The hands on her cheeks were gentle. They always were when Efua touched her face. It was definitely a them thing. Malley knew how tough those hands could be, beating a drum or threatening an enemy ship. But they’d never be tough on her. That was love. Or its own version.
and it was enough to convince her. Not that she needed much convincing.
“aye. But I won’t be learnin’ to sew. If they won’t alter it, we can hold them at the end of our cutlass until they agree.” She grinned, conspiracy wild in her eyes. It was hard not to find joy in a scheme. "Let's find whoever runs this heap and ask." Although, did pirates ever really ask?
of course they didn't need to know how to sew. the easiest answer of violence sometimes still caught her off guard, even after a decade, this immediately effective solution available where layers of perfectly worded power plays, ultimatums, and weaseling used to live. shortcuts! how strange.
"you delight me," she smiles. she means it.
"could we have the pleasure before we die of old age?" she calls out to the owner. surely he's here somewhere. "before we turn into old hags, could we, please?" carefully enunciated words clash with a timid smile, a delicate performance indeed for the sheer joy of spectacle.
efua leans against the counter as he comes out, hand propping her chin, aware of the image they present whenever together. the red fire of beauty and rage, and iridescent sparks of her own dancing forever along it; a daughter by life shared together, not blood. a rare gift, after decades of secrecy and regret surrounding the word. she looks at malley. "are we still interested?"
being stuck marinating in tortuga the entirety of the morning, as she waited for the raiders to dock and spare her the torture, was proving considerably less a doable feat.
"do you hear this shit?" she sees, perhaps, the single face in the room who could make this more bearable. the most milquetoast lovers' quarrel known to the ile de la tortue happens to unfold right beside her, and they are failing even at that..
ah. bejewelled fingers give it a tentative wave through the air, and she pauses to listen mid-word. remorse, there it is. the final refuge of the tedious. any second they'll begin apologizing, she thinks.
"i am surrounded by people with no sense of occasion. it is an ailment to my health, and a personal affront besides." her eye catches on the steel striker they carry, and a slim cigar appears between fingers, bargained earlier from a spanish merchant who had first demanded a kiss, then an emerald, and finally settled for her promise to abstain from the yelling. alas, with no light. "would you please?"
who: open to anybody (1/4)
where: the devil's cask
the place was filled with pirates and civilians alike drinking and celebrating, or some drinking for the hell of it. with all the tables occupied, vidar found himself at the back, standing near a window and staring at it, his eyes founding the sky and stars. a puff of smoke left his mouth after he took a breath from his cigar. despite the noisy tavern, he found himself deep in peace, that probably won't last for long. and it didn't, as someone chose this moment to stand next to him and vidar took his time, he wasn't going to talk first, if said person had something to say, they would say it, otherwise the two of them can stare out of that window together.
she wishes the cask would take all that money she's been blowing here every weekend and have the sense to expand. efua folds herself into the only available chair, one arm draped along its back with another cradling a cold glass of rum, cold and clear. would she, ever, sit by a pirate from their rival ship with such pleasant calm? no. except it's vidar. too familiar, and frankly, too dear a face to truly hate. efua turns only her eyes toward him, with the most genuine and futile attempt to summon disdain.
"havana leaf?" she throws out, just for the sake of it. "that's what you're smoking now?"
There were few things Malley liked better than a day out with Efua. They'd been close for a decade, and they both enjoyed similar things. So yes, the crown was pressing in, maybe they couldn't go out of port for awhile, but the women could make the most of it. And that meant one thing:
shopping trip.
"Ay, look't this one!" Malley said, fingers trailing along the sleeve of a black dress. "It's got pockets, even." enough to keep separate the supplies necessary to create and stoke flames. she pulled it off the rack, holding it up to her frame. clicking her tongue disappointedly, she put it back. "too big. think they'd tailor it?"
there's hardly a forsaken rock in the middle of nowhere efua would mind being stranded at if malley was at her side. tortuga is miles closer to an enjoyable place ; surely, they will find something to do.
dress, dress, jewel, shoes, skirt. idle hand piles items over her forearm. there is a genuine and wide smile that appears on efua's lips at the sight of malley's joy. she wants her crewmates, and malley especially, to have everything that is worth having. the very best, naturally. she might also want the other crews to have none ; but that's neither here nor there, and an another stop on their itinerary entirely.
"no, no, we must get it." never leave a shop empty-handed if the intent was to lift spirits or escape boredom: the golden rule she must bestow. "if they fail to tailor it, we shall learn to sew out of spite. i think you need three more."
for the crimes of piracy EFUA ASANTE / THE MYTHMAKER is hereby wanted. those who surrender her dead or alive to the crown will receive ONE HUNDRED & FIFTY pounds. she's famously known to be part of RAIDER’S REVENGE as their HOWLER. before engaging be warned as she can be THEATRICAL & INSATIABLE, but if you're lucky she'll be COMPOSED & STRATEGIC. legends say that when you speak her name you're reminded of A SONG, WRITTEN FOR A KING. DO YOU LIKE THE CONVICTION OF THE CROWD THAT SINGS OR THE MOMENT A VOICE BREAKS? YOU CHOOSE WHAT THEY SING ABOUT. A THRILLING CHILL DOWN YOUR SPINE, AS A BATTLECRY FALLS DEADLY SILENT SECONDS BEFORE AN ATTACK. THE SEA DOES SMELL NICE TODAY.
basics.
name: efua asante, the mythmaker.
age: forty five.
ship & role: howler @ raider's revenge.
former occupation: crown propagandist.
skillset: psychological and sensory warfare. vocal manipulation. turning sound, spectacle, and story into a weapon.
song: vampire bat by glass animals.
inspiration: olivia pope (i couldn't not), tyler durden (don't fucking ask), effie trinket and a little bit of coriolanus snow.
no tag warnings bc i only torture my men in rp
origins.
come, sit down for a little tale. in a warm-lit underground wood of a tavern there is a bard. stories flow from his lips like the clearest of liquors; like gold. eyes coat you in their reassuring embrace - there is nothing a room won't forgive. the bard is full of love.
in the candlelit courts of kings, there is a hushed lull in the hallway that inspires the crowd's roar. golden voice of victory. the cadence that dresses the crown's ambitions in melody, the ink that stains street-scattered news with belief. the architect of the glorified horrors. the passionate lover to imperial war fever.
to the bard she was born. a mother, she never had.
the crown.
efua asante serves the crown akin to a way a starving man serves a bountiful feast: full-focused devotion aimed at a tool in which hunger may rest.
she is of no use to them beyond what she can produce; she has no leverage; nor does she have inopportune misconceptions about her standing. what she has is force. of a voice; of an idea; of a grim story told beautifully; of a thing articulated just right. i know where the tender spots are. the underbelly of the collective crowd. scratch it right and the nation opens up like petals in bloom inside a king's hand.
some nights she lies awake thinking her talent is wasted here, this land of men with no convictions and hardly a purpose beyond hiding their wrongdoings. they do not deserve the fires she lights; yet the fires she lights nonetheless. it is not a thing you stop doing, once tried.
but stories are living things. they escape. they take shape of their own. when a scapegoat is needed, efua's too perfectly placed: just close enough and just guilty enough. the inconvenience of her freedom guarantees lack of it. and perhaps the crown cannot easily kill the voice, but it can remove the mouth.
tortuga. the raiders.
it is for her 15 year old son and husband that she initially does it. ( wcs alert - son would be now 25 )
tortuga is the edge of the map where respectable society's discarded thing come to die, and she accepts the colonial posting. it is a joke, the myth of the crown. the gems she bejewelled it with glint even uglier, fractured, from this part of the world. she is not easily sentimental enough to miss her family in the night. but having no place for her voice now; that she can safely and loudly mourn.
what she does not expect is the myth of the sea. the pirates, at first she thinks, are barbaric. except:
there hardly are rules. the's hardly a boringly noble lie to uphold. and the fire, oh —
is there fire. is there a stage.
methods & personality.
aboard the raider's revenge, efua asante's entirely concerned with perpetrating the myth of it through practical, visible, hearable things. the drums beat with deliberate rhythm, matching the pace of movement and breath until an enemy crew finds itself bracing for a battle that has not yet begun. the sound that turns waiting into its own kind of terror. parrots, after months of stubborn training, descending on a ship and with eerie fragments of a repeated song. ship's burners torch up the sky, turning the enemy vessel into a theatre of flame and confusion. a spectacle. you won't know where to look.
but you will hear them, and you'll wish you had not.
personally, it is what this life provides: the thrill and the beauty of beating drums, you can feel it, when the crew's breath becomes one before battle, the adrenaline spilling through air. she will not endure blandness. unremarkable things must die.
