Category: Uncategorized

Blood Drawn Tulips

@seafaired continued from [x]

There were times when the strange hypnosis of their lives convinced Elijah that things were precisely as he dreamed them to be. Moments when he felt he could reach out and draw Willem to him and have neither one of them find the action strange. To endure as his love had done for so long, it could be that those moments may have ended in welcome of the decision and yet – awareness always came, in the end, that such was not the role they played with one another. 

The feather light touch to his features only deepened the illusion between them, this question that lay unspoken upon their lips of what they were and what was welcome. Elijah knew the yearning that dwelled within his own heart, and in moments like these it was so easy to convince himself that Willem held the same fire inside that he did. 

Yet it was on the wake of his words that everything hinged – the choice between them laid bare before Willem now taken and addressed, there was no reason Elijah could think of that would dictate he should continue to hide the secret that sang like poetry in lungs too long starved of air.  

Reaching out, he bade Willem closer by way of an arm around the other’s waist. With his other hand, he brazenly drew back the wild, midnight curls that framed the pale visage of the other man’s face, tucking them serenely back behind an ear that would not hold them long once the sea wind caught them. Meeting the other’s gaze he infused his voice with the confidence he felt they both needed as he assured and coaxed in the same breath. 

“There is no question of whether or not I would have you. I’ve chosen you enough times that to me, it is now natural – but as always, it seems I must convince you that I know my mind,” He smiled, teasing, perhaps, in memory of other arguments, other certainties Willem held that Elijah would tire of this life, that he would leave, that the promises he made were in some way dangerous, or in other ways, plain foolish. 

He did not grant Willem time to gather strength in those old arguments. Instead, he curled his fingers beneath the man’s chin and drew him down just enough to meet the certainty of his kiss.

To Love What We Die For

the-empires:

If he closed his eyes, the warmth of the hearth could be mistaken for the hint of the heat that the Kingston sun beat down on them. The air was balmy and the sound of waves crashing on the sand was always within earshot. An icing of humid wax hung to the broad, vibrantly green leaves of the flora, shushing together in a distinct sound as the pair wandered along the paths together. Being with Theodore made the heat just the more warm. The memory brought a smirk to his lips.

His eyes opened and he felt confined in the dim light of the empty room. Cold rain beat against the building and he shivered momentarily. He studied Theodore, brown eyes narrowing as he watched him put his outer clothes to leave. As much as he wanted to be left alone to catch his breath, Bram did not want Theodore to leave him. But then again, he could not voice that. Did that make him weak, or was it a show of his lack of strength?

He realised that now would be an appropriate time to admit his own emotions for Theodore, but he could not do that either. He wished he could. Theodore said that he was special. What part of him was so, he wondered. There were only two things that Bram had ever been told were remarkable about him: his purse and his mind. Not…him. As refreshing as it was to hear that he was more, it was terrifying.

“There’s no need,” he croaked, a weak attempt to keep Theodore from doting upon him even further in fear that he might explode. “Are you leaving so soon?” The Earl asked, trying to seem nonchalant, though his protestation burned through the thin veil.

@oceanfoamed

Lips quirked themselves into a smile, though it seemed even in this he was perhaps conflicted as only one half tilted upward. It was rare, for Theodore’s smile to become a lopsided thing – generally a sign that he wanted to smile but recognized that the timing was off just enough to restrain the brightness of it. He could tell that Bram was unbalanced as much by the honesty as by the potential for more of the same kind, and though he knew he could have delivered if prompted, a part of him was warmed by the awkward refusal. There was a humility in it that was pleasant, though he was wise not to comment on that, either. 

“I had thought you would want me to,” Theodore was no more willing to lie now than he had been moments ago. Considering the topic of their conversation and the sharp dramatics with which Bram had responded ( which were unlike him enough to hold their own power ) it had seemed to him wise to both cover for the man and to retreat from him until he determined what it was he wanted out of their friendship going forward. 

He lowered his gaze to the board thoughtfully, considering as much the game ahead as his role in it, before he glanced up and met Bram’s eyes squarely. “I’m not opposed to staying, if you desire it – but you have no obligation to allow it, either. What you choose changes nothing in the long run. We can pick up the game where we left off, whenever you feel comfortable doing so.” 

Proud Of The Hurricane

@seafaired continued from [x]

Money had already exchanged hands, as surely as goods now shifted themselves all but silently between ships. To the casual observer there was nothing amiss in the transaction – that the three slaves now boarding had their heads covered, or the fact that no hint of their skin could be seen in the way they were shackled and shrouded was perhaps unusual, but not enough so to rouse any suspicion. 

That would come later, when men of prominent stations were noted as missing – something that would take time indeed, considering they were all meant to be in different places, and it would be at least a week before word reached the city that not a one of them had arrived where he was due. 

Jane was not in the business of letting strangers in on her business, nor was she particularly of the mind to be forthright with many of the captains she ended up dealing with. Considering Naut was a stranger, and not even a captain at that, the fact he had her attention enough to garner such a remark stemmed from the simple recognition that if anyone had the power, the gumption and the goddamn will to cause her enterprise any trouble, it would be him. She would much rather have the man on her side than against it, at any rate. 

Slavery was a tricky thing to sell to some men, but she was prepared to lie if she had to. His response, such as it was, drew a slow smile to her lips. There was no telling what he suspected, but it felt oddly safe to assume he either knew more than he let on and was willing to let her manage the fallout, or, he had no fucking idea what was going on and was genuine in his assertion it didn’t matter which way the wind blew, her business was her own to manage and he’d leave her to it. 

“You never cease to amaze me,” She settled on at last, even as her shadow situated himself and the last of the cargo was brought on board. After a moment of consideration, she took a chance and tested the waters. “When this business is done, I’d be very interested in discussing other ventures with you, should you be interested.” Technically a talk meant for his captain, but frankly given the choice between the two, she’d much rather work with a man unafraid to speak his honest truth than one who would say whatever was most likely to get him paid more.

violence & weakness

intolerablexsacrifice:

~

When Gates questioned him, Flint simply gave him a look.

There was a deadness to the captain’s eyes; a lack of the wild spark that usually flared in him in the aftermath of violence, both during and after the inevitable speeches and justifications. Enough time had passed that his heart was no longer pounding in his chest, breath coming easily instead of in short pants. Blood had dried and crusted on the sleeves of his shirt, and lightly spattered the rest of him.

Gates’ hand clapped him on the shoulder, and Flint went without protest, desiring nothing more than to be away from the deck. It wasn’t the gore, or the stench of blood and emptied bowels. It was the men, and their eyes on him, and the constant ticking of his mind trying to calculate what they believed to be true about him at any given moment.

He closed the door behind himself, watching Gates’ back, eyes drifting over the Eye of Horus tattoo on the back of his quartermaster’s neck. Flint pulled his gaze away, felt himself start moving to find one of the bottles of rum stashed around the cabin, trusting Gates to procure tankards without being asked. He wiped his hands free of blood momentarily, ignoring how stained the rest of him was with it. His hands had thankfully stopped shaking long before he started pouring the rum.

That rigid posture all but collapsed when Flint finally sank to sit. One hand curled around the tankard, but his eyes were on Gates- watching, calculating, perhaps wondering if he should expect an argument to arise out of whatever conversation they were about to have. The fingers of his free hand fidgeted restlessly at his beard.

“Did you know the crew thought I was hunting poor prizes because I was too weak to do otherwise?”

Aye, something’s broken in him alright, Hal mused in the wake of that look, as if he needed it on top of the silence and the disengaged remark from earlier. Guiding the captain out of sight was as much for the sake of privacy as it was for the assurance that the crew would not pick up on anything more unusual than they already had. They were sniffing and itching for a sign of weakness they could exploit, and he’d be damned before he let them get it this easily. 

It was a habitual dance, then. Each of them going about the routine of drinking, neither one of them particularly game for a joyous bout of it and both completely aware that this was more an act of methodical familiarity than it was a desire they needed to slake. What came next would be dictated by Flint, and the stories he told between the words that fell from his lips. 

The collapse into the chair was a hint that this had every chance of ending amicably. That alone was what had Hal lounge easily enough, indicating in his own posture that nothing was amiss. He could tell he was being measured, even as he made no secret of the fact he was cataloguing every fidget shown and calculating an answer based on what Flint offered him.

Rather than answer the accusation, he drew up his tankard and drank – as if the question bore no significance to him, or perhaps as though he needed the strength of the drink to challenge it. Letting the question of which be Flint’s to mull over, he lowered the drink and huffed as if amused. “You can’t expect me to believe it’s gone on this long and you’ve only just picked up on it.” 

There were those among the crew who would never lay voice to something so ridiculous. Men who had been with Flint through thick and thin, who had been part of his crew when he began forging his name as the biggest earner in Nassau, a ruthless prize catcher with a crew as focused and unyielding as he. So long as they stood true, it had seemed Flint had no interest in assuaging anyone’s nerves or concerns. 

But it was strange, and even the loyal were beginning to question what had happened. When the best among them went into a slump this long, it generally meant he wasn’t the best anymore. With nothing to prove otherwise, it was no wonder the men who were newer to the crew were beginning to spread this kind of shit. 

“If you don’t like it, you might want to consider changing the game up,” He pointed out grimly. “These men want to be paid, and yes – yes – what we’re chasing will answer every prayer they’ve ever had chance to dream of, but if you’re going to hold it to your chest like this, if you want a crew to profit when that day comes, feeding them some bones along the way can’t possibly hurt.” 

The Challenge In Our Promises

@intolerablexsacrifice continued from [x]

Hal had known something was wrong from the very start, but he had seen no point in pressing the issue early on. Orchestrating the men in arranging the storage after such a lucrative prize took precedence, and by focusing on the work at hand it kept anyone’s attention off the fact that anything could be wrong in the wake of such a victory as this one. 

Now that everything was underway and time had worn itself on, Hal could no longer delay the inevitable. While he wasn’t entirely certain what he would find when he went to check on the captain, he would be lying if he claimed to expect anything even remotely like this. 

Looking at him now, Hal was struck by how fucking young this man truly was. It was easy to overlook sometimes – others it didn’t even register, because he carried the weight of the world so damn well that the chasm of experience between them seemed nonexistent. This though – it was hard to ignore it in a moment like this one. 

Locking the door was the first most logical step. The men didn’t need to know, or suspect for even a moment, that Flint couldn’t carry this. That there was anything broken in the man would only be fuel for dissent. It didn’t matter how good a strategist a man was aboard ships like these – weakness, perceived or otherwise, was exploited or it bred destruction. There was rarely any inbetween, for captains at any rate. Neither one of them could afford word to spread that Flint had lost track of himself this way.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” His words were gruff, his motions economical as he set about getting a wash basin set up. He did not approach the spot where Flint had cornered himself, trusting the man to uncoil on his own terms and knowing that approaching while he was in a state like this would only exacerbate the situation. 

Only once he had everything in order – including some spare clothes laid out – did he finally step into the man’s view. This could go one of two ways, from Hal’s experience. After a moment of ensuring Flint saw him, he stepped into striking distance fearlessly and crouched down, offering out a cloth without mockery or comment toward the man’s position just now. Instead, he spoke of business matters as though nothing at all was unusual at present.

“We’ve got ourselves a steady wind. Provided she keeps up, at this rate we should make Nassau in about three days. The men are righteously pleased with themselves, but not so much they won’t keep things running right amidst their celebrations.”  

The titles of Abigail’s works are as follows:

  • The Hope Of Lady Tremaine: A collection featuring all three novellas staring Lady Tremaine ( The Woman Scorned, A Lady At War, and The Pirate Queen respectively ) 

  • The Heroic Adventures Of Jeanne and Arcanus: A collection featuring all five of the novellas concerning Jeanne. ( Birth of a Hero, Dawn of a Saviour, Life of a Warrior, Song of a Legend and Rise of a Martyr respectively )

  • Of Liars And Thieves: Novel starring Redbeard. The most honest accounting of the events at Charlestown. 

  • The Monster of Maytown: Novel starring Bandit, arguably her most popular work. A fictional accounting for how Redbeard became a pirate legend. Coming from the perspective of Bandit and a new ( entirely fictional ) character by name of Annabel, the tale makes both pirates and those who oppose them sympathetic, making it difficult to decide, in the end, who the real monster of Maytown actually is. 

  • Chasing the Dragon: A collection of novella starring various captains and lieutenants of the Navy who attempted to stop Redbeard in his pirating. ( The Misfortune of Captain Golding, The Mysterious Disappearance of the HMS Siren Song and Captain Jethro’s Journey Into Madness respectively ) 

  • A Life Of Hope: A collection of adventures starring residents of New Hope that shed further light upon the idea that those who live as pirates may not be so different from those who live under a crown. ( Jack and the Missing Goat, A Tale of Three Daughters, The Worries Of Mrs Dallinger and When The Fathers Come Home, respectively ) 

  • Shadows Of The Past: Novel starring Blaine, based on stories gathered from sailors over her time as a waitress, this is the first and only of Abigail’s stories to feature supernatural elements. The kraken, a sea witch, mermaids and even an undead pirate captain all make appearances here. Notable for the fact the main protagonist never says a word the entire time, the story explores the world Abigail has crafted over the course of her works from the perspective of someone who has seen real monsters and lived to tell about it – only, to choose not to.

  • The Queer Life Of Mort: A collection of novella which explore past stories already told, but coming from the perspective of the oft-times ridiculous sailor Mort. Painting the tragedies and monstrosities of her works in a brighter and more comical hue that mocks the shadows from which they stemmed. ( The Ten Times Tremaine Tripped, Jeannes Jovial Jerkin, Redbeards Ridiculous Raincoat and Bandit’s Best Brawls respectively. )  

In monsters and valiant men Abigail has taken to writing as her sole form of therapy and healing. By the time anyone meets her there ( unless otherwise plotted ) she will have five years of writing under her belt. Though she specializes in novella, as of five years into the game she has seven published works – four of which are collections of aforementioned novellas and three are independant novels. 

Her stories all have similar arcing themes in the pursuit of truth, and in the questioning of what is right and what is wrong. There are notable characters throughout her works that make appearances rather frequently, though the role they play may be as major or minor as she needs to chase her overall point. 

These characters are all based off individuals she met in what she internally refers to as the ‘Charlestown Event’ and her conflicting views have been picked apart to give her a working cast that allows her to craft dynamic tales without having to reach too far in order to create them. 

For those who are likely to interact with her in this verse, I thought it might be handy to have a short list of them so they can perhaps be confronted – either by people who recognize them or, perhaps their source material themselves having something to say on the matter. 

Lord Garrott & Lord Abbott: Both these men are based off Abigail’s father. Lord Garrott being the face of all that which Abigail sees as false and evil in her father, and the darker side of what is called ‘civilized society’ while Lord Abbott, who appears infrequently but is a kindly man who supports the legitimization of the fictional pirate city New Hope, is all that she believed to be good in her father. Lord Abbott seeks to live honestly and to offer other men the same opportunity – he is considered one of the heroes of her works, though he shows up seldomly. 

Captain Redbeard: Commonly seen in tales forging sympathy for pirates, this man is based off Flint and all that Abigail recognized as good within him. Redbeard is an ideological and morally gray hero who defends truth as Abigail sees it, and shows up most prominently when protagonists hold strong belief that pirates are evil and nothing more than that. 

Redbeard is designed to humanize pirates, while not taking away from the fact they do terrible things. Rather, he stands for giving the stories behind why pirates do those dark things and why they may not be as dark as one may prefer to believe. 

Redbeard is motivated by the need to grant outsiders a safe harbor, and to bring a lasting peace between pirates and merchants that will put an end to the wars at sea between men who were once brothers to those they now decry as villains. He shows up, or is at least mentioned, in every single one of her works. 

Captain Shane: Commonly seen in tales where pirates are evil, this man is based as much on Lowe as he is on Flint’s temper and the utterly unyielding and unforgiving nature of that temper. While Redbeard rarely does anything too utterly unforgivable ( with the notable exception of an entire city destroyed in his grief ) Captain Shane is the monster her father always whispered about. Shane is motivated by money and power, and will do anything it takes to obtain them. He is a common villain in her tales and has a bad habit of dying only to come back and ruin things later, representing the nightmare of Lowe in Abigail’s life rather starkly in so doing. 

Captain Trent: Of all the pirates in Abigail’s stories, Trent is perhaps the hardest to understand. Like Shane, he is motivated by financial gains – but like Redbeard, he has a bigger goal in mind that is known only to himself. He is determined to uphold the sanctity of piratical freedoms, though why is never truly discussed in any of Abigail’s works. 

This, of course, owing to the fact she honestly doesn’t know. Trent is based off of Vane, and much of what he does is as mysterious to her as Vane’s own actions – but one thing she ensures, is that no matter how frightful Trent may be at any given time, he always keeps his word. Whether that word is a forgiving one or a terrifying one depends on the needs of the tale at the time, however. 

Lady Tremaine / Jeanne / Miss Martin / The Mother: These four women are all based off Barlow. In the tales of Jeanne, Barlow is both Jeanne and The Mother.

Lady Tremaine stars in three novellas about a woman wronged by society, a woman who was tormented and deceived by those closest to her who, with the aid of Captain Redbeard, saw justice delivered upon those who had wronged her. She ultimately resides in the fictional pirate city of New Hope, where she presides over trade. Her cameos in other works see her as a benevolent if shrewd businesswoman.

Jeanne’s mother is a friend of Captain Trent’s and seeks to convince Lord Garrott to pardon Trent’s crew in exchange for their service in defending the fort. Her mother is killed by one of Lord Garrott’s men, who declares sympathy for pirates an act of piracy itself. While this man roams freely, Jeanne seeks to have him punished and informs Trent of what occured. To her horror, rather than make the man himself pay, Trent calls the entire city to task and renders it aflaime. 

Jeanne’s tale takes place over a course of five novella that are printed in one collection, though may be found in individual serials in specific markets. It tells the tale of how Jeanne becomes a hunter for hire, and will as soon hunt men of the crown for their crimes as she will pirates. Many believe, thanks to Jeanne’s cat being named Arcanus, that Jeanne is in fact based off Joan d’Arc.

Miss Martin is the only version of Barlow that is completely true in its tragedy, beyond the Mother of Jeanne. In Abigail’s novel Of Liars And Thieves, Miss Martin rescues and later protects the young protagonist who has been kidnapped for ransom by pirates. Miss Martin, in her quiet and unassuming way, helps the protagonist to slowly see Redbeard’s crew as men in their own way, rather than as monsters. 

Along with Captain Redbeard, Miss Martin goes to the protagonist’s father – a new character by name of Lord Aston – who turns out to have been the very same man who caused irreparable damage to Redbeard and Martin both. When Martin challenges Aston on his actions, she is cruelly shot and silenced by Aston’s general. 

The tale that unfolds then, is precisely that of Charlestown – even going so far as to include Trent coming to Redbeard’s trial with the protagonist’s diary, and the protagonist being chased from the town by survivors declaring her to be a witch.  

Bandit, Blaine & Mort: These men are all based off individuals Abigail met aboard Flint’s ship, and though their personalities and roles are designed to add a comedic element to any tale, their appearances are specific enough there is no doubt the men would recognize themselves if ever they heard the stories. Bandit is an enormous man with arms that look like they could uproot trees – Blaine is a silent man who carries a strange blade from another land – and Mort is a short, bald man with a mean face bearing interesting scars and tattoos. 

“I’m still struggling to believe any of this is real.” [ for author abigail! ]

{ Profound & Emotional | Always Accepting }

The book beneath his hand was of course familiar to her – she had an intimate awareness of the covers designed to house her writings, having such a defining role in their production as she did. The moment she had seen it laid upon the table, Abigail had known there would be questions – curiosities – from the man who starred so prominently in that particular tale.

She had never considered the possibility that he might read them – not because she considered him an unlearned man, for she had seen the books that had lined his cabin with her own eyes and known many of them to be of academic importance to a more philosophical crowd of men – but because she had not considered stories such as these to hold any interest to a man who lived them, and whose taste in literature seemed so advanced beyond what she would ever be capable of producing.

What was more, she had never believed they would meet again, least of all under these circumstances. She didn’t fully know the truth of his retirement, only that it was clear to her that it had done something to bring a softness out in him she had never seen before. It left her in a strange position, for though she knew he was bound to start asking these questions – she still had no easy answers to offer. 

“What is real about it?” Turning this around was perhaps the only hope she had of explaining anything to one of the few people alive in this world, who would know that her tales were not woven from imagination – not entirely. “All stories are just that, are they not? Embellishments and lies – even when they tell an honest truth, they must be made dishonest to tell it.”

Indeed – that particular book was the most honest retelling of the events of Charlestown she had ever written. Even now, the demons exorcised onto those pages left her raw. They still screamed inside of her, but their power had waned since she had granted them voices upon those pages. 

The names were all different. Of the people and the ships, of the town and even of smaller things, like the streets. Yet it was the same story as her own – a girl stolen away by monsters, who later discovers the monster had been the one beside her all her life. Whose whispers had made her afraid, and whose crimes cost a town everything. It was one of the very, very few stories where the character most resembling Barlow died, and the only time – in any of her stories – that character died in so haunting and tragic a manner as the truthful one. 

The tale built a sympathy for pirates that made it one of her less popular works. She was glad of it, for it meant few people sent letters to her pseudonym inquiring of it. Few people shining light on the demons that bled through those pages, strongest when they rose unexpectedly back to the ink in her well, demanding she bleed them out again, to poison another story. 

“If that story bothers you, I’ve written others that tell different truths.” She offered quietly, thinking of one of her more popular works, which had become a short series about a mercenary who could not forgive the death of a mother any more than she could forgive the destruction of a town. Or perhaps the tales in which a woman holds her temper and metes out justice against all who had done her wrong. 

Both of those stories were lies formed of wishful thinking, and the demons in them were mere shades of what came out in stories that held closer to the truth – but those demons were just as real. For there was a part of her that wished for the strength of the mercenary who breathed out her anger and loss in every violent action – a part of her that dreamed of a world where Barlow was alive and those who spread their lies were punished for it. 

But neither world or woman was real. Neither of those stories would ever be as compelling as the ones about Captain Redbeard, nor any as haunting and painful as the time he tried to stop being a pirate, only to remember why he became one in the first place. He was a man of truth – a man who accepted there was darkness in the world and chose to face it, to defeat it where he could – but never lie about where it came from, or who spread it. 

He had turned to liars in the hopes of becoming one himself – a man claiming to repent so that he may know peace – and that betrayal of himself was what cost him so dearly, even as it woke other characters to the reality he so often told them was there. Those who speak the most loudly, the most angrily of monsters – tend to be shrouding the fact that they, themselves, are the beasts one should fear above all others.  

“It is but one truth as I see it. That doesn’t make it real to anyone but me.” She concluded softly, folding her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting with them. “I am – sorry,” She added, feeling compelled to acknowledge the one demon they both shared, a woman whose kindness had been an impossible strength. A woman who, when finally pushed beyond the edge of her patience, was so cruelly and abruptly silenced by her own death, in a house where civilization dictated she ought to have been safe from such awful violence. “If the echoes of it are too true for you, as well. I cannot promise not to write of it again, if that is – why you are here.” 

It burned inside of her, the need to keep that woman’s story alive even if all she knew of her was the last. There were times when Abigail felt as though she could not breathe for the sounds of the monsters inside of her were so cacophonous a riot, and if she did not let them scream, then surely the one who would start would be she. And she knew – she knew what happened to people who screamed at their demons no one else could see – so when those days hit, she would pick up her quill, and pour them into the ink. Until the day those demons were finally quiet, she could not promise anyone, not even him that she would, or even could, stop telling their stories.

“I know there’s no replacing what we’ve lost.” [ for silver 8I ]

{ HAMILTON STARTERS | Accepting }

“There are men aboard this ship one could reasonably argue have no more intelligence than the average barnacle who could have concluded that much,” The scathing retort fell from his lips before thought toward harnessing his frustration fully rose. “My question isn’t whether or not the fucking obvious has occured to you, it’s what the fuck you plan on doing about it.”