𝒶𝒹 / 𝐀𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐌

THIS VESSEL, THIS VESSEL IS A LIE. A SHAPESHIFTING BEAST, A LESSON IN FLUIDITY.

[adaquam]

#𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐒. a dependent, multimuse blog affiliated with avastrp. as penned by jenna ( 25, she/they, gmt+10 )

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄 – twenty-nine. reaver aboard the harbinger.

[adaquam]

𝐖𝐇𝐎: CALDRA THORNE & ETIENNE ST JUSTE ( @bovndlcss ) 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: ABOARD THE HARBINGER

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐃𝐃. She supposed that it was important to have a variety of different skillsets upon a functional ship ( although she herself covered more than her fair share of skill – easily THE HARBINGER'S most gifted fighter, and negotiator, and problem-solver,  even if nobody else agreed with this assertion ), even if she sometimes wondered about the necessity of some crew members. All this being said, Caldra would be lying if she claimed that ETIENNE did not fascinate her. He was so profoundly different to most pirates she had encountered – well-educated, averse to fighting, and seemingly intrigued by Caldra's many embellished stories about her youth.

Perhaps this is why she seeks him out, finding the archivist in his quarters – decorated with old parchment and letters and scrolls filled with words in languages that Caldra cannot understand. Her own quarters are contrastingly bare – perhaps a holdover from her time with THE CLAVE – adorned only with a collection of weapons harvested from her fallen enemies and a too-small cot. She bares her teeth in an impression of a smile, picking up a dust-covered book and turning it over in her hands. "Spanish," She notes, not bothering with pleasantries such as "hello", or "may I come in?" "Where'd it come from?" She asks instead.

[adaquam]

𝐖𝐇𝐎: CALDRA THORNE & VIDAR THE VOICELESS ( @firestne ) 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: ABOARD THE HARBINGER

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒. She had not remained in one place for so long since she was a child – tethered to the wasteland her family was content to call home. She did not like the feeling of stagnation – of being trapped in the harbour under the watchful gaze of the crown, of any routes of escape being shuttered. At first, a reprieve from the unforgiving seas was welcomed – Caldra had been quick to seize the opportunity to spend her hard earned bounty in all manner of less-than-reputable establishments. But now, her cash reserves were dwindling, her haunts were closing, and Caldra was now the most dangerous thing of all – she was bored.

She gives two short raps against the door to the CAPTAIN'S CHAMBERS before pushing it open. Caldra Thorne's respect was a difficult thing to earn – more often than not, her reverence was reserved only for the dead, and even then, only to those who she felt put up a fight. Her loyalty was even more difficult to come by – and yet, she had lived and worked aboard THE HARBINGER for half a decade, falling into line behind VIDAR THE VOICELESS with more deference than one might think her capable of. It was a peculiar thing, to see a mercenary taking orders. And yet, even Caldra had her limits – and the longer they remained moored, the more she began to chafe at her leash.

"You asked to see me, captain." She says by way of greeting, stepping through the door. "Please tell me there's someone you need dead. I want to try out my new daggers."

[gravemist]

closed for @adaquam, CALDRA THORNE + VASYA. the pit.

THE PIT WAS STILL GROANING, its dust unsettled, blood fresh and black in the troughs. Vasya stood in the aftermath, back turned to the world, the victory still clinging to their bones like wet salt. Their chest rose and fell in uneven pulls, adrenaline tasting sweet on the back of their tongue, knuckles dripping red, split open like pomegranate seeds. Their grin was lopsided, cocky, painted in someone else’s blood. What better way to calm the restless voices in their head than this? The Gods seemed to have better plans for them, though -- better than any blood they could spill, than the grunt with each blow.

They didn’t hear her at first.

Caldra moved like smoke -- fast, low, a blur of blade and breath -- and it wasn’t until the knife kissed Vasya’s ribs that they spun, parrying with the edge of an elbow, bone cracked. Someone hissed; it might’ve been both of them. Vasya slammed her into the pit wall hard enough to jolt breath from lungs and Vasya grinned, blood smeared from chin to cheek like a red handprint. They pressed the flat of their blade against Caldra's throat, not cutting, just threatening. Her breath was ragged, hot against Vasya’s cheek. "Mm. Missed me." They laugh something wicked. "You really never just say hello, do you?"

[adaquam]

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. No, the pit is far too messy for someone of Caldra's considerable esteem. Despite the boredom that being trapped on TORTUGA presents, she does not duel with unworthy opponents – reserving her mind and her sword only for those she deemed suitably matched to her talents. THE PIT is not a place she expected to find worthy opponents – but it was a decent enough way to pass the time. She'd always had a fascination with blood, after all, and this place was sticky with it.

Her eyes are instantly drawn to a shock of dirty blonde hair as they emerge into the ring – VASYA THE VICIOUS has certainly earned their moniker – although the way they fight tonight is not to the standard Caldra has come to expect. They are messy, arrogant, and fighting opponents far beneath them – it's near sickening, but Caldra has always had a strong stomach. She moves silently – weaving through the crowds as she circles her target. Time to give them a fair fight.

Her knife brushes skin before a sharp crack against Caldra's chin leaves her tasting blood – she grins manically as the cool blade presses against her throat, eyes level with her prey. "And you never let me have my fun." She says, pouting. "I saw you out there, I thought you were better. Here's a lesson –" Caldra tilts her head forward so Vasya's blade just barely slices skin – the wet, red line around her throat matches the stain on her lips. "If you're going in for the kill, go all the way."

[anneboleyns]

[adaquam]

[ ivana baquero, cis woman, twenty-nine, she/her ] for the crimes of piracy CALDRA THORNE is hereby wanted. those who surrender them dead or alive to the crown will receive ONE HUNDRED pounds. they’re famously known to be part of the THE HARBINGER as their REAVER. before engaging be warned as they can be RUTHLESS AND ARROGANT, but if you’re lucky they’ll be METICULOUS AND CHARISMATIC. legends say that when you speak their name you’re reminded of blood-slicked steel glinting beneath the moonlight, swung with ceremonial grace / laughing at the gallows, lips stained with someone else’s wine / a fire-lit silhouette watching a sinking ship, smoke curling from the ruins. 

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒

full name. caldra thorne nickname(s). don’t date of birth. may 19th, 1700 age. twenty-nine affiliation. the harbinger  role. reaver birthplace. andalusia, spain current location. tortuga, saint-domingue gender & pronouns. cis woman, she/her orientation. bisexual biromantic

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

positive traits. meticulous, charismatic, candid, dexterous negative traits. ruthless, arrogant, disputatious, selfish mbti. entp-a – the debater enneagram. 8w7 – the independent moral alignment. true neutral deadly sin. greed heavenly virtue. patience zodiac. taurus character parallels. yennefer of vengerberg, the witcher / thea queen, arrow / o-ren ishii, kill bill / loraine broughton, atomic blonde / kuvira, the legend of korra / ardyn izunia, final fantasy XV / drusilla, buffy the vampire slayer

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒

mother. annet thorne, status unknown  father. merrick thorne, status unknown siblings. six or so siblings, status unknown

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

tw: violence, murder, cults

You were born in the gutter, in a salt-cracked shack at the edge of a forgotten inlet. Your mother prayed to stars that wouldn’t listen as she scrubbed floors until her knuckles bled. Your father drank himself into oblivion and prayed the sea would swallow him whole. The others – siblings, cousins, strays who came and went – begged for scraps and prayed to survival, as though it were the highest form of reverence. 

But not you.

Even as a child, you know that you are not one of them. Not by temperament, not by destiny. Your parents tell you that suffering makes you strong – but their suffering reeks of surrender. You watch your kin beg and scavenge and call it virtue. You find their complacency revolting – how they would bow to the world rather than trying to break it. You look at your family and you see a cage – not cruel, not violent, just insultingly small.

By the time you turn ten, you have already made up your mind. You walk out before sunrise without so much as a goodbye. You steal a dagger from your brother and a coin from your father – a spectre hovering over them as they sleep in their own filth. They are beneath you – they have always been beneath you. And deep down, you think they knew it too.

THE CLAVE finds you in a border town – small, starved, and covered in mud, but dangerous. They recognise something in you – talent, sure, but also promise. Precision, purpose, poise. They call themselves warriors – disciples of order, servants of ritual and focus above all else. They see the way you fight like it means something, every motion sacred, and they mistake it for discipline. They mistake you for one of them.

They train you in the old ways – breath before blade, silence before strike. The Clave value balance, restraint.  You learn their form and memorise their chants. You study anatomy like scripture – learn the fastest ways to gut a man or make him talk. You master your blade like an extension of yourself – the perfect soldier. But while the others fight to protect, you fight to dominate. Where they seek peace, you find pleasure. And soon the whispers start.

They say you do not kill with regret, but with reverence. You do not mourn your enemies, you admire them – what a gift it must be to die by your blade. You dance through blood with a smile that is far too wide and orchestrate battles like ballet. They try to tame you, to shame you. They call your viciousness a flaw instead of an evolution. When they cast you out, they do so in silence – afraid that uttering your name might invoke your wrath.

When you return, it is with vengeance. You move through them like smoke – silence, sacred, unstoppable. They had moulded you into a weapon, and now they would see you turned against them. You slit their throats without ceremony and wet your boots with their blood. When it is done, you light their sanctum with oil and ritual salt. You watch as the flames dance, whisper blessings over charred bones. Your blade hums against your spine, as though pleased.

After this, the world is yours.

You drift from port to port like a ghost – offering your sword to whoever pays the most coin, or whoever offers the most beautiful prey. You do not kill for justice, but for pleasure. Not everybody is worthy to die by your hand, and you pick your victims with almost religious scrutiny. You carve a reputation as a mercenary with taste – never random, never messy, always clean and deliberate. Always with the scent of smoke left in your wake. Your sword is your god and fire is your offering – you are but a vessel of righteousness.

Eventually, the HARBINGER finds you. You are recruited without ceremony – a note nailed into the corpse of your latest client; a meeting aboard a sacred ship and a shaking of hands. It is a perfect fit – you all share the same madness, after all. They do not test you, do not question your skills – your name is already worth more than your weight in gold. They anoint you with a title: REAVER. A warrior of ritual precision – a weapon deployed only when the strike needs to be swift, focused, and final. You are a warrior who bows only to gods of your own design, who fights like prayer, who offers death as a gift.

They whisper that you speak to your blade, that you kiss it goodnight. That you remember every name you’ve ever carved into bone. And perhaps you do. Because when the fog rolls in and the ocean goes still, you do not sleep. You listen. To the fire, to the ghosts – to the beating inside your ribs that is always slightly out of time.

Worthy is the one who dies by your hand, and unworthy is the world that dared to try and keep you small.