Posts by Poisonberry

ooc: Again, sorry for the delay in replying!

Also, I was looking up pics of Ramsay from the tv show and I suddenly realised where I had recognised him from! It's the same actor that played Simon in Misfits! AHH I will never unsee this, NEVER.

I'M CRYING THIS IS BEAUTIFUL, HOW AM I EVER GONNA TAKE RAMSAY SERIOUSLY EVER AGAIN?? I CAN'T.

Ramsay Bolton

Ramsay smiled pleasantly as Chara studied him with a look of scrutiny, and he maintained the expression even as she passed warily by. Once her back was turned, however, and he had his own back to her as he closed the iron latch of the kennels which groaned stiffly due to the frost which seized the mechanism, he cast a darkly brooding look over the area to which Myranda and the other Stark girl had disappeared to. He had no doubt that she was up to something- in fact he was certain of it- but frankly Lady Sansa was of little importance to him other than as a fall-back option and appeasement for Charaphenelia to keep her mostly placated. As far as Ramsay was concerned, Sansa was the plaything that he was permitted to roughen up a bit and he intended to do just that.

Even so, it irked him that Myranda would defy him even after bitter warnings, and that he would not stand for. He was the one in control, he was the master, and everyone would do well to know it for his displeasure was not something to be trifled with. The current situation and his father’s cautions meant that his fun had been stifled to a bare minimum for the moment, but once everything was settled and in place he more than intended to make up for the lack of entertainment.

At least the coming hunt would provide some of the much-needed pleasure which he craved, and Ramsay left Ben Bones to finish readying the hounds as he crunched briskly over the crisp snow to meet Charaphenelia once more. Once by her side he was met by more casual questioning, of which was probably inspired somewhat by genuine curiosity but also an attempt to sweeten him. Ramsay smirked lightly, a fresh dusting of snow resting upon his crown of tousled dark hair.

“Oh, nothing so banal, my Lady,” He replied in a darkly playful tone, a morbid delight flashing in his eyes as previous events spun across their pale surface like a reflection in ice, “but I wouldn’t like to spoil it for you! Have a little patience and you will see it soon enough, I promise you.” The subsequent smile was downright rotten, peeling back his lips like slimy skin sloughing from a corpse and holding the promise of something sickening to come, but a familiar voice caught him in his tracks and his demeanour drooped visibly into one of annoyance as he clutched his fists at his sides… yet also, perhaps, there was just a little bit of unease and apprehension there too.

He turned to face his father with a concealed expression, allowing Chara to make her introduction before offering his own with a curt, “Father”. A small look of discontent flitted over Ramsay’s features as Roose Bolton hinted for Charaphenelia to leave them to talk privily, and Ramsay eyed the Stark with set lips as she nodded meekly and trailed off to follow their previous footsteps through the snow. He continued to watch her darkly as the two waited for the woman to stroll out of earshot, and there was a mild reluctance for him to meet his father’s gaze as he glowered into the distance and wondered at what Roose could possibly want from him this time.

Was he going to chide him for his games again and call off the hunt just to spite him into knowing his place? Ramsay bloody well hoped not. He needed this. A lion cannot be tamed and caged away without stimulation, without blood. He would go mad without that thrill- he was already half starved of it. He needed some f*cking fun. He needed the exhilaration, the satisfaction. Inflicting pain was love to him, the suffering his only nourishment. No one could take that away from him, he wouldn’t let them… but Roose Bolton was another matter. Ramsay was a loose cannon, but his father knew how to strip him of ammunition, or at least steer him in the best possible direction.

Surprisingly to Ramsay, Roose’s talk began with trivial talk of Houses and alliances and all that sh*t. His son was not entirely sure where he was supposed to be going with this, and he frowned at his father in wary confusion as the man spoke of things which Ramsay deemed largely unimportant. He had never been fond of politics- as a man who had spent the majority of his life among the lower classes it had never really come up in his life, for common folk were just pawns to be pushed around the board by kings with no influence of their own- and hence he generally didn’t give a damn about forward planning and the widespread complications of his actions in the future. He was clever, yes, but he lived in the moment. He acted not with the far future in mind, but with only what would benefit him in the present. His father had always reproached him for that, a man whose mind was always far ahead and contemplating every outcome, but Ramsay had judged that, if he had done alright up until this point without thinking ahead, he didn’t see why he should need to start. He would just leave all that refuse to his father.

As Roose proceeded, however, it soon became clear to Ramsay what the man was trying to say. Still, he did not seem entirely enthused with the idea. From what he could tell, this was basically another way of his father saying, ‘don’t do anything stupid and don’t have too much ‘fun’’, but the more he thought about it the more he warmed to the idea. Mind games were always entertaining, and it might prove even more pleasurable to break her after warming her heart. A keen smile slowly tugged at the corners of his lips in anticipation of the idea, but he jolted to face Roose as a firm hand was clasped upon his shoulder. He looked a tad bewildered at first, but after only a moment he had straightened up with a new sense of pride and determination. It’s strange, what a couple of words can do. The simple acknowledgement of Ramsay as Roose’s son no doubt had the desired effect, for Ramsay was resolute to do prove he was just that.

“Of course,” He replied with a hint of a grin on his own face, sly but strong, “It’ll be a dawdle.”

___________________||Finnr Larsen||__________________

Finnr had always been a joker. Even as a child, as frail and shy as he had been, he had always had a sense of humour that would light up a room. The unfortunate experience that had left him a little mad and had disjointed his thoughts had obviously had an effect on his humour and state of mind in general, and his time as a pirate had roughened that characteristic of his somewhat, beating it down to something less refined and altogether harsher than it had and could have been, but nevertheless it still held the ability to make people laugh. Indeed, it had often painted him as a fool in the eyes of his peers, for up until he had gained somewhat of a name for himself among the crew he had always sought to appease them through shows of humour and wit, most of it farcical and slapstick which underpinned him as a simple clown.

In all that time, however, throughout all his displays of tomfoolery, never had anyone shown so much innocent delight at his games as Nantale did right then, and although it always uplifted him to make people laugh there was a wholly different surge of pleasure at making someone really smile, not just with their mouth but with their heart. What’s more, it was so fulfilling to finally find someone who looked at him as he joked not as a fool but as a friend. And so it was that, with every bit of enthusiasm, Finnr found himself quite gladly playing along and having more wholesome fun right then than he had experienced since sitting in front of the hearth with his family all those years previous.

“Oh certainly, little thief!” He crowed, touching a dainty hand fervently to his heart as he slapped another to his cheek in a look of girlish delight, “You simply must see me in jewels, I look absolutely fabulous! There isn’t a woman in town that wouldn’t swoon over this face in a crown, haha! I swear to you, Princess Corilina and Macho Matador Cinnamonbun will have nothing on me! When it comes to bling, I am the fairest of them all.”

He snickered as he dropped the farce and leaned crookedly against the bookcase wth his arms folded over his chest, and he had almost completely forgotten about his previous puzzling train of thought until Nantale, who must have noted the earlier look of disorientation on his face, made him aware of it once more. He gave another short huff of humour, though it was paired with a look of genuine wonder. After a moment, however, it was shrugged away by a roll of his shoulders and a light tilt of his head as he narrowed his eyes mirthfully.

“I think I will hold you to your word on that one, I’m warning you now,” He cautioned with a slinking smirk, jabbing a playful finger of threat at him, but as Nantale’s attention drifted so did Finnr’s with it. He watched sourness spoil the boy’s smile, and it wasn’t difficult to pinpoint the cause even before the childish complaining began.

At first Finn rolled his eyes with a scoff, lifting his hand and opening and closing it in a pincer-like motion as he turned down the corners of his mouth and immaturely mocked Nantale’s petty protests with a silent re-enactment of the latter’s moans. As Nantale continued, however, he gradually dropped the derogatory act and frowned at him with something creeping into his features that could even be called sympathy.

Finnr was more than aware of what it was like to be as Nantale was now, confined to a bed and starved of natural light and fresh air and freedom for days, weeks, even months. It is no secret that Finnr was a sickly child. As soon as he had recovered from one illness, another would settle in like he was a house put up for sale in a sought-after location. His childhood was all one big cycle of becoming ill, suffering in his bed for days upon end, recovering, enjoying a brief period of blissful health before being pulled under once more. Even upon recovery his mother would always be so protective of him, striving to keep him indoors or close to home so that she could keep an eye on him lest he fall suddenly ill. It was on those days, locked away in the stifling confines of an overly stuffy room stinking of stale vomit and sickness, that he would always dream of flying. Of freedom. Because without it, restricted to his sweat-soaked bed where he might as well have been locked in a cell underground… well, he couldn’t think of anything worse, not even death.

“Oh, quit your whining already!” He scorned suddenly, a tickle of laughter in his throat as he sauntered towards Nantale, “You’re such a baby, you know that? And not very cunning, if I might add.” He was now standing over Nantale’s bed and reached down to lightly tap the lad on the forehead. Then, with a lurching twirl on his heel, he whisked away to begin raking through a few blankets and throws- which had been folded neatly away in an open chest by the wardrobe until Finn was done with them.

“You say they have issued a ‘stay in bed’ policy, hm?” He cooed as he dragged out a large blanket, which he briefly tested for strength with a smile of satisfaction, then met Nantale’s gaze with a puckish grin, “But who’s to say what bed? …Give me a moment, I need some extra hands…” Then, after dropping the blanket that he had been holding and snatching up a bundle of spare pillows and other blankets which Dar’eme had stashed in the room and without further warning, he darted from the room and out of sight. It was some time before he returned, having swapped the pillows and bedspreads for an extra set of hands; two, to be precise, and both of which belonged to Cullen O’Sullivan.

“Well if it isn’t the sneaky little wanker that stole my reigning title!” The grossly tall man guffawed by way of introduction as he ducked through the door, grinning widely down at Nantale as Finn snatched up the blanket that he had dropped earlier, “I’ll be expecting a rematch at some point, by the way! An’ don’t think I’ll be fallin’ for yer little magic tricks so easily this time…”

“Shut up Cullen and pick up the bloody blanket,” Finnr scolded him impatiently, tossing the opposite two corners at him as Finn moved towards Nantale and swept down onto one knee with a flourish of his hand to address him with a giggle, “Your highness, your carriage awaits! One moving hammock bed, ready and at your disposal!”

***

All the curse words and profanities that you could ever imagine would not compete with the almighty volume of vulgarities which were circling Corliss' mind right then, as he pushed past body after body with two intentions in mind; either jump off a cliff and hope that it would be half as painful as he imagined it to be, or find some old robes and spend the rest of his life in a monastery somewhere disguised as a nun, not in the hopes of holy redemption but as a handy way of hiding from his problems. Of course, he had hoped that he would never need to take such drastic measures, but deep down he had always known that the time would come, and it seemed inexplicably that the time for death or celibacy was now.

'A nunnery wouldn't be so bad,' he mused healf-heartedly within his head, 'It's filled with women, and virgins at that. I mean sure, they claim to be married to the Gods, but since when has marriage ever stopped me? They'll probably be begging to bed with me- I might as well be escaping hell for paradise!'

Yet whatever his anxious denials, you had only to look at his face to know that he was firmly aware of how well and truly f*cked he was. Or at least, thought he was. Corliss was always one to blow things out of proportion, sometimes out of pettiness but mostly out of overwhelming levels of anxiety that he always blatantly denied was ever there, and although Ignatius had made things sound so simple Corliss' mind had already been so mobbed with worry that even the prospect of fishing would have given him nervous palpitations.

After finally reaching the cave's entrance after what had seemed like forever of swimming through the souls of hell, he jerked to a halt and collapsed in a heap against the wall. Fresh air washed over his sweat-soaked face and into his constricted lungs, and with it came a thankful sense of calm as the disorienting fog was cleared from his mind… Until five seconds later when that clarity gave rise to reality. Bollocks. His head sank into his hands and he pinched his eyes tight shut as he took long and painful breaths. Had it really been only ten minutes ago that he had been surrounded by potential bed-mates and banter, everything coming up roses?

"Why did she have to show up?" Corliss groaned through his curled fingers, raising his face from their grasp before softly but rhythmically beating the back of his head against the wall. Out of all the people that had found their way to the Turtle, why did she have to be one of them? Hell, he hadn’t even believed her to still be alive! He frowned. Not that that’s a bad thing, but… OK, no, there’s no denying it- it really really was.

He blinked open his eyes, so very pale in the harsh light, one nothing more than a milky white marble. Although only the one eye was blind, for a moment, as he stared off into the distance, he might have seen nothing at all. Then he blinked again, and a spark of his usual light returned to his one ice-pale orb as he groaned again and shifted into an upright position. A new determination had seemed to settle upon him in those few seconds, and he heaved a deep breath and nodded firmly to himself.

“Right. Finn. Got to find Finn…” He set his lips in a hard line of resolve, still nodding to himself like a guy that’s pretending he’s listening avidly to everything some other guy just said. Then he sat there some more, still nodding. Then he just sat there.

ooc: Sorry it's short, and for any typos (or huge chunks of text missing), I'm typing this on my kindle and auto-correct has changed for the worse so it keeps messing up everything I type. I tried to fix as much as I could, but there might be mistakes that I've missed.

Man, I hate typing on anything that isn't a laptop or computer.

Ic: Ramsay could see the cogs whirring behind those coldly glassy eyes as Roose contemplated his son, and he knew his father was coniving something, working through every possible outcome and selecting the path best suited to his own means. He didn't despise him for it- Roose's forward thinking could come in useful, he had to admit. What he had never liked about it, though, was the feeling that one's every movement was planned, nudged this way and that and manipulated before an act had ever been carried out. The feeling that whatever he did, reckless and unpredictable or otherwise, his father had already seen it coming and coerced it into a form that he could use. It was all a game of chess with Roose, only every move had already been anticipated and countered perfectly before the game had ever started.

When the man continued, Ramsay thought through the words with little depth. Mind manipulation was always a fun sport, and one he prided himself in being highly adept at. After all, was it not a game of the mind which he had used to steal Winterfell in the first place, a stronghold which might have lasted for months under any normal siege? It would be trickier to pull off than one inflicted through fear, of course, but he was always intrigued by a new challenge. And anyway, how better to own someone than through love? One may become a slave through fear, but very little can match the potency of love to inspire a mind to do anything in order to satiate it. In a way, all who love are slaves to their own desires. All Ramsay had to do was make himself the object of that desire, and he might as well own her like a devoted pet dog.

Talking of dogs, Roose's reference to Charaphenelia's beloved direwolf had Ramsay fully enthused with his father's plan where he had not before. Ever since the revelation of the Stark direwolves and what they could achieve on the battlefield, Ramsay had been hungry to get his hands on one of his own. There was so much he could do with one of those mutts in his possession, so many possibilities, and with that in mind the idea of winning Chara over was even more tempting. When his father was finished speaking, Ramsay gave a small smile, cunning and determined, and he raised his head with the eagerness of a new challenge in his murky pale eyes.

"I think I'll have her under my heel in a week," He replied firmly, glancing toward the kennels from where he suspected he could hear a feminine voice talking, and his eyes were wild with the game as they flitted back to eye his father, a cruelly confident grin splitting his lips, "and all of the North with her."

At that point he was met by another call from the stablehands, who were still struggling with the troublesome mounts, though by now they were fully saddled and the task was only to keep them still and occupied while they awaited their masters. Ramsay was tempted to leave them a little longer, but if they delayed the hunt much more then the snows would no doubt be upon them again before they even set off, both horse and hound would struggle and the hunt would have to be carried out either afoot or not at all. The fluffy flakes which tickled Ramsay's skin at the moment seemed innocent enough, but he of all people knew that appearances could be decieving. He returned his gaze to Roose, having let it drift briefly to the purplish horizon, and gave the man a slightly impatient look. He spoke of 'winning Charaphenelia over', but surely he hinted at consequences for the hunt.

"So what is it exactly that you expect of me?" He queried with a lightly brooding frown, " You suggest that you're allowing the hunt to continue, but I hardly think she could 'love' me for it unless I hold back on harming the prey- in which case what's the bloody point? "

ooc: It's a beautiful post ;u;

Corliss 'Devil's Grin' McClintock

Nox's reaction inflicted as much pain as it conveyed, and it discomfited Corliss more than he could have imagined. Part of him wanted to lash out and scorn the man for failing to find the balls to say anything more than a weakly stuttered 'I don't' after days of torment, part sought reluctantly but overwhelmingly to comfort him- a hand on his shoulder, a few subtle words, anything to remedy the guilt which crept up on him like a ticklish cough- while the rest was wishing he had never brought up the topic of conversation in the first place. He just felt so... uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Corliss had courted countless people in the past with not an ounce of what he felt now; but this was not flirting, it was not any other situation, and perhaps it was that which crippled him right now in a way that was so unfamiliar in interactions with any other person. Because, although he had desired and lusted for many a thing, he had never felt the allure of love for such a very long time...

His train of thought almost had him scoffing out loud- had he not been beside a man close to an emotional breakdown- at how ludicrous it all sounded once his thread of overthinking was exposed to the 'reality' of simple thought. Love? Who the f*ck was he kidding? This wasn't the whisper of love in the air, it was the irresistible call of curiosity (a fatal fault of his, always had been) and the minuscule but poignant pester of guilt to relieve the man of what was making him a stuck-up arse, so that his own life could be made that much more bearable. This was not an act of love, this was an act of pure selfishness that might get him a snog and a restful night's sleep afterwards for having done so. Or so he persuaded himself, successfully to a certain degree. Yes. That had to be it! After nights of insomnia, it turns out he had been worrying over nothing more than a byproduct of his own vanity. Ha! Oh, the joy! He wasn't turning into a soppy mess after all. The relief which flooded him, after the thought of how stupid he had been at believing in a 'better person' inside of himself, was like a breath of opium. So consumed by his own delirium was he that he damn near had a heart-attack when Nox spoke again and reminded him what reality felt like. It wasn't a pleasant feeling- it never is... unless, according to the blonde, your reality happens to be blessed with pillows, wine and naked women, of which Corliss' most certainly was not.

Corliss heaved in a breath, holding it a moment before releasing it in a prolonged but subtle sigh as he waited for Nox to go on after the bombshell that Corliss was "confusing". Whatever that was supposed to mean. He was still pondering that as he waited for Nox's own explanation... and waited... and waited some more... and- hell, it would be morning before the man had so much as pronounced the first syllable. Yet eventually and inevitably the answer came, and as much as Corliss had been anticipating it with intrigue it was with a returning sense of... 'something' that he met the reply.

"So what you're so worried about is the fact that you... don't... have to worry?" Corliss queried, quirking a brow in mild confusion. By God, was this really what he had been so anxious to find out? A frown touched his lips. If this was how curiosity was rewarded then he wasn't sure how it had ever evolved in the first place, or why he was so drawn to it.

Yet the next, and final, part of Nox's emotional ramblings was what grabbed him. Despite everything he had been determined on persuading himself, despite his unwillingness to yield to it, the doubt which had nibbled away at his fantasy was bringing it crumbling down now- because he couldn't deny that he felt that exact same warmth that bothered Nox.

'Oh yes I can,' a stubborn voice barging it's way to the forefront of his suddenly flustered mind, 'and I bloody well will!'

"Look..." He began tenuously, that cosy part of him reluctant to hand over control to the voice which now coerced his words and strengthened them obnoxiously, an involuntary defence which hid the truth behind petty wit and tried to conceal moments of weakness through an uncaring and hurtful attitude, and which he almost always regretted wholeheartedly afterwards, "I think I know what this is... and I don't blame you for feeling that way. Many people do- it's one of the many consequences of having a face like mine. Problem is, I-" his declaration caught in his throat, strangled by some part of him reluctant to speak the lie, but he choked it down and continued unfalteringly, "I don't feel the same way about you. It's the sad truth of life, I know, but it's the truth all the same. Believe me, though, it's a blessing. I'm just not the kind of man that could give you what you need. So... do us both a favour, and find someone else to 'feel warm' around. I can't ever give you what you want, and you'll be happier if you realise that early."

He didn't know what made him say it. To lie so blatantly and humongously. But he did, and it was done, and whatever the reasons he couldn't take it back now.

ooc: Sorry I've been inactive a while! I had essays and then all my exams, but they're finished now so I'm planning to have a reply done tomorrow!

As always, thanks for your patience c:

ooc: Hey! Sorry for my inactivity, I've had essays and exams so I've been a bit tied up. They're finished now, though, so I'm hoping to have a reply done for you tomorrow!

Thanks for your patience! c:

___________________||Finnr Larsen||__________________

"Just pick them up? But that defies the aim of the game, little thief!" Finnr scoffed, as though he actually gave a damn about directives, "The rules were simple- it's a strict stay in bed policy. Sooo, heehee, carrying you like a newborn pup would technically go against the rules. This way auntie Dar'eme has nothing to complain about, does she, hm? So stop 'gazing in awe' at my inspiring ingenuity and get in the damn hammock... " then, standing up straight and proper with a soldier's sense of duty, he added with a slight smirk, "... your Highness, hahee!"

The two men dealt with Nantale's weight quite well, even if it were Cullen who carried the brunt of the bulk- though truthfully, the captain was so light that Finnr could, and would, have lifted him single-handedly had he ditched the idea of a hammock. By the time Nantale was fully settled, Cullen and Finnr were already halfway to the door, though Finn had taken a small moment beforehand to struggle out of his malleable leather boots and stuff them into his belt so that his feet were now free and exposed to the elements in all their nauseating glory. Why he did so was both a mystery and a trial to Cullen, who complained bitterly about Finnr’s hygiene being worse than a depressed skunk’s, but nonetheless Finn refused to put them back on and so they began their journey without further ado.

"You'll find out where we're going soon enough, give us a chance!” Finnr hushed Nantale with a giggle as they marched down the hallway, which was fortunately quiet in comparison to the main hall, otherwise they might have been trapped there for days struggling between the masses, “And like I said, Dar’eme and Mortie have nothing to argue about- you’re in a bed. No laws broken. And anyway, heehee, what’s the worst they can do? Give you a smacked arse?”

The staircase was problematic, and the two had to crab-crawl their way down it while somehow keeping Nantale upright to prevent spilling their precious cargo down the spiralling steps, but all in all the descent was made with few problems other than the constant bickering between the two tall individuals over who was to go first, which was really more annoying than anything else. Once on level ground once more, it was now that the men faced their biggest challenge; how to get from the stairs to the entrance without being stampeded by half a hundred curious peasants. Cullen had been intent on wandering straight through the crowds obliviously but, after a brief tug-of-war, Finnr managed to persuade Cullen that the quiet scenic route would be the best option. This way was less direct, following an elevated path cut from the rocky walls, but it had the fortunate appeal of allowing those who walked it to gaze down upon those in the room while inspiring little attention in return. As a result, it meant that the procession of three could swiftly traverse the cavern unimpeded while Nantale also got the best view in the house of all that he had achieved.

“Not bad, eh?” Finnr snickered, pausing a moment to stare out over the room which, now that he got a proper look at it from above with all their achievements spread out below, inspired a hidden look of awe as he stifled more giggles, “From up here we could almost be kings, don’t you think?”

“Aye,” Cullen agreed with a scoff, “Kings of rocks an’ rats, maybe. Kings of piss an’ peasants, more like.”

Finnr aimed a kick at Cullen’s behind that almost had all three toppling over the edge, but thankfully they caught themselves soon enough and hurried onward before either of them could do any more potential damage- it wouldn’t be a good thing to accidentally kill their captain now, in plain sight, in a heavily crowded room of his heartfelt admirers. In good time, they were already out of the den and traversing the slippery steps down to the docks.

Fortunately, the morning had seen it a fine day to bless them with some sunshine, and their casual expedition was blessed with a warm wind and sparkling blue skies and sea as they strode out into the day. Unfortunately, the roughly-hewn steps were still to be kissed by the sunlight, so the shade had left them cold and damp and treacherously slippery. Not a good thing on any descent, let alone one involving an injured person being carried in a hammock between two bickering individuals. Still, somehow, they managed without any mishaps other than a few unsteady blunders on Cullen’s behalf.

It only got worse once they reached the rocks, however. After making their way to the docks, Finnr took a sudden turn and began leading them through a labyrinth of rockpools slick with glistening green seaweed, and it became evident before the second step why Finnr had decided to take off his shoes. Although Cullen’s served as some protection from the slicing barnacles which sucked themselves against the stone like leaches, something which didn’t seem to bother Finnr anyway by the way he picked his way easily over the jagged surface, Finn’s bare feet allowed him to traverse the rocks as nimbly as a goat while Cullen staggered and slipped; not to mention he didn’t get his shoes entirely sodden like Cullen did so that, by the time they eventually reached the sand, Cullen’s shoes squelched sloppily with every step. From that point on, though, things were much more pleasant for the three of them.

The dry sand sieved between Finn’s sooty toes as he strode across the shoreline through the frivolous foam tossed over it by the tender waves, soothing any scrapes from slicing barnacles or scathing stone, golden grains sighing with each careful step as he manoeuvred his way through the final few trees to the sandy plain beneath the turtle's drooping head. There, in the shady shelter provided by some smooth, water-worn boulders by the farthest reaches of the oceans sparkling edge, a bed of sorts had been arranged. The two pillows which Finnr had disappeared with earlier had found their way to the bay below the Turtle's head, propped at the upper end of a spread blanket, already littered with sprinkles of sand blown upon it by the gentle salt-stained breeze. The arrangement, though simple, had been placed far too neatly for it to have been Finnr's work. Best guess would have been Ignatius or maybe Dar’eme, but seeing as Finn likely hadn’t wanted to draw too much attention from the latter it can be expected to have been the other’s work. Finnr gave Cullen a small kick on the ankle as they reached the makeshift bed, and the two lowered him down upon the blankets.

"A little birdy told me that this is one of your favourite haunts on the island,” Finnr giggled, bouncing backwards on the tips of his toes before twirling in a circle, arms spread wide, and propelling himself backwards onto the sand, “I thought you might enjoy the fresh air, heehee!"

***

It must have been another five minutes or so before Corliss realised that he was still sitting there, despite all his mental ‘efforts’, wherein he resigned himself to the simple fact that he was never going to find the strength to get up any time soon. Not just because he didn’t have the physical energy, but because in reality he didn’t want to get up because he did not want to do what needed to be done.

“And therein lies the story of my life…” Corliss muttered cynically, slumping back against the uncomfortable rock which compressed his clothes against his skin like a cold hand. In no time it had guzzled all warmth from his clammy skin, and before long he was shivering, something which only added to the pitiful sight of him.

‘None of this is even my fault!’ He thought in infuriation, scowling at the opposite wall of the entrance’s arch, but after letting that thought linger for a moment he slouched in on himself exasperatedly. Okay, so he knew that was not entirely true, but really Lula was being very unfair regarding his side of the story, of which- I might add- she knew very damn little about! Alright, so he had run away and left her there alone that day, but he had been only a child at the time! What did she expect? That he become bloated with maddening revenge, stride straight up to the grizzly group of blood-thirsty pirates with nothing more than a pig-sticker and his own fists and challenge them to a duel, in all his short-statured, weak-limbed, pre-pubescent splendour? I think bloody well not! Some might argue that he did not own any now, but even in his younger days Corliss had possessed at least some shred of common sense.

And anyway, was she really so naïve to think that witnessing his father and sister slaughtered moments before wouldn’t have fucked him out of his wits, at any age of his life? Okay, so he wasn’t proud of what he had done- running away rarely gives you that feeling in the long or short term, and that’s excluding the simple trial of running, period- but could you really blame him? And, of course, he had always planned on returning, it just… well… circumstances had meant that it hadn’t turned out that way.

He was still mulling over everything in his head, chewing on his thoughts until they were nothing more than acidic cud, not even realising that those same thoughts were what was poisoning the rest, when the unexpected nudge of someone sitting right beside him made every concept scatter to all corners of his mind. Corliss jolted so violently that he almost thwacked his head off the wall, turning to face the new arrival so rapidly that he caused a crick, sending a sharp spasm of blinding pain down the back of his neck. After spending the next few moments cursing in harsh whispers and tenderly massaging the afflicted area, during which time he found himself paralysed from turning his face away lest he induce further trauma, he finally managed to calm his frayed nerves enough to focus on who had so rudely interrupted his sulky ‘me time’.

For several seconds Corliss drew a blank. He had seen the man around around a couple of times, possibly, but when you look like you’ve just crawled out of the stone age Corliss very rarely goes to the effort of remembering you. He could remember a pretty face in a crowd after ten years or more, certainly, but a ‘caveman’… not to say that he didn’t find the man mildly attractive, now that he studied him closely. In fact, he might have been quite handsome if he just took a shower and had a date with some clippers, but that’s not the point. The point is, this mildly alluring mud-stain had very rudely invaded his personal space at a very personal time and on a very personal level. He was this close to turning his back and walking away. Only he couldn’t, because his bloody neck was still refusing to budge. Damn it all…

“What?” He muttered irritably, his tone a little snappier than he had been trying for- probably due to the blazing pain in his neck, which was thankfully beginning to fade away- but also slightly brittle in a way which surprised him, like it might be blown away on the next breeze. He tried to master the tremulous undertone to his words as he continued stiffly, “Perhaps you hadn’t noticed, but I’m sitting here. So. You know. Find somewhere else to sit, because you’re not a cat and my lap is reserved for the refined.” He stuck his chin up, squaring his shoulders and straightening the sullen hunch from his spine in an attempt to look less pitiful than he knew he did. His neck immediately protested with a twinge, and he grit his teeth as he tried to massage some fluidity back into the vertebrae there.

When the man finally decided to speak, however, Corliss found that the dwindling pain in his neck suddenly vanished as the flesh of his face blanched of any colour. He stared. And stared. And then he scoffed, sucking in a breath and laughing the other’s words off with a few tense chuckles.

“Wh… what on earth are you babbling on about?” He protested breathily, blinking back the dizziness which had suddenly stolen his mind, “You think I… I’m fine! Honestly, I couldn’t be better.” He tried on a golden grin but found that the mechanisms seemed to have malfunctioned. Still, he held it there manually though it refused to meet his eyes.

Yet the longer he sat there, gazing at the other man in defiance, the more he became aware of the wetness that had begun to dry upon his cheek. He turned his face away, facial muscles working in a confusion of expressions as he discreetly wiped the evidence of his sadness from his face. He stewed a while, staring blankly at the dampness which glittered faintly upon his fingers like betrayal. He must have bitten his tongue from the fright when the man first appeared, he found himself thinking vaguely as he sat, for accompanying the taste of salty tears was also a heavy coppery overtone which welled warmly upon his palette. He swallowed it down with a grimace.

‘Myvillion,’ He thought with ambiguous recognition, suddenly and without explanation, as their quiet stretched on, ‘That’s his name’.

“Why do you even care?” He muttered finally, turning his back to the man to gaze out towards the masses of people, “Or are you just pretending? It seems like that’s all anything is nowadays. Pretend… false joy, false love, false sympathy… hell, even the tans are fake these days, not to mention women’s breas-“

A familiar giggle from across the den reached his ears, and he broke off suddenly with a tense expression and a searching gaze. It didn’t take long to spot Finnr, who was accompanied by Cullen and a bundle of bedsheets as they made their way directly towards him.

“Shit!” He hissed, scrambling to his feet. Had they seen him? Or worse- had Ignatius said something? The panic returned and without warning he had ditched Myvillion in a blunder of curses as he disappeared back into the crowd, slipping out of sight just as Finnr passed by with Nantale and Cullen in tow.

Ramsay smirked lightly at Roose's comments, though he did not reply. He had heard of Charaphenelia's prowess with a sword, and she certainly looked the part with, especially as she was dressed now. However, one must never judge a book by its cover or a sword by the way it looks. To truly know its capabilities, one must put it to the test. Ramsay hoped that he might see something of that in the coming hunt, and talking of the Stark girl- there she was. She had come from the direction of the kennels, and anyone could guess that that was precisely where she had spent her time.

Ramsay's brow knit into a light frown at Roose's final few words. Children. Yes, it was true, he would need to breed a whelp or two from her soon enough. He did not doubt she would be capable of the task- wide hips and all that- and it was practically a necessity if he were ever to get a firm hold over the North, but although having children was in his best interests, children weren't an interest of his in general. They were easy enough to cultivate, but all the damn things ever did was get under one's feet. Yet he knew better to complain, and thought his answer through in a short silence as he watched Chara tread the crisp snow.

"Why wait?" He murmured softly to Roose as Charaphenelia continued towards them, giving a careless shrug, "Perhaps any who still oppose our rule would be less keen to wage any assault knowing that their dear wolf is with child." It wasn't as if he would need to wait for her to fall in love with him before they could conceive- that could be done at any time.

But now Chara had reached the two figures, and quiet talk died away as she came to meet them.

"I trust you made your farewells?" Ramsay sweetly as she came to a stop. He knew perfectly well that she had not truly visited Little Finger, but there was no need to mention such, "I'm sure Peter will forgive me for not seeing him off. I shall allow my father to do the honours, I think, for the horses become impatient and we must be off before the snow returns." He glanced meaningfully at the bloated sky as though to solidify his point, then bid Roose a quiet farewell before offering Charaphenelia his arm and leading her casually to their mounts.

He did not spare his father another look before they rounded the corner where the two spirited beasts were snorting restlessly in the chill morning air. There he offered Charaphenelia a hand onto her mare- a chivalrous gesture unlike many he had given before- before stepping up easily onto his own hot-headed stallion. His weapons were handed up to him- a bow and a quiver of arrows, though he rarely used them, and various knives- and with a gesture to Charaphenelia, some were offered to her also. A short way across the yard, the echoing of baying hounds suggested that the hounds were being brought forth for the hunt. Nudging Blood into a gentle walk towards the gates, he glanced over to Charaphenelia.

"I fear we got off on the wrong foot, my lady," He commented apologetically, rolling rhythmically with the gentle sway of his stallion's steps through the snow, breath fogging the crisp northern air, "Sometimes, I admit, I can be... obnoxious. I apologise for any slights I may have shown toward you. I only hope that we can overcome our differences, and that in time you will see through that to the man that lies beneath. After all, if we are to be husband and wife, we had best learn to set aside our differences."

He was not sure what the Stark reacted best to yet in a man, but he figured the best way to start would be gallantry. That kind of attitude had never sat comfortably with him, as he had always seen it as silly and more deceitful than any blatant lie, but he was good at lying and so it fitted him rather well when he tried it on. The words slipped off his tongue almost naturally, and seemed sincere though every syllable was a lie.

Corliss 'Devil's Grin' McClintock

Corliss watched Nox with a tense expression which he fought to keep under control. He was good at appearing indifferent. He was good at making it seem like he didn't care, that things didn't effect him the way they truly did. It was a cold way of living, uncomfortable, but it was easier than suffering the consequences of revealing too much. But then Nox dropped his nimble hands from his face and unfalteringly met Corliss' gaze, and the accusation in the other's eyes was almost too much to bear. In those few moments, Corliss wanted nothing more than to take it back- his heart screamed for it, every fibre of his being ached to bundle up the words from his mouth and lock them away where they would do no more harm. 'This is lunacy!' they cried, strangling the breath from his throat, 'This is idiotic! Unfair! Cruel! This is the act of a coward!'

Yet there was another part of him, a small but incredibly potent growth that had lingered quietly for years, nestled beneath his heart and causing harm without his conscious notice, that whispered, 'but it's better than being hurt again'. Corliss McClintock had always been an unfaithful consort; any and all romantic relationships of his could only be termed as a one-night fling. But even he, as flighty as he was, had experienced love in the beginning. Unfortunately, the feeling had not been evenly reciprocated, and when you're like Corliss, so unused to putting his all into a relationship, the lack of anything meaningful in return can completely unhinge you. And now he was doing the same thing to Nox. Maybe it was out of spite. Most probably it was an act based on his own selfishness, to keep himself from harm's way, because he knew what he was feeling towards Nox and he knew it could never end well for himself. But perhaps it was because he knew what it was like to be let down so badly, and that hurting Nox now would be a hell of a lot better than letting him down later on in their timeline, as he knew he inevitably would. He had done it too many times before. It was only a matter of when.

And then Nox had torn his eyes away, and Corliss was left feeling emptier than he had imagined. It felt different this time... or maybe he just felt nothing at all? It was so hard to tell, nowadays. It used to be that he felt everything- every burst of joy, every surge of rage, every high, every low, and every emotion in between; it used to be that he despised that. His ability to feel so strongly, because all it had ever caused him in the long run was pain. But recently, up until the arrival of Nox at least, he had been lucky to feel a damn thing. It ate him up inside. Made him cold, distant. Maybe that's why he didn't try to reach out to stop Nox as he stepped slowly over him and disappeared out the door. Or maybe... maybe it was because Nox made him feel again and, despite everything, he feared whether he truly wanted that. Maybe he was a coward after all.

The night was crisp and clear as he stepped out onto the moonlit deck. He wasn't precisely sure how he had arrived there, just that there he was. The quietly ragged breaths would have brought Corliss to Nox's hiding place, even had he not been aware of where it was he would have likely hid, and he hovered there only briefly. He wasn't sure how the man would react to his arrival- he wasn't even sure what had brought him there in the first place, as he knew he would be unwelcome and he had nothing more to say- but still he approached on the back of some basal instinct. Despite the darkness, Corliss could see the faint trickles of tears glittering upon Nox's moon-blanched cheeks under the light of the stars, the damp puddle quivering in his cupped palms. Corliss knelt down, reached out to angle Nox's glistening face towards his own, and he kissed him.

It was not a crude kiss; his rum-hinted lips found Nox's with experience, moulding to the other's unique landscape rather than trying to shape them anew. It held none of the cruelty which so often marred his mouth and cut across his face like an open wound. Instead it was soft, surprisingly so, and held the tenderness of an experiment but the compassion of sincerity. He held it there for a second, two, five, the moment lost in time. Now the salt of Nox's tears stained his own lips as he drew himself away, fingers which had cupped the ravenette's chin now slipping down to rest loosely upon his lap.

"I'm sorry." Whether it was for the kiss or his earlier actions or both, he did not specify. He just looked sad, and tired. So very tired.

That caught the man unprepared, and he stood in strained silence for near-enough a minute before finding a suitable response.

"Well... no, but... that's my whiskey 'e tried to steal! I paid good money for that, I did! An' these 'ere folks do too!"

"Th-the w-w-word to n-note here is 't-t-tried'," Jack pointed out, a thin film of sweat glistening upon his pallid cheek as he turned to Garrett with a twitchy grey-lipped smile, "I-I don't 'ave his whi-whiskey. Chased me a-a-away b-before I could sna-snatch it, I s-swear. 'Ave a look y-y-yours-self!" The sickly slim rapscallion spread his arms wide, declaring himself fit for inspection... until his eyes fell upon the heavy sack in his own hand, and he quickly tossed it over his shoulder where it fell behind the bar with a clatter and a resounding smash. His lips peeled back in a strained grin.

"See?" He insisted, as the owner of the whiskey wailed in anguish as a large puddle of booze began to seep across the floor, "N-N-nothin' to hide!"

ooc: When should we time-skip? Because I don't think there's much more interaction to be done here that isn't filler, but I don't mind that if you want to continue with it for a bit longer.

___________________||Finnr Larsen||__________________

“Yeh better be- I was half way through a game o’ poker when yehr fucken’ dog dragged me aw-“

“It was our pleasure, heehee!” Finnr interrupted Cullen’s complaints with a venomous glance, to which Cullen replied with a grimace and a mutter of, “Yeh owe me a game, giggles, so yeh’d better have somet’ing to lose by the time yeh get back”. He then rubbed his thumb and forefingers together with a look of expectation before clambering his way back to the port to see what he could salvage of his previous activity.

Finnr watched the man leave with a scowl- he had been expecting Cullen to remain at least a little longer, because now he was stuck babysitting the captain alone again- but he concealed his mild disappointment with a grin and sat up from where he had been laying in the sand. Fine yellow grains scattered from his unkempt hair as he shook his head like a shaggy dog and thumped some sand out of his ear and, after giving his clothing a brief ruffle to dislodge half the beach from beneath his shirt, he scooted back a short distance on his arse until reaching a kelp-covered rock and reclined against it with his arms crossed behind his head. From there he made a show of getting himself comfortable before kicking his long legs out and bathing his pallid skin in the sun. After only a minute or two of relaxation, however, the lanky male had begun fidgeting restlessly and eventually changed positions, rolling forward onto his arse and drawing his knees against his chest as he craned his neck to peer around at his surroundings.

“So, what’s all this, then?” He questioned twitchily, waving a hand limply at the turtle’s head and everything residing beneath it, “What’s so special about it? All I see are rocks and sand, but everything holds a tale- especially something as old as the earth…” He grasped a handful of sand as he spoke, lifting it up before his own face and watching Nantale through the golden grains as they hissed through his bony fingers, snatched away by the breeze, “I would ask them myself, but I’ve never been good at talking to rocks. I’m more of a tree person, heehee! They’re much more talkative. Trees remember so much more than people realise, and rocks… rocks are stuck in the past. They rarely give you straight answers and hide far more than they reveal. Petty things, rocks.”

His strange tangent trailed off as the last of the sand escaped his fingers, and he opened his palm to blow the last few particles off his clammy skin before snickering quietly and shifting position once again, this time sprawling forth onto his stomach with his legs kicked into the air and his head in his hands. The hot sand burned through the thin tunic he wore and singed his chest, but it didn't seem to bother him much.

***

Everything was so loud; not only the voices of the tens of chattering people who hindered his every step, per say, but his own voices. The ones inside his head, the ones screaming his guilt and fear and insecurities, the ones which had judged him for much of his life and would for many years to come, only increasing in intensity, voices that could only be drowned by wine or women or reckless decisions.

At first, as a mere boy, it had been his horses that did the trick. Corliss would feed them and groom them and ride his dear pony through the turnip fields so that all was forgotten until his return. Sometimes his maids would read him stories of gallant princes, and he would tumble happily into that dream. Later, as still he grew and his troubles along with, he became increasingly deceitful. His sisters would dare him to do things which would get him into trouble, and so he had adapted to their cruel games by becoming incredibly adept at getting out of it. It had made him feel good to succeed where his siblings had instigated his failure, it felt good to get one over on them, and most of all it felt good because it distracted him from what was keeping him from feeling good in the first place. Soon enough he became so proficient that he even began deceiving himself, and that worked even better.

Then his family's downfall came, and soon enough lying had turned to thievery. A necessity, he had always told himself. A distraction, in truth. A way to coerce his emotions into a form directed towards something other than himself. Then someone. He had always been a handsome boy, and it turns out the man he became wasn't too shabby either. It therefore wasn't difficult to attract attention, as unwelcome as it had been at first. Soon he had come to crave the attention, however- the warmth and security of being held in a woman’s arms, loved, adored, wanted- and despite at first being timid and unwilling, soon enough he came to accept it as how things were and then it, too, became a distraction and a need rather than a chore. Naturally, that life of sinful luxury came coupled with booze, and it turns out that alcohol offers just as juicy a distraction as all the rest.

Somewhere along that timeline, however, the piracy happened, and it ate at him all the more. It had tried to shape the soft young boy that had been into something unnatural, and every day it had worn away on his soul just as much as every other shitty event in his life beforehand, and every day his distractions had pulled him in, deeper and deeper.

That's what he needed now. A distraction. His eyes, one blind as it was, roamed the room, keen for something he could work with. The wine in the Pyre’s stores tasted like piss in comparison to his usual choice of vintage, but right then he didn't precisely care and would have dined on partly fermented apples if it would give him at least some sense of calm. Then again, women were the more prolific of his options, every curious face a new possibility. He scoured clean whatever evidence was left of his previous panic, and with an objective in mind he was feeling calmer already as he steered toward a group of figures by a fire. Calm, happy, confident, perfect- that’s what he persuaded himself he was, and all other feelings were herded into their separate cells.

The sudden pull about his neck like a drawn noose had him choking on his own tongue, and he reeled backwards with a few staggering steps before stumbling into a familiar chest. His eyes darted up to meet Myvillion’s, adam’s apple working in his throat as he fought to regain the ability to breathe, and with a small groan of defeat he slumped down to the ground against the other man’s legs. He was still grovelling in his own self-pity as Myv spoke, barely hearing a word the latter said as he was dragged lamely through the crowds. It was only when Myv’s arm was thrust in his face, demanding his attention, that he became quiet.

At first he just stared, a confusing mixture of puzzlement, realisation, pity and horror… and then there was the guilt again. That goddamn guilt that he just couldn’t shake! But why should he feel guilty this time? He didn’t make the buffoon harm himself, it wasn’t his fault… but then maybe the reason he felt guilty was because, as always, he had been thinking about his own sorry state rather than anyone else’s. Worrying about his own problems and forgetting that other people had them too. He exhaled a long breath and pulled himself free from Myv’s grasp.

“If this is supposed to make me feel better, you’re doing a bloody awful job of it,” He muttered, dusting himself off and straightening up with a mildly doleful expression, “What is this- a game? ‘You show me your scars, I’ll show you mine’? You know there’s more direct ways of getting a man out of his clothes…”

He paused, glancing with a sullen smirk over to Myv though he averted his gaze again quickly enough with the excuse of re-buttoning his jerkin, and mumbled quietly, “I suppose you expect me to ask, ‘so what is your experience with ‘stuff like this’’, so that we might have a tender heart-to-heart and open up about all of our deep insecurities like best pals? You’re not very good at this, are you? I don’t want to talk. I thought I had made that painfully clear, but it seems that you’re either too kind for your own good or just incredibly dull.”

Corliss- finished preening himself- turned his back to walk away, but some hidden force held him there and he cast a darker look over his shoulder, though it was not entirely unkind. Just irritated and tired, but with the gentler quality that comes with something like pity.

“I feel sorry for you, is that what you want to hear?” He queried in weary exasperation, “I’m sorry your like is so terrible that harming yourself is the conclusion you’ve come to. Despite all you claim, however, we are not alike. We are not kindred spirits. As shit as my life is, I don’t want to end it- if I had I would have done it at least ten bloody years ago. I’ve done fine on my own so far, and I will continue to do so until I’ve got wrinkles on my wrinkles and a puckered arse for a face. I am not in need of saving, and I cannot help you save yourself. I don’t know what more you want from me. So…” He heaved in a breath, then threw his hands in the air in frustration and let them drop back to his sides, “If you don’t mind, I have some wine to pilfer and women to fuck. Please don’t bother me again. If you want someone to share tragedies with, go find Ignatius Lynch. I’m sure you’d both get along swell.”

With that he turned away for good, the apology on his face hidden by his turned back, and walked off. That was another thing he had become good at: pushing people away.

ooc: I wasn't sure where to start...

___________________||Finnr Larsen||__________________

It was a fine summer afternoon upon the ocean. The sky was clear, a solitary frigatebird glided overhead searching for its next meal, and a warm wind filled the sails of the two ships which were currently locked in heated combat beneath, turning the once-peaceful afternoon into one of raucous disorder confined far out upon the blue wastes of the Alistinian Sea. The two vessels in question consisted of a heavily laden merchant vessel (a large Carrack, loaded to the brim with luxuries from the Southern Isles intended for sale in Kalikan, deck provisioned with a few canons but otherwise unarmed save for the large numbers of her crew) and the pirate ship which harassed her. The latter was a fair-sized Galleon of formidable arms and crew, styled ‘Pride of the Return’ and captained by a man embellished in name and reputation over the past year: Nantale Bou-Westley, captain of the notorious Pyres of Alistan. The renown of this pirate crew had mushroomed over the past year to spectacular heights, respected for their daring but feared for it just as much, so much so that even a glimpse of the Pride’s swollen sails upon the horizon was enough to empty a merchant crew’s bladders. Unfortunately for the crew of this particular merchant vessel, the Pride was very much closer than merely the horizon.

“Finn!” A voice shouted hoarsely above the clangour of steel and harsh yells by a dashing blonde rogue, who was currently battling hypoxia as his opponent had him pinned weaponless against the main mast and did his best to strangle the breath from his throat, “Be a dear and pass me a dagger, would you?”

The man to whom he enquired was presently preoccupied gutting two rivals at once with his twin runic axes. One already had a blade buried firmly in his skull and was sagging heavily, but the lanky male whom the axe belonged to refused to let go of the weapon as he battled the next opponent with his free hand.

“Give me a second, I’m busy.” Finn hissed as he disarmed his second opponent and spilled glistening red entrails over the slick wooden deck with a savage slash of his axe. Meanwhile, Corliss was doing his best to snatch some burning breaths between the chokehold his attacker had on him. He wasn’t having much success.

“By all means, Finn, take your time!” The blonde wheezed, face turning an alarming shade of purple as he made a last-ditch attempt to unman his assailant by kicking him in the balls- a low blow, but necessary if Corliss wanted to save his own, “It’s not as if I’m in a hurry!”

Finally, finished with the distraction, Finn yanked the axehead loose from his first victim with a squelching crunch and spray of liquid red and, straightening up, he swiped his sleeve over his splattered face to glance about for any weapons to spare. Most were buried in peoples’ bodies, but he snatched the closest to hand and tossed it blithely through the air and into his friend’s fervent grasp. As soon as it met his fingers Corliss fumbled blindly at the dagger’s slippery hilt for a few precious heartbeats before it instinctively found its way to his attacker’s exposed face with a sightless slash. The blade met its mark, and Corliss felt the clenched fingers loosen from about his throat as a cry of agony shrilled in his ear. Immediately he took advantage of the opportunity and tore free of their grasp, swivelling around to plunge the blade deep into their bowels, once, twice, thrice, again and again until the body wilted in his grip but then again for good measure. After tipping the body over the rails, where it subsequently disappeared beneath the waves with a wet red splash, Corliss spent a good minute or two sucking enough oxygen into his lungs so that he wouldn’t be toppling in after them.

“…What the hell is this?” Corliss croaked after much laboured breathing, waving the tiny dagger which Finn had tossed him in the latter’s face as Finn returned with an elevated body count, “I asked for a dagger, not some poor sods severed pinky!”

“You get what you’re given- quit complaining!” Finnr scoffed, a jittery giggle pestering his words and a wild light in his eyes as he kicked Corliss’ lost rapier at his feet before returning to the fight. However, something had caught Corliss’ eye as Finnr made to depart, and before Finn could do so he was caught by the arm and yanked back to the smaller blonde’s side.

“The hell do you want now-?” Finnr cursed, snatching his arm back out of Corliss’ grasp with an accusatory look at the other, but the rest of his sentence was cut short by Corliss’ next few words.

"Ah, Finn?" Corliss murmured hoarsely, temporarily forgetting the tightness in his raw and bruised throat as he continued slowly, "I don't suppose you see that great hulking ship sailing straight towards us too, do you?"

Finnr stared at Corliss blankly for several seconds before curiosity overcame him and his eyes gradually drifted to follow Corliss’ tense gaze. His expression changed immediately. "...Fuck!"

"I feared as much." Corliss sighed.

***

"How many guns?"

The Bloody Widow had sailed without rest for the past two days and nights consecutively, rotating crew and maintaining the ship at a full eight knots throughout, determined not to lose the strongest lead they had acquired of their endgame in half a year. As Moray peered out over the choppy white-capped waves towards the two vessels locked in combat close at hand, he knew that the time they had been waiting so long for was finally at hand.

Their success this time around had all been a big bit of luck, really. For almost a year they had been tiring their resources and leads, exhausting every possible clue as to the Pyres’ whereabouts, but for some unexplainable reason none of the people put to the question would let slip even the slightest indication. At first Moray had wondered whether Lou was playing with him, feeding him distractions and false leads on purpose. Yet only a week ago one of her suggestions had finally born fruit. It had only been a matter of time before someone with real knowledge would finally break under his blade, and this time they did so tremendously. They spoke of a rumoured island far off Mornum’s coast, of regular sailing routes which the Pyres ships had been sighted on, and most promisingly they wailed about an upcoming hunt of which he had overheard. One which the Widow was now steadily intercepting.

Even better, they had found the Pride while the so-called ‘Pyres of Alistan’ were already preoccupied in their piracy. The fact that the Pyres were so focused on the fight at hand had meant that the Widow had been able to approach virtually unnoticed so that they were now in hot pursuit. To Moray’s right, Emma-Louise Lacey pinned the battling ships within the lens of her spyglass.

"Looks to be a thirty six-gunner, ser." She murmured, limp brown hair tossed ragged by the wind which whipped it about her face like thin leather lashes. Her lips, dry and cracked in the arid salt air, were taught and expressionless as she squinted through the glass.

"Impressive, for children and gutter-spawned novices,” Moray commented idly, hand resting loosely upon the black wooden bowsprit which projected from the prow like a dagger, “And our own?"

"Forty, all in all, ser." Lou lowered the silver instrument and stuffed it back into her belt, still frowning sullenly at the two ships which they were steadily approaching. Her opinion of her ‘captain’ had not improved over the year which she had spent with him; in fact, it had only served to dampen it, every action he carried out seeming to hammer her estimation of him deeper into the mud. He was a vile, wretched, insufferable piece of scum- this she had decided long ago and did not imagine would ever change in her mind’s eye- yet still she had followed him all this way to see his vision through. Not that she had been offered much of a choice in the matter.

Moray nodded, peering thoughtfully at the other two ships, watery brown eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the summer sun. They were close now. Almost within range. After a few more minutes of careful consideration, he turned away and stalked across the forecastle to the main deck where a few of the gunners were stationed about the swing guns. Lou followed, an acrimonious clench in her jaw.

"Aim for her sails and rigging. We cannot risk musket or canon fire to the main body of the ship just yet lest we accidentally maim our poor princess," Moray’s commands were directed to the master gunner- though there was a lack of urgency in his voice which maintained only his usual monotonous tones- but the final word spoken contained an unpleasant sneer as he cast a sidelong look at Isma not so far away before continuing, "but we can at least prevent her from flight. Without her sails the ship will be going nowhere. Ready the canons to fire the starboard broadside, on my signal." Shouts went up, spreading his instruction throughout the ship and below to those on the main gun deck like a plague, and once finally within range Moray bellowed the order.

"Fire all cannons, one round!"

Lula had already disappeared below deck and assumed command of four of the Widow's canons on the main gun deck. Upon the command, she raised her voice in answer. "Swab!” She barked, “Powder! Wadding! Shot! Run out the guns!"

As his commands were carried out, Moray strolled across the faded black deck until he was stood beside Isma where he lingered, waiting, left hand clasped about his belt as he gazed out over the water. A succession of explosive shots rang out across the ship, the force of each single cannon’s firing sending a throaty vibrating rumbling throughout the Widow which launched tremors up one’s legs and shook the ship to the core. Hazy clouds of grey smoke hovered in the air for a moment, and after some tense heartbeats the cannonballs finally made their marks, cutting through the Pyre’s sails and shattering masts like twigs.

"You know, this would all go so much more smoothly if harming the Lady Nantale was not a problem," The greasy-faced ‘knight’ remarked, his tone bland, bored, but slightly bitter, "I don't know what your father plans to do with the whelp when he has her back, but she can only cause more problems for him in times to come. Is it really in his best interest to keep her breathing? A little accident could hardly be a bad thing. Or do you really think me so gullible that I would believe that your family simply love her and want her home? After all the trouble she has put you all through?" He scoffed quietly, eyes remaining locked upon the two ships ahead throughout. He had attempted to change Isma's stubborn mind for the entire trip to no avail, but it was never to late to try his luck.

___________________||Finnr Larsen||__________________

The distant blast of cannons turned every thought into disarray except one single notion.

“Take cover!” Finnr heard Corliss yell above the clangour, echoing his own thoughts with dire clarity just as the first cannonball met its mark. A whistling tear from above indicated that one of the sails had been hit, but that was only the beginning. The majority of cannon fire fell short or too long, splashing harmlessly into the waves with explosions of brine, but those that hit their target did all the damage that was required to both ships. That first cannonball was followed instantaneously by at least fifteen more; the next plummeted straight through the Pride’s mainsail, slicing through the swollen fabric just as another did the same, and another, causing the once-billowing sail to droop limply against its mast in a wreckage of tatters. The same sorry tale was occurring elsewhere; the main top gallant was swiped clean off by a single ball, the fore topsail perforated with open wounds, and the sprit sail was hanging on by little more than a splinter.

And then the main mast was hit on the merchant vessel. Finnr had been crouched low to the deck, seeking cover behind the barrels on the starboard side when a resounding crack rendered the air. Craning his neck, his wild eyes flew wide as he witnessed the utter decimation of the upper three quarters of the main mast. Shards of wood as long as a man’s arm tumbled through the air in an explosion of splinters as the cannonball carried on straight through the mast’s middle, and an agonised groan vibrated the boards beneath his feet as the huge pillar trembled, faltering uncertainly for a heartbeat before a ginormous fault split down its centre with a resounding crack!

“Fuck!” Finnr gaped, cursing as he threw himself beneath the wooden steps leading to the poop deck and shielded himself from the deadly rain as screams filled his ears. A moment later, the entire ship gave a tremendous shudder as the majority of the main mast gave out and began its lumbering descent into the sea, tangling in the shrouds and almost bringing the foremast down with it as bodies were crushed or tossed shrieking into the ocean.

Finnr’s body was locked in a state of shock for what felt like hours but could only have been a minute, but the lull in the barrage brought him back to his senses and he shot to his feet. Dammit! He needed to find Nantale! This was supposed to have been an easy hunt- a quick capture, easy loot- but if the merchant vessel’s surprising bout of valiance hadn’t been enough of a setback (one which suggested that perhaps there was something far more valuable on that ship than they had first assumed), they now had what appeared to be another hunter on their tail: and a familiar one at that.

In all his time as a pirate, it was hardly a surprise that he had come across the Bloody Widow before; few seamen hadn’t. Her captain might change regularly, but the pirates who sailed her had just as bloody a reputation as the ship itself, which was fully gunned and as capable of taking a blow as she was dealing them. Twice the Banes had battled her over prey in Finn’s time among their ranks, and both times his crew had barely come away with their lives. He therefore had no reason to presume that this attack would be any different, though of course he did not yet know that the legendary ship had been taken over by a crew of royal parasites. Specifically, ones which were not after the Pyres’ loot as Finnr has supposed, but which were after something much more valuable.

Finnr took the absence of cannon fire to dart across the deck, restless eyes roving over every square foot in search of the captain. He needed to know what he was planning in retaliation so that he could prepare, but half the reason he was searching so anxiously was that he feared what had become of his friend. The last he had seen of him, Nantale had been directly beneath the main mast, and the longer he searched the more poignant his fears became until finally, with a wave of relief, he spied the small male speaking to Dar’eme in urgent tones. He was approaching with swift steps as Dar’eme passed him by in the other direction, but he made no pause to wonder what she was doing. He was barely even seven steps away from Nantale before he began speaking, lunging over bloody debris and intercepting Nantale on his return to the Pride.

“They’re taking out our sails!” He panted as he traversed the narrow plank across to the Pride’s deck, ignoring the gaping chasm of bubbling brine below as he skipped quickly across with agitated steps, “Like this, we’ll never outrun them. They’ll be on us before we even get underway! Of all ships, we had to get targeted by the fucking Widow…” He glanced jerkily towards the vessel in question, which had suspiciously ceased fire. They had successfully taken out the sails, but for some reason they were opting to try to take them without issuing any damage to the ship’s main body, which was simply strange… Finnr halted in his steps and grabbed Nantale’s arm to pull him to a halt.

“Captain, I don’t think that’s the Widow,” He spoke suddenly, staring at the looming black stain on the sea as a stuttery giggle escaped his throat, “I mean, it’s the Widow alright, but I do not think that’s her crew… In all my experiences with them, the Widow’s crew have never been afraid to do damage to a ship. Their aim is never usually to seize the ship itself, but to take only what is on it and sink its wreckage after- because of that, they never just take out the sails, they annihilate the entire ship and everyone on it before they need to even set foot on its deck. So why, I ask you, is this time any different?” His eyes had become narrowed in deep thought as he squinted out over the waves at the Widow’s approach. Suddenly something seemed to click in his mind, and he stared at Nantale with urgency and a hiss on his tongue.

“Where’s your spyglass? Who is captaining that ship? Because I promise you, it won’t be who we think it is, and if that’s the case… we might be in a hell of a lot more trouble than I imagined.”

***

The Widow was approaching the Pride head on, her patchwork prow slicing through the waves in earnest as her crew took the opportunity of the Pyres’ confusion to steer her in close. At the prow the figurehead greeted her prey, shaped in the elegant form of a naked woman wreathed in kelp as with one hand she holds a noose and with the other beckons alluringly with an outstretched hand. The Widow had been through battles beyond count, every inch of her stained black hull a motley of new and old planks like scars telling of her experience, but this one seemed to promise of a victory which would be achieved without so much as a scratch. Or so Moray deigned to hope.

The man rested his free hand on the rigging as Isma spoke, steadying himself with it against the gentle lull of the rocking ship beneath his feet. He was not surprised by her words or at all disappointed, for he had expected as much and knew the facts she spoke already- it was only common sense. He was also aware of the knowledge which Isma did not speak, or feared to. He had worked as a pawn under the Lord of Mornum’s hand for over a decade, nearly two, and so he knew perfectly well the workings of that man’s mind, at least to a fairly high degree. It was just unfortunate that, this time, his and his master’s agendas were somewhat opposing. Had Isma agreed then he could have done as he wished with Nantale and it would be the crippled sister who got the brunt of the blame, for he would only be following her orders. As it was, however, he knew her to be correct. Fortunately, there is more than one way around a problem, and he intended to exhaust every aspect in order to get what he wished.

Isma’s next words served only to drill this desire deeper into his heart, stirring up bitter memories which had poisoned his mind for years. For a moment all the sounds of sea and destruction were stripped away, and he was transported back in time through the fog of memory to the age of fourteen. It was evening, and he had been in the courtyard relaxing with a heavy tome after a long day of gruelling drills under the dutiful instruction of Ser Anser, Master of Arms on the Isle of Allin. His limbs were stiff and sore, bruised by a hundred heavy hits by blunted sword, but it was all for a worthy cause; he was to become a knight, as his parents wanted, and he was getting good at it. Unfortunately, some deemed him to be becoming too good. He had never had many friends- he had always been a quiet child, and cold- and to be seen to be bettering the other boys at something… well, that could not stand. Jealousy is a cruel thing, and Moray had suffered its effects.

That day the other boys had found him. They challenged him to some extra training, but this time with real swords and no armour. Moray had sensibly denied, claiming that they would get into trouble if they were found fighting without the supervision of Ser Anser, especially if using real weapons. Moray had a single weakness back then, however, and that was his pride. They called him a coward, taunted him for a weakling, sneering that he was making excuses because he was too scared that he would lose. That wounded his pride, and out of arrogance he duly accepted their challenge.

Children can be so cruel. The fight had started as single combat, but as soon as he looked like he might be winning the other boys joined in. They had beat him until he was battered and bleeding, then continued until the instigator got ahead of himself and stabbed him straight through the arm. They left him there screaming, pinned to a wooden cart as they scattered out of sight. He was found by the kennel master an hour later, the sword torn out of his arm as he slumped upon the cobbles, faint from blood loss.

The blow had completely shattered the bone directly below the elbow and severed the tendons. There was no coming back from that- it had to be amputated. When asked what had happened, he refused to say a word. After all, it was his word against many, and he knew that there would be very little chastisement for them, not enough to prevent them from punishing him for telling the truth. For that, he had almost lost his chance at a knighthood.

But he had remained strong. Determined. He recovered quickly, and nothing would stop him from achieving his goal. Three months later, one of the boys was found dead in the woods, torn apart by wolves. Another died from supposedly choking on his dinner. A third slipped off the crags on the north side of the island and fell to his death. The fourth drowned. The fifth died of a mysterious illness. The sixth simply disappeared. Of all the squires, only Moray remained to receive his knighthood at the end of it all.

He had achieved so much since then. He had ascended quickly in Westley’s ranks, deemed useful because of his steel and savagery, and he never once let anyone treat him the way those boys had ever again… until that one day when Nantale fucking Westley made her escape. It should have been so easy to stop her, but by the end of it he was short the rest of his arm and suffered another case of wounded pride. It had all seemed too familiar, and it made him sick.

Another round of cannon fire split the air, and Moray blinked away his past to perceive the present. His lips twitched distastefully, and he looked down at Isma with a morbidly brooding expression.

“We may despise one another, to some extent,” Moray mused blandly in reply, “But it seems we have this one thing in common. I suppose we at least have that to thank dear Nantale for.” And then, with a final glance down at Isma’s broken form, he turned away and ascended to the helm to issue some final commands.

ooc: Sorry this took so long, I had written Lou's section a while ago and then I got a block, but then I was gonna do it Monday but I ran out of time and yesterday I wasn't feeling it again.

___________________||Finnr Larsen||__________________

Finnr rolled his eyes with a twitchy smirk at Nantale’s sally, but now was not the time for retaliation unless it happened to be directed at the boat bearing down on them by the second. Besides, any witticisms at that point would likely have been lost on Nantale at any rate, seeming suddenly distant and distracted, caught by an invisible hook which appeared to be slowly reeling him in to some darker place to which Finnr was forbidden to follow.

“Yes, well,” Finnr interrupted with a jittery giggle, brows pinching into a wary frown as he followed Nantale’s dissociative gaze to the growing stain upon the sea, glancing apprehensively between the two as though dying to crawl into the other’s mind and decipher his thoughts, “perhaps you should be worrying about what’s on this ship rather than the Pride herself, hm? Boats can be rebuilt, hehee, dismembered bodies can’t!

“You’re right about one thing, though,” He muttered, peering edgily from side to side as they returned to the Pride’s familiar deck, long fingers itching at the axes on either hip though they were of no advantage in this kind of problem, “We’re stuck here, and although I don’t think they plan on shooting us to smithereens with their cannons- hahehee- we are already weakened from our attack on the merchant ship and another attack would be…” Another small spasm of laughter caught in his throat as he paused a moment, grimacing his next word as he sucked in a breath, “unfortunate. For us. And by that, I mean we won’t stand a bloody chance, even if we weren’t likely outnumbered… However, luckily for us there’s very little that a bit of sweat and ingenuity can’t fix-”

Finnr had been so consumed in the search for some miraculous idea that he had allowed his concern for Nantale’s current state to wander, but in the sudden grasping of his arm Finn glanced down at his friend with words frozen on his tongue to realise that the latter’s steady state had deteriorated rapidly. He tried to catch Nantale’s eye, but the latter was entirely focused on something else, something which made his jaw tremble, his chest heave, and his fingers tighten about Finnr’s arm like a vice. Something about their situation terrified Nantale, something more than a bit of pre-battle nerves, something to do with who was on that ship and their true intentions.

“You know more than you’re saying about who is on that ship, don’t you?” Finnr felt Nantale’s grip loosen as he made to draw his arms around himself and move away, but Finnr snagged his shoulder and whirled him back around to face him, both ink-stained hands pinning the younger firmly in place as he stooped down to stare him firmly in the eyes, his own flickering wildly between the two of bluish-grey, “Nantale, tell me! What the fuck do you know? Who is on that ship? What do they want? I can’t help you if you don’t fill me in on what we’re walking into, so spit it out! Who is behind this attack, and if they don’t want everyone then who do they want?”

But he knew the answer before the words were even out of his mouth. He had known since first catching that haunted look in Nantale’s eye as he stared out at the Widow beckoning them from across the sea. This was Tale’s father’s doing- and it was Nantale that he wanted. The captain’s spyglass had been thrust into his hands by fumbling fingers, but Finnr no longer needed it. All he needed to know was that Nantale’s father was behind it all, and that meant getting the captain the hell out of there. He still did not know Nantale’s entire story. He did not know the full extent of how bad things had truly been. He did understand, however, that Nantale was petrified of the mere thought of his past life at the Manor, and that was the only thing Finn needed to know. They couldn’t risk a battle, not like this, not without the near-certainty of losing. He didn’t particularly care whether his own life was forfeit in a last fight for freedom, but over the past year he had forged too close a friendship with Nantale to let him be taken and put to the torture- even if Westley’s form of ‘torture’ to Nantale was not the stereotypical type most would imagine.

Nantale had pulled away, heading towards the cabin, but he saw the lad’s legs quake momentarily and he caught his by the arm before he could fall to his knees, jerking him to his feet and holding him strictly in place.

“Yes! You certainly fucking do! You’re our captain, you idiot, get your act together! You think your crew chose to follow you for blubbering on the job at the slightest thought of failure?” Finnr hissed, releasing a hand momentarily to lightly bop Nantale over the back of the head, a sharp titter creeping through his words, “Look, I get it. I don’t know exactly what those sadists did to you, but I know it messed you up so that the thought of reliving those days scares you more than I have any right to imagine. But you cannot let your past control you! You cannot let your insecurities and fears fuck up the rest of your life or anyone else’s! Get them under control!

“Because this-“ He leaned back, waving Nantale up and down with a quirked brow and a scoff, “this is just a child, retreating to his corner to cry whenever life throws something difficult his way. The Gods do not put obstacles in our paths to trap us so that we are stuck in one place, reliving the same moment over and over, imprisoned in the past. They do it to challenge us and to make us strong enough to overcome them and to be free. All of this anger and fear- that is your obstacle. That is what is holding you back from moving on and being free. And that is what is going to get us all killed if you don’t focus on the present instead of the past. So I don’t care what you have to do to achieve it, just get your head straight and toughen up because right now is what matters, and the only way you can escape reliving your fears is to get over them or challenge them face to face.

“However,” He released Nantale, his tone becoming suddenly lighter and less strict, a giggle gracing his words as he reeled away and gestured to the steadily approaching ship, “I wouldn’t recommend the ‘face to face’ thing quite yet, since a fight right now would be- heehee- bloody suicidal and only earn you an early grave and a gold star for trying. Still, we need to get out of here, so swallow all that shit you’re whinging over for the moment, eh, and get us out of here? You’re the captain, albeit a small pathetic one brimming with teenage insecurities,” He patted Nantale on the back, grinning in jest, “So do your job! You can do anything that you put your mind to, Nantale, and I have yet to be proven wrong- so stop whining and get us the hell out of here! Surely a few spent sails are nothing when you have two people capable of manipulating water and air at your disposal? Come on! Try using your brain if you have one, heehee!”

***

It had been close to a year since Lou had set out on that fool’s quest. A full year since she had first been captured and dumped in that dire cell to rot like garbage. An entire year she had been beaten, abused, pushed around for a conclusion which lately had seemed as unattainable as reaching the sun. She just wanted it all to end, and if helping Isma and her rabid dog take down the Pyres meant getting out of that mess sooner, then like hell she was going to give it her all. She might not like her company, and she may not agree with what they had set out to do- not that they had given her much of an explanation regarding that in the first place- but she was willing to put all that aside if it meant she could be closer to putting those fuckers behind her for good.

Lou was giving the orders to reload, stalking back and forth along the ranks of cannons with the vision of an end in her eyes, when some muffled calls from above made her cast a curious glance through the nearest gun port to identify the cause of their commotion. Immediately something caught her keen eye and she stooped low, pressing herself to the cool and dinted metal of the cannon which reeked of rust and gunpowder, following its line of sight through the narrow opening with anticipation biting at her breath.

The merchant vessel had torn away from the Pride in a splintering mess, and an unexplained turn in the wind appeared to be propelling her towards the quickly approaching Widow despite her mortally damaged state. For a time, Lou gazed in tense confusion, sensing that something was deeply awry though the cogs of her mind were painfully slow to relay logical information to explain the raw suspicions of her gut. Her tattered fingers clutched tightly at the rim of the cannon on which she rested, staring in trepidation at the approaching boat in search of a cue which would spark realisation in her mind. And suddenly, with a flicker of flame darting across her memories, there it was.

“…Fuck!” Lou jerked away from the gun port with alarm. Several eyes had alighted on her questioningly at her reaction, but with a few swift strides she was already up the steps and stalking across the main deck. Their coordinates seemed to have changed slightly, and the ship was slowly moving to come alongside the other as Lou pushed her way past the bustling bodies. She hadn’t even reached the starboard quarter astern the Widow when she began barking orders; Moray and Isma were nowhere in sight, and the only way they could possibly escape what they were heading into was by getting them away from it. Now.

“Bring her about!” Lou yelled to the crew, trepidation setting ablaze the fevered kindling in her eyes as she trusted what little remained of her original crew to see her commands through, “Bring her hard to port-!”

A firm smack to her jaw sent Lou staggering, and a scarred hand darted to her face as her eyes rolled dizzyingly about the deck momentarily before settling finally upon Moray with astounded bewilderment temporarily stifling their flames.

“I do not know what the fuck you think you’re doing,” Lou was still in a daze as Moray snagged her by the jaw, jerking her closer until she could see every oily pore of his reptilian face, his gloved fingers squeezing the marred flesh of her cheeks so viciously that her jaw almost popped and unbidden tears pricked at the corners of her furious eyes, “but I give the orders on this ship. Never assume that you are anything more than a meagre pawn in this game, do you hear me? Play at insubordination again and your life will be forfeit, not just your dignity.”

His words were slow and calculated, murmured through maggot-like lips, so close that each utterance settled on her tanned cheek like tar. He held her there for a moment longer than necessary, staring her down with his watery brown eyes- challenging her to defy him, to make the wrong move- but when she gave no inclination of retaliation he released her with a violent twist of his wrist. He watched her buckle, waiting, her face temporarily concealed beneath damp locks of limp brown hair as she swiped bloody spittle from her silently snarling lips. Her hands trembled, the ripples of rage traversing her entire body, but after a few deep breaths she straightened up and eyed him through straggles of fringe. Her chest was bloated with spite for the man and it made her breaths seem tight and measured as she tried to control it, but when she finally spoke her words were barely a whisper on the wind.

“Loud an’ clear… captain,” She breathed, the last word a curse on her bruised lips which seemed to send a shiver through the ship’s sails as though awakened by some hellish breeze. A flash of something broached the poker-like mask of Moray’s expression, and the marred leather of his glove creaked as his fist tightened threateningly, but he gave no reply other than a sharp toothed sneer. He did not make to move away, however, instead watching Lou expectantly as though awaiting some explanation, and sure enough she had not quite finished.

“But per’aps you might like to know that the ship we’re approachin’ will likely be set ablaze as soon as we get near. It's a common tactic, I've seen it plenty times before…” Lou answered his expectant gaze callowly, slowly turning away to head back below deck with an impudent shrug, “But o’course, I’m just a pawn, I ain’t got no right to share my opinions, so I guess I better get myself straight with the Gods seein’ as we’ll all be burnin’ to death in the next few minutes then, won’t we ser?”

Moray’s illegible expression suddenly morphed into one of confusion as he mulled over her words, though mere seconds later his eyes flew wide and his head jerked around to stare in alarm at the splintered husk heading their way.

“Shit!” He cursed, shoving men aside as he bowled his way to the helm in a mad dash which had Lou grinning madly as she paused halfway down the ladders and which almost made up for the hell she had been through that entire trip.

Hey, is this PAFP or is this a private for someone? If it's not PAFP I'll delete my post, I was just curious c:

It's cool! I've got a character who would fit into this role perfectly c:<

I'll have his form up asap (I've gotta go for an hour or so, but I'll have it done when I get back!).

Corliss McClintock ~ Womaniser, Egomaniac, and an all-round Asshole with Flair c;

Age: 22

Personality: First thing's first, this isn't a guy to trust with your heart... or your jewels or, well, anything for that matter. Corliss McClintock is essentially a thief in a doublet and fine leather boots with a fancy title to top it all off; if you don't keep your guard up he'll steal your heart, your money, and probably all of the wine in your wine cellar (wine is a weakness of his, especially the red). All dear Corliss is interested in is himself and his pleasures, and if he sees something he likes then there's very little that he won't do to get it.

...Unless it includes anything remotely dangerous, in which case he'll try his luck at something which is less likely to get a dagger in the gut or dirty his expensive new shoes. See, he boasts to be fearless and strong to impress the ladies, but if any one of them actually stopped to watch him fight they would more than likely be treated with the spectacle of watching him running away screaming like a five year old girl. In other words, he's all talk and no action. He has bounds of wit and charisma, but unless it comes to fencing, riding, wooing women or talking himself into a hole, Corliss McClintock is really rather useless and nothing more than a finely dressed twat.

However, give him the chance and he might just surprise you, for underneath all that childish impudence and cocksure charm there lies hidden gallantry and courage... maybe... if you keep digging long enough... eh, you just gotta keep working at it. I'm sure it's there somewhere.

Family: His father Malcin, a high ranking yet undeniably corrupt noble of the neighbouring kingdom, and his two elder sisters Adelia (Ada) and Lulana (Lula); his mother died during childbirth, so he has never met her.

Pets: A stunning palomino stallion named Remise; he doesn't have much luck with any animals other than horses, and believes there is a special place in hell reserved for goats.

ooc: Really sorry for not replying yesterday! My parents decided on a sudden family outing so I was away until midnight XD

(Also, my next reply will be shorter. Sorry this one's such a read, I tend to write a lot on my first post)

Ic: Villaliza... before now Corliss' visits had been restricted mainly to the outer borders of the sun-scorched land due to the small threat which all-out war usually poses to one's life, but from political heresay it was a utopia for thieves and had a reputation for fraudulence, violence, and incredibly fierce women who had no fear of sheathing their dagger in a man's bladder for a lewdly placed hand. If that wasn't uninspiring enough for the lad, who was quite prone to making the latter mistake, what those bastards hadn't warned him was that entering Villaliza was like voluntarily trekking into a country-sized frying pan, where apparently taking a midday stroll in the sun was deadlier than thrusting one's head into a hive of angry killer bees, and infinitely more painful.

"Damn this blasted heat..." Corliss muttered with a small moan, the worst of his third-degree sunburn conveniently hidden by his upright collar and his artfully composed locks of golden hair, though he feared that the agony of every minuscule movement would never be erased from his tender flesh. Despite the painful discomfiture it did to his skin, however, he squirmed disgustedly in his fine garments of deep burgundy and black- now clinging to his perspiring skin like a leech- as he impatiently awaited his admittance to the throne room to see the person whom, he had been assured at least an hour ago, would be ready to admit him shortly.

The morning sun held far more heat than it rightly should, and it blazed through the decorative panels of the narrow window to Corliss' back with such an intensity that he was left wondering whether it weren't some humongous magnifying glass rather than mere window panes which admitted its ferocious presence. He slyly pilfered a piece of cloth from a passing servant's belt and raised his hand to his clammy face, but within minutes of dabbing it away his brow was once more swimming with sweat, and underneath his elaborate doublet and black velvet shirt he surely must have collected an ocean.

He grimaced in distaste and stepped lightly out of the sun's path, the shadows immediately greeting him with captivating coolness as he slumped against the frigid stone wall with a sigh of utter bliss. Why the hell hadn't he done that an hour ago? Yet still, as minutes passed and he suffered in silence with only stern-faced soldiers and hallucinations from prolonged dehydration for company, the heat caught up with him. Before another fifteen minutes had passed, he was once again sweating like a mule- though an exceptionally well-dressed one, I might add.

Had he merely been there for a casual sightseeing visit to discover the local nightlife he might have chosen something loose and simple, but on this particular occasion he was pulling out all the stops. It was only unfortunate that doing so might see him dead of heat stroke before he so much as set eyes upon the reason for his diabolical journey. As a servant approached to politely offer him a refreshing glass of water, it took all his strength not to snatch the entire pitcher and empty it over his own head. Only the muffled sound of footsteps and hissing chain-mail from behind the grand double doors stopped him from doing so, though he did not pass on the opportunity to quickly snag himself a few hasty gulps from the glass before straightening his collar and rearranging a few loose strands of golden hair in anticipation of his admittance. He only hoped that there would be enough distance between himself and the queen that she might overlook the fact that he was on the verge of passing out on her finely-tiled floor.

The great doors cracked open with a shuddering groan before swinging leisurely inwards, and Corliss adjusted the last few pieces of his appearance before adopting a winning smile and sauntering inside with a polite nod of gratitude to the doorman- all for show, really, since in any other case he would be bodily shoving the bloke out of his way. His name and title echoed about the room from some other oaf's mouth as Corliss strode confidently forth, and he had to admit it sounded good. The throne room was long- unnecessarily long, were you to ask Corliss- and also at least double the length of the great hall back at home. Not to mention it was also doubly extravagant in every other aspect, which you might expect from a royal palace but which still inspired some sparks of jealousy in the arrogant male's eyes as he traversed the infinite span to the Queen's throne. The walk seemed to take forever and he was minutely aware of every eye on his back, but if there was one thing which Corliss McClintock knew how to do well it was looking good. A few steps from the foot of the throne, Corliss swept seamlessly to one knee in a gracious bow which spilled his russet cloak across the tiles like wine.

"Your majesty," He began in a humble tone, his voice a husky murmur, "it is a sheer delight to finally meet your radiance. I must say I had heard much of your beauty, yet now that I lay mine own eyes upon you I find that they disappoint- for you are far lovelier than any mere words could hope to convey."

And to hell if it wasn't true! From the tumbles of her brown hair, to the tones of her sun-kissed skin, to the folds of her dress and her very form, the Lady Ayama was simply ravishing and to be quite frank Corliss was having some trouble keeping his eyes from straying. Fortunately, then, something else happened to catch his eye before they could get into too much trouble, and he lightly quirked a brow at the animals which sat by her side. No one had told him that the woman had a stuffed animal obsession, but he supposed it was better than-

All of his cool composure dropped in an instant as the black beast's head turned to regard him with piercing golden eyes, and he realised two things at that moment: one, those were not stuffed animals at all and were all too real, and two, his bladder was much fuller than he had previously thought.

"By the Gods!" He yelped shrilly, jerking out of his bow and almost stumbling over his cape in the process, but after a moment of wide-eyed bewilderment during which he was ninety percent sure he was having a heart attack, he managed to get some semblance of his act together and cleared his throat lightly with a slightly taught smile as he composed himself, "Ahaha... I mean... by Gods, what... beautiful creatures you have! S-simply magnificent! What a lovely surprise..."

'I'm going to die,' he thought miserably while dazzling Ayama with a charming grin.

ooc: OK so this one isn't much shorter but I got carried away, I'm sorry ;n;

Ic: Corliss followed Ayama's gestures between the flesh-eating bird of prey and the humongous sharp-toothed feline with an increasing desire to declare all as a dire misunderstanding and try his luck trekking back through the desert alone. Perhaps, he mused apprehensively as he was motioned to stand, it wasn't too late to pass the baton to his cousin instead? He didn't particularly like the man, and wouldn't be too heart broken should he wind up dead with a tiger still attached to his head.

'No! Don't be such a child, you arse!' Corliss scolded himself with an internal hiss of scorn, 'This is just like any other courting. So she keeps a possible hoard of vicious animals as pets? So what? I've dealt with worse...' He cast a wary sidelong glance to the shady feline who he was suspiciously certain had been eyeing him up like a delicious rib of pork since first sighting, then to the keen amber orbs of the falcon flexing its talons against the golden backrest of the throne, '...I repeat: I'm going to die.'

Suddenly his mouth was as parched as the stale bread he had forced down his throat that morning to break his fast, but almost as if on cue a servant appeared out of the rafters with another blissful serving of water. Usually Corliss wasn't much interested in the putrid stuff, finding that wine was much more efficient at quenching not only his thirst but several other desires to boot, yet in that moment it took all his strength of mind not to down the entire jugful in one gulp with the fervour of a rabid hound. Instead he awaited Amaya's consent before idly pouring himself a glass and politely sipping at it's contents, each drop upon his tongue dancing a citrus-tinged opera across his arid palette which nearly brought tears of joy to his eyes. Angels were still cooing in his ears when Amaya's words snapped him back to earth, and he glanced at the glass of water sheepishly before sneaking another well-mannered sip and lowering the glass from his narrow lips.

"Indeed I have heard numerous tales, I admit," Corliss declared casually, straightening up and regarding Amaya with a smooth smirk, "and if I have taken anything away from such it is that no man could possibly hope to tame you, my lady. Veritably, who would want to? Such a wild country requires an equally fiery hand, and what kind of man would I be to deny it?"

'A dead one, no doubt.' He did not think that Villaliza's citizens would much like the noble of some rival land humbling their beloved flame, and so it was more for the safety of his own neck rather than the country's happiness that he would rather choose another option. He stepped idly forward and raised both hands, palms up, in a gesture which suggested innocence and nothing to hide though the sly look in his azure eyes seemed to disagree.

"Rather I would wish to support you. To win your trust and your hand, and to stand by your side as your equal, as I can only hope that our countries will do so in our union." Truly he didn't give a damn whether the war between their countries came to an end and there were peace and flowers and holding hands, but it seemed like a good thing to say so he went with it, "And my lady, had I thought you easy to woo I would have allowed lesser men to attempt the task. The challenge, my queen, is what makes life worth living, but I am confident that your heart shall be mine before the month us up."

'That, and all your gold.' If we're being completely honest here, there were two things which had instigated Corliss to step up to the task upon receiving that fateful letter not so long ago, and neither one of those included world peace or happy families. All Corliss was interested in getting out of this marriage was the promise of a beautiful woman, because never could Corliss say no to a pretty face, and the other was wealth and riches beyond measure. In fact, it was solely those two factors which inspired Corliss to do pretty much anything in life. Some might call that a tad superficial and incredibly vain, true, but then again Corliss is generally a superficial and incredibly vain kind of guy.

ooc: Sorry for my inactivity, I work full days over the weekend so it's hard to find the time. If I don't managed to get something written tomorrow after work, I'll have it done on Monday for you!