hips stuttering just slightly from the mattress in their mindless bid for friction.

❛ be a dear and untie one of my hands, at the very least. ❜

[cxptainflint]

* are these theatrics leading somewhere? (Charles)

Captain Flint’s jaw clenched at the Vane's words. A look of slight annoyance was present on his features prior to composing his face with a specific determination. One hand sat atop the desk, curling into a fist. “Everything I do, every move I make has a purpose,” he replied, his voice low and firm as he narrowed his eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”

The look in his eye was a dangerous one, showing a less-than-subtle warning on if he were to be challenged further on the subject. It may or may not lead to a fight. At that moment, it was clear beneath the theatrics of the plan he was presumably calculating his move, or at least Flint thought it was. He did not want his methods questioned. Even though he was completely aware that Vane more than likely had a plan of his own, one that he also desired knowledge of.

@pyratezlife

[seafavoured]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃. 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐖𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐇𝐄'𝐃 𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓. hung and likely jeered at by the same men who had sworn oaths alongside him to protect the same things. to abide by the same principles. principles so easily abandoned, allies so eagerly betrayed when it suited them. jack hated them all. he would see every last one of those men answer for their crimes in the same fashion. then and only then would he turn his attention to her.

the woman who had taken everything from charles. the woman who had taken everything from himself in turn. the pardon, the chest of pearls, the whole fucking island : they would trade it all for the return of charles vane. but alas, money and favours could only buy so much. some things stretched beyond the bounds of currency, or a witty tongue. but very little lay beyond the bounds of violence. oh, they would unleash such TERRIBLE VIOLENCE upon her. upon that whole book of traitors. upon woodes rogers and the navy and england herself. they would feel his loss, and they would know loss too.

charles vane was dead. and his ghost was standing before him.

jack stood frozen. unblinking, unmoving, simply staring into the face of the man they loved, and wondering when it would fade away. when grief's morbid hallucination would leave him in peace. the bruises at charles' neck, a deep hue of purples and blues from the noose's grip. god, how he wished to press gentle kisses against them. to watch them HEAL to brown, to yellow, to fade entirely and be lost with time. time that they could spend together. months, years, a lifetime.

they had seen their brother's ship on the horizon no, his brother's lover. blackbeard. had seen his ship, had watched it approach and been prepared for the conversations that would surely await. the pity, the sorrow, the condolences. what he had not been prepared for was charles standing upon her deck as they dropped anchor alongside one another. for only a gangway to separate them from what they had lost.

it couldn't be real. he simply couldn't believe it. if not for the news otherwise, if not for the unlikeliness of it ... then for the fact that to submit to hope and have it be dashed once again was too PAINFUL a notion. and still he walked. feet carried them forward across the gangway of their own volition and with no permission from himself. closing the distance, bringing him closer to that ghost. their eyes clouded ; drops of moisture fell from their jaw. when had he started crying?

he stopped just short of charles, of this spectre sent to torment them. eyes wide and wet, mouth agape. it couldn't be. it couldn't. ❛ i'm scared to touch you, chaz ... what if i reach out, and you disappear all over again? ❜

@pyratezlife / charles.

[seafavoured]

❛ how about a kiss goodnight? ❜ @pyratezlife / charles.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒, 𝐇𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐄. things were different now. he was a captain by his own right, no longer bound to the other's whims and fancies, but free to be who he pleased. free to make company with anyone they so desired ... and yet, here they stood once again, drawn into the enigma of charles vane like tides to the shoreline. unable to keep their distance.

the two of them had reached the doorway, swaying from drink but not CLOUDED by it. jack's room lay beyond, cold and empty without anne's once steadfast presence there to join him. no, they would be climbing into the sheets alone this evening. a needling voice in the back of their head reminded them : you were second fiddle to miss guthrie, and now precisely the same is true to max. who could ever choose you?

❛ come now, charles, don't be ridiculous. ❜ by some miracle, he kept his voice even. neutral. almost lilting, as if the thought didn't light a SPARK deep betwixt their ribs. something desperate churned within the pit of his gut. ❛ we're in a whore house, surely you can find some adoring young lass to fawn over you this evening. not at all sure what you'd need me for. ❜

god, how he ached for the man's touch, but after everything ... would it really be wise to stoke that fire again? now that it had settled to peacefully slumbering embers ? he leaned back against the doorframe, if only to put a scant bit of space between them.