Jin raised an eyebrow at the man’s logic. Strange as it was, he couldn’t entirely argue with it. In fact, he’d heard worse justifications over a drink and a lie. Still, taking clothes off a dead man’s back felt a step beyond his usual moral flexibility. Then again, these weren’t normal times. If anything they were extremely desperate. So he could understand the predicament, to a degree.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, watching Homer, eyes tracking the twist of rope, the ink catching moonlight, the dirt on his skin. His mind spun in quiet circles, weighing ethics against survival. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been staring until the voice cut through once more.
Jin blinked, taken aback. “Neither, actually,” he said, his gaze now more focused on Homer. “What else has he got?” His voice was calm, but there was a hint of curiosity and desperation in it.
"A gold tooth, a silver brooch but it may be iron, and a shirt that is better use as a cheesecloth with the holes in it," He says, shuffling through the pockets of the man to find nothing but sand. Narrowed and pointed hazel hues are thrown in the other's direction, and he waits before standing back upright. "But whatever you take, you have to leave something in return that is worth what you've taken. It is a trade— not robbery."
Though, Homer hadn't exactly followed those rules with such devotion that he spoke now. He believed maybe that had been the sour of some of his luck. There was some hope that he had been able to get a reversal of fortune with debts paid to the fates, and protection runes he'd found stronger than the former.
THEY DON'T STEP INTO THE GRAVEYARD SO MUCH AS BLEED THROUGH IT; silent, slow, like mist curling through bones. Their frame appeared at the edge of the gallows, a crooked silhouette wrapped in worn leathers and dangling charms made of teeth, glass beads, and brittle animal bones. The moon caught the whites of their eyes, wide, unblinking.
Their talismans rattled once, then still. They stare at Homer, crouched over the grave like carrion that hadn’t yet decided what kind of animal it was. Dirt clung to him like salt to skin. And the coat -- Vasya’s eyes landed on it with something close to revulsion.
"You're touching them," they say blankly, voice hoarse and low, full of disbelief, anger, dread. "God's below. No salt. No coin. No iron by the threshold. And you dare make trade like you’re haggling fish?" Vasya took a step closer, heel grinding bone-dry grass into the dirt. Their fingers twitch toward one of the charms on their hip -- a ring of crow bones, wrapped tight with red string. "You don't know what you've called." Their voice is clear, not with fear, but the deep tremor of conviction. And then, for good measure, a mumbled, "Stupid man."
"You lot always think there is only one form of protection— trinkets and herbs. I've known more men drowned by the talisman on their neck than saved by it, and your handful of salt is nothing when you sink to the bottom," He spat, a roll of his eyes that he knows cannot be seen. The aggravation, at the very least, is laced into his voice. "I've made my bargains, Vasya. At least on this side of the veil, I do not have to break my bones for such superstitions."
Perhaps it was the defiance of a young boy that still lived in him, better senses diluted too long ago to ever be fostered into something better. Sensibilities be damned with their dull edge that had never nurtured into something wiser.
Hand on his chest, he wipes the dirt to reveal the scar that appears almost too intricate to be a mistake even from afar. A knot of runes, and not the only set, sit top the softest tremble underneath his skin. No talisman could ever bind him to luck than what was carved and tattooed into his flesh. He was made of a hundred pacts, permanent sigils that were written into bone— no different than the vessels along the ports.
"I've called upon the dead, and they do what they always will— moan that the gods are just as absent," He says, folding the collar of the jacket. "That even the good are made to suffer evermore once their hearts go quiet."
Sitting alone in the corner of the tavern, Etienne seems entirely unaware of the chaos unfolding all around him. A fight has broken out, tempers doubtless excited by an excess of drink and a lack of food, but the shouting and swearing and scuffling of boots across the floorboards aren’t enough to pull him from the work that so absorbs him. In fact, he doesn’t look up at all until somebody bumps against his table, jogging his hand and interrupting his notes with a strike from his slate pencil.
“You might take better care,” he says evenly, his dark eyes fixed on the one that had disturbed him, “Many are not so forgiving of accidents, these days.”
Homer's reprieve from the brawl will be short lived, he knows that, but he cannot help but answer when any word is pointed towards him. He steadies the table as much as he can after he's thrown against it by slamming it back down into the pavement below. Pinning it under his weight, crawling into this company like one of the sirens he tells himself are friends, he's almost posed to belong to an entirely different scene.
"It may have been fate," He says, a notorious line to any who have committed him to memory. "Your line there is a bit too curved compared to the real thing, and that wasn't the fault of the drunken patronage tonight."
His foot is thrown aside to kick said patron, and once more he steadies the table.
open to: @seasxltkisses for esmeralda de souza
location: the devil's cask, tortuga.
Homer believes that Esmeralda should come with a warning sign, and convinces himself that the smoke pooling around the tavern is the very omen of her. She is but a flame too wild to tame, and while he knows he was not the first to try— and far from the last— he still holds it against her for inviting him to such a dance. Inked fingers slid across the worn wood of the table over the coin sprawled out to settle debts for ale. He lacks the integrity of a man who'd stolen a hundred times in his life if only to make her look at him, to wrinkle that perfect face with aggravation and betrayal.
His seat is taken at her side, not just leaning into her space any longer. He intends to stay.
"Gold for one of my thoughts?" He asks, but the question is already answered. He brings it to his mouth, biting its edge for the metallic taste to prove its worth. "I think you still miss me."
open to: @darkhorizcns for anika aishwayra
location: the siren's nest, tortuga.
Homer brushes the armor of Anika's hair from her shoulder, winding the dark silk around his palm before letting it spill like black oil down her back. A few strands catch in the rough of his jaw, tethering her to him even if only a moment— or is it him to her? If he could choose the rope in which he'd hang, let it be woven of her sea of ink.
A kiss lingers at her neck, the steady beat of her heart under the the thinnest veil of skin. It's slower than his, he knows, and how jealous he is of it. The salt of the day is sweeter than any fruit the shore could offer.
"As promised," He murmurs against her, tasting the warmth of her skin in his mouth for one last greedy moment of greed. His fingers slide against their callouses to reveal a hair comb carved from tortoiseshell. The candlelight spills through the softer hues of brown, but casted aside when it crawls over its silver teeth. "Could have traded it for time with you, but I already have what I want— myself knotted in your thoughts. I present to you the cure."
open to: everyone !
location: the gallows, tortuga.
"You don't have to ask the dead for permission." Instead of sounding like he was informing them, Homer's tone rang out with insistence above all else— as though he was still hoping for some belief in his claim. "And it's part of an agreement between this lad and the next. Any time something is taken, something is left in it's place. I think a coat is a fair trade. The dead are always cold."
It would have been a viable excuse, but the circumstances rob it with even less integrity than what lies between Homer and the frail graves. Dirt is caught in his hair and sits in half moons under his fingernails where he is just barely peering over the edge of the platform. Ropes sway in the wind, just barely grazing over dark curls. The twist of ink on his skin scatters the moonlight that falls over him. There was no such thing as hiding in the darkness here.
"Are you going to gawk at me, or go back to where you came from?"
The salt of the ocean felt more constricting as the wind blew in upon the empty vessels within the bay of Tortuga. The ongoing siege upon their resources had led to hunger, which led to either people turning violent or beaten down.
Ginika had always been more prone to the first rather than the latter. She was a survivor. It was necessary given that she had a whole crew to keep in line and to protect from the attitude of the locals. She kept them aboard mostly, only sending out some to find them more supplies - or anyone who’d trade. Sometimes she’d send them off in small vessels to do what they did best: lure in any ship for the slaughter. The crown wouldn’t best her that easily.
She made sure to show herself around Tortuga whenever she could. A layer of powder on her face to ensure the bags under her eyes were less visible, one of her best dresses on, a look that kept most at a distance. Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. Or. My. Crew. clear in her eyes.
She sent the one that had accompanied her onwards and made her way into the tavern, looking at the sign that said the kitchen was closed, ordering herself a glass of ale. “As long as this place remains open, I will not despair,” she told the other patrons.
"These times may not be as trying as the lot make it out to seem," Homer says, turning only slightly in her direction. The legend of the shadow that flickers the light in the tavern to a new dance is not lost on him. "Most say the same of seawater, but I suppose we can give into the luxury of ale— or is that only you, Captain?"
His voice is too soft to be a threat, and it's kicked to silence against the card that turns over against the wood of the table with a crack— Queen of Swords. How utterly fitting, and Homer wonders if it may just be fate after all instead of his sticky fingers. It's cracked and faded, worn down from too many pockets its been pushed inside of and too many storms its been shielded against.
A smile dares to cross his mouth, but it's only a tricking twitch.
"Dressed like that, I'd beg to differ. We tend to paint ourselves more desperately as we wish to be perceived when doubt comes in," He points out, but its fleeting. His gaze falls back into his cup and against the array of cards laid out in front of him, intent on being forgotten all over again.
Open starter (0/4)
where: Dead man's bluff, Red's table
The scent of spiced rum clung thick to the rafters, curling with the ghost of smoke and sweat. Laughter rolled like thunder, drunk and desperate, but it faltered—just for a beat—as the final coin clinked to the center of the table. It was one of the rare occasions she found herself at the head of the table, dealing instead of hosting. With quite a few patrons having flocked to the occasion to try and see if they were luckier this evening than Lady Luck herself.
Ruolan rose from her chair like the curtain lifting on a final act, and with practiced ease, climbed up to sit on the table itself—scarlet silk catching the lanternlight like fresh blood. The cards had already been cleared. The man across from her slumped in disbelief, pockets turned out, soul already halfway sold.
"And there it is," she purred, "the last deal of the night. The house thanks you… for your generosity." A sly smile. A half-mad gleam. She tilted her head and flicked her fingers toward the shadows—silent signal for a fresh dealer to step in. The new dealer held out his hand to assist her assent , graceful as a falling card, gathering her spoils with the dignity of a queen and the cunning of a fox. Her eyes—dark, endless, knowing—swept the room once more, daring someone to stop her.
“Unless,” she added lightly, “someone here’s still feeling brave enough to lose something more interesting than coin.” Her smile stayed sweet. But her gaze revealed all that was wicked underneath.
"Coin's for cowards," He breathes into the silence under the clamor of luck lost and won. His voice is like sandpaper and salt, a quiet he taunted for hours and still resented the taste of when he had to bite into his tongue on land. In the shadows underneath a ship he could abide by it, but here? He seemed to make up for it, much to everyone's dismay.
He studies her, though any unsuspecting soul would have thought he was lovesick. Hazel hues brush over every detail but he can't help note the outline of her silhouette— a dancing flame just barely wrapped in silk, and when she was still, as sharp as a dagger. A man less certain would have bowed to her, but Homer looked for absolute even if he had to will it so.
Pulling a chain from underneath his collar, black ink threatens to taunt the eye with something more sinister until a flash of gold. The chain glints against the candlelight. The pearls, however, remain flush against his skin despite their whispers that they are too delicate to be worn by someone like him.
"This belonged to a woman who taught me the right way to love," He smirked, finger lingering on it a moment too long to feign sentiment. The story of this chain and its pendant was beyond him, a relic buried and forgotten with some old bastard less than six feet under when the tide brought him back to land. "Oh, how rewarding her lessons were. Surely made me the man I am today. I didn't have the heart to throw it to sea with her ashes. If you're after something more than the purse you slip into your pocket, I may have an offer.
[ edward bluemel, cis man, thirty, he/him ] for the crimes of piracy HOMER ALCOTT / THE SAINT OF HYSTERIA is hereby wanted. those who surrender them dead or alive to the crown will receive ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN pounds. they’re famously known to be part of NO CREW as a ROGUE. before engaging be warned as they can be SKEPTICAL & IMPULSIVE, but if you’re lucky they’ll be RESOURCEFUL & RESILIENT. legends say that when you speak their name you’re reminded of CHASING THE GILDED BLOOD OF THE DAY AGAINST THE WAVES ONLY TO DROWN IN POOLS OF MOONLIGHT YOU CANNOT REACH FROM THE BOTTOM, GOLD IN HALF MOONS UNDER FINGERNAILS MISTAKEN FOR GRIME, HYSTERIA DANCING THE THE BLUE PART OF A FLAME UNDERNEATH AFTERGLOW.
CHARACTER HISTORY [trigger warning for child abuse]
Homer Alcott will tell any who he can will to listen that his life began with the sea— and it would have been poetic if it wasn’t a lie, and the truth didn’t sting like an open wound. He will insist it’s the truth, and for that is just the thin veil of white that he lives under. After all, Homer swears he saw the other side when he’s been rescued from a sinking crate meant to bury the last of his bloodline.
Born to a captain who roams only in legend now, his mother escaped the stagnant torment of the land for the unruly waves of the sea. She’d found solace in the arms of a hand that held her like jewels, but soon she’d find that he would always search for something that glinted at him until he had to turn away with a glare.
When she produced a son, the legacy of his ship would now have to belong to another and the captain’s jealousy drove him mad. He had created a shadow along the sea that would one day engulf him, leaving him no more than a ghost along the horizon. His lover walked the altar overboard, and eventually, the child she tried to hide from him thrown below.
Homer had spent his youth hidden away, rummaging through the cargo hold, the orlop deck, galley stores, and in barrels of netting. He’d been discovered by the cooks in the food supply, too hungry to wait any longer. When he was revealed as the captain’s bastard, he’d been caged until they knew what to do to him— could he be trained, could he learn to fear them as those on land? Or would he simply be a liability the ego of their ship could not afford? He had learned the ways of the ship, but eventually, Homer was discarded like damaged cargo. One sunset with his father and good faith, and he watched it all bleed gold only to fall under it and find the waters cold. He’d just barely made it to the top when another ship found him, taking him in as their own until they discarded him, too.
PRESENT DAY
Homer knows one thing— and that is how it will all end. Too many brushes with death and reversals of fortune have made his wit too sharp for his own good, and he is certain that he knows fate better than the rest. Known for his schemes across a deck of prayer cards painted to be the art of tarot, he is known to be the cause of rumors that begin hysteria to drive those away from the ships of his brief loyalty or ensure he has an escape route off land. However, there is a bounty set on Homer’s head as the son of a pirate with far too many debts for his enemies to let go.
PERSONALITY
Homer is quiet for his own good, enough consequences of talking back in a household that savored silence teaching him well enough. However, he doesn’t think twice once he’s enticed to open his mouth. With an ever present scowl, always unprovoked, Homer’s grown two lines between his brow easily mistaken for a scar. He’s quick witted enough to save himself from a terrible impression, but still notorious of a bad one. An exhaustion is evident in everything he does and a desperation to linger. He moves slow, listens too intently, and is easily overwhelmed when there isn’t enough to drown out enough of what he’s been forced to live with.
HEADCANONS
Unlike most, Homer keeps his affiliation to a crooked way of life as secret as he can. However, the sea calls to him in different ways. A string of pearls is always seen around his neck, and the ink etched into his skin is visible under thin linen when the waves crash over the shore and wet the air. Gold twisted into the top of his ear, hidden by dark curls, gives him away too easily.
He is terrified for the sea ever since his father threw him overboard, but he does not believe he belongs on land, either. His discomfort is obvious, and he grows far more quiet than anyone would expect when they cut through the waves.
He often wears a string of white Keshi pearls, and then a necklace of blue South Sea pearls tucked into his shirt. These belonged to his mother. Homer always wears a gold chain link that has a needle tucked into the wound metal for escape reasons, and the locket of Aphrodite has a sharp edge once opened that can cut through rope.
Homer was taught by an old oracle along one of the towns by the seaside, learning not only tarot but palm reading, tea leaf reading, and astrology beyond navigation. She was the only mother figure he ever had and he visited her each time he made it back to land, finding a way to get to her one last time.
Taught by the old oracle, he has scars along his hands that cut all of the lines apart and make it difficult to read. He also has constellations tattooed on his thighs to remember how to find them, alongside other myths of salvation so he never forgets them
He often robs graves and dead men for valuables.
WANTED CONNECTIONS
Other crews he has worked with in the past
Other stowaways he's hidden with, including some he's given up to save his own neck
Those he's given terrible fortunes to, as well as those he gave good fortunes to
Crew members of the first ship he joined
Anyone around when he was found at sea and saved
Those looking to cash in on his bounty
Childhood friends, possibly other children raised on the ports
Fellow rogue pirates, and other pirates who he has crossed paths with in short term formal contracts or as a stowaway they couldn’t catch!
Those he’s conned and can’t quite recognize him but find him eerily familiar
Crews he crossed paths with as a child
Safe havens along the mainland, allies he can always run to and hide with
BORN WITH TEETH dir. Daniel Evans
(London Wyndham’s Theatre — 13 August to 1 November 2025)
››› Ncuti Gatwa as Christopher Marlowe
››› Edward Bluemel as William Shakespeare
to those, particularly the inner circle of the night court, who knew the commander well enough, knew without a word that daemati had no fond feelings for this court nor it's fae. his features remained impassive as he studied their hosts and the reptiles hovering above them, and whole those around him, for the most part, remained awestruck or far too curious for their own good, kalore was not fooled with these lands. it was only a matter of time they may attack or far worse, given what he had gathered in their short time here, and the nature of their very creator, the commander could not leave anything to chance.
his gaze tracks their emissary just awhile before sunset - former human turned fae, for a time kalore held a deep distaste for the man, more so when he had joined their inner circle. the deamati should not be so surprised given how that their high lord had little mind to run a court or appoint the inner circle members. overtime his inner circle had proven themselves, one by one. still, kalore often wondered what their court could be if their idiot high ruler was not on the seat. fates, would he would have transformed their court further into had kal the chance to be on the high seat. his high lord was nowhere to be seen, but that was not a surprise either, the commander had long learned he much preferred to high than to be of use.
with his personal spies already on the work of digging out anything imperative of this so called dusk court, it would not be long before the daemati uncovered these secrets of this unknown land. his mood certainly remained less than pleasant of his missing gifts that had not yet returned to him. the commander's looming frame settles not too far from avory, onyx hues glancing around their surroundings, he found that ignoring the screeching retiles proved a far more difficult task. "were you be able to uncover much from their emissary?" the commander inquires, a glass of whisky in his hand, its taste questionable but it would do it's job for now.
In this land, the fae that had fostered a complex and harmonious structure were no better than moths to a flame. Too easily they gave into the impulse of curiosity, Avory believed, and he knew it would easily provide a miracle or a curse. His very being, his presence in this realm, was evident of the fortune of better luck. Has many chances did they carry still aligned to their favor?
"Not enough to satisfy your dysphoria," He announces. It is not without effort that Avory has made his own inquiries between different courts, but these dragonkeepers are as stunned and stunted as they are. "They aren't quite sure what's happened, but I'm making efforts to do what I can with what little they do provide."
After a breath, he gives into the concern he can see ripple over the surface. He has enough faith to believe it's not only his own thought, and he delivers it with a casualty that glazes over the haunting of the sentiment.
"Though, I'm not quite sure this isn't the first time this has happened. After all, aside from their reptilian friends, they do not contrast us vastly enough. We might as well gather who are our friends, and enemies," He muses. "Fae are not like men, but the unknown is a fear across all creatures. Sooner or later, the brilliance of this court will turn to brass. But who's to say we won't return just as easily as we were brought here— or will it take an effort we have yet to consider?"
how i would beg, medusa, for her to look at me, and midas, for his golden clutch / all of this would ruin me / but at least i would be seen and touched.
fatima aamer bilal, from moony moonless sky’s ‘how can i escape my mind?’
adjusting to a new court was nothing new to the female. having already moved from the summer court where she grew up to the dawn court where her father was from. admittedly she wasn't as prepared for this one. leaving the winter court she had time to say goodbye. this was abrupt, however she had hopes that maybe she'd meet people that she knew of as well as new people here. "avory, you find yourself here as well?" the brunette asked the other. "i would assume that means that all of the courts are here?" .
"Without much rhyme or reason, I presume," Avory nodded, frustration with current circumstances more apparent this time around. While he had grown accustomed to the constant jaunts between courts, they had been completed with purpose. This held a complexity he had yet to make peace with. Too easily he fell in love with the unknown, and out of it just as quickly when it's luster was corrupted with the agony of his court. "While I do enjoy a sparkling disaster, I prefer to remain the observer. This is proving that we are all in the thick of it. What has your nobility taken of it?"
the one place that brought eden joy, and comfort, in this strange place was the gardens. it reminded her of home, especially, at high noon with the sun high in the sky and its rays beam down at her. there isn't nearly enough flowers but still it was enough. the recovering fae opened her eyes hearing the pebbles shift. she opened her dark hues and turn to the man. "dusk or night?" she asked, moving her hand up to shield the sun. "it is hard to tell who you belong to."
There were pieces of Avory that didn't quite belong together, fragments that could have too easily been claimed by a different nature. His crown of hair turned to gold under the sun, but just as easily was stripped to a pale luster in the night. Lips, bitten from impatience on his accord or another's, bloomed blush against pale skin. Even the way he moved was carefully crafted to appease the sway of any court.
The other's assumption was nearly perfect. To be exorcised of the remnants of the day court put her in his favor too quickly, and he entertains their evocation. "Night, but not without effort. Though you're quite a creature to study, as well. I don't believe it's the day court. Might I assume you're from a place far more brighter than this court has to offer?"
snowghoul
jbbartram-illu
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
areudirty
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
