Ptarmigan Doone || 39 || Drift of the Storm's Eye || (Oliver Jackson-Cohen fc) INTRO
Zarin Kahn || 34 || Dockworker/ Ship's carpenter at Deserter's Dock || (Assad Zaman fc) INTRO
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Ptarmigan Doone || 39 || Drift of the Storm's Eye || (Oliver Jackson-Cohen fc) INTRO
Zarin Kahn || 34 || Dockworker/ Ship's carpenter at Deserter's Dock || (Assad Zaman fc) INTRO
Mary enjoyed Zarin's company and acknowledgement about how complicated her task was. Not only was she trying to find her brother, but she was also looking for revenge on the pirate that wronged her. Though, being a rouge made it more difficult than she'd like.
"The high rewards for pirates are giving everyone incentive" Who wouldn't want to have an entire month's salary by turning in a troublesome pirate? Sooner or later the entire town will start blaming each other, pirate or not. She made sure to stay close to Zarin and not run off into the shadows.
Mary was curious about the Blacksmith. Last time she heard, someone associated with her betrayal had become an apprentice there. She did not want to burden Zarin, so she did not meant ion it to him. "I was hoping you would say the ship had worms and not the boatswain" Mary said with a small chuckle. "I don't think either of us are that talented at medicine"
Everyone had a story. A reason for who they were and why. It was easy to imagine people were like ships. Distinct builds and personalities and distinct scars, visible and invisible. Zarin rarely went looking for trouble. He just dealt with trouble when it appeared. And he dealt with people individually as much as he could. Let their actions speak for themselves. And he found himself enjoying Mary's company. At the comment about the rewards he just gave a soft nod of acknowledgement. He understood why. Money was a powerful motivator.
Zarin shot her a grin as she appreciated his little joke. "Gods help anyone that comes to me looking for medical advice. I can let you what's wrong with a ship by the sounds she makes under someone's foot. But what's wrong with people? A complete mystery."
the packed end of dorian's pipe glowed a deep orange as he puffed again on it, blinking slowly as zarin's words settled between them. as he opened his mouth and watched the smoke slowly climb from it and up into the rafters, controlled by a practiced tongue, he pondered his answer. "hm." he blew the last remaining curl of smoke from his lungs as he cast his gaze across the table at zarin once more. "i think people use 'thunderclaps' as an excuse to build themselves into something they might find easier to deal with, or even what others might want them to be. son las pequeĂąas cosas. that is who we are whether we like it or not."
he shuffled slightly in his seat, draping himself half across the arm of his chair as his legs stretched long, head tipped back as his grin stretched all the wider. a deep chuckle left him, and he found his gaze wandering up to watch the smoke still rising through the dim light of the tavern. "i'm not easy to fall in love with, z, i am easy to fuck. you aren't confusing the two, are you amor?" his voice was laced thickly with amusement, his eyes dark and mischievous as they settled once more on his company. "and this grin is of no importance." he waved a hand dismissively, though still his lips curled slyly. then his fingers came together, tapping over his thumb one at a time in a rhythm as he mused. "i tend not to ponder over rum, gin is rather better for being maudlin, but it would be rude to not indulge you. since you flatter me so much let me ask you this â is a man who he believes he is, or what others whisper about him when he leaves the room?"
Zarin let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh but softer, more like the sound of weariness easing for just a moment. âAnd what's wrong with building something?â he asked, tilting his head toward the smoke curling above them. But the question was more tease than challenge. He shrugged, âBut maybe youâre right. but enough small things piled up become big things.â His hand lingered on his cup, but his eyes, dark, steady, lifted back to Dorian.
The tease about love versus fucking earned a twitch of his mouth, crooked and amused. âYou give yourself less credit than you should,â he said quietly. âItâs easy to fuck a good looking stranger. Maybe they fall in love with just the image of you. But they do it all the same.â He leaned forward then, the distance between them narrowing by another inch, the candlelight catching on the lines of his face. "But I do know the difference.â His gaze softened, something raw but unashamed flickering across it. He let out a soft sigh, âI guess I have a romantic heart for others. Not for myself.â
"It's a little late to switch to gin tonight. Apologies for being maudlin." When Dorian posed his question, Zarin let the silence stretch a beat too long, as if weighing it more carefully than most men would. âI think a man is both. What he believes, and what they whisper when he leaves. But the truth, the marrow of him. Itâs in the things he canât hide. The quiet ways he shows up. The way he makes people feel, whether he means to or not.â He held Dorianâs eyes, unflinching. âAnd you?â his smile edged wry, but the warmth didnât fade, âWhat do you believe a man is?â
"Oh, I'd hate you to think me so glib," she replied with a furrow to her brow, lifting her eyes to catch his in a secure but soft grip. "I only meant the mindset can be the same in the most dire of situations. You've caught me off-duty, Mr. Doone." The ease in her voice lent no clues to truth or lies, merely laid between them like a blanket - he could choose to sit and bask, or not. A picnic among stalemates, equals.
"Aye, we are nothing if not patient, aren't we," the choice of fraternal language was as deliberate as how many buttons were sewn on a blouse, the precision of strokes it took to smith a sword into its proper shape, the placement of stars in the night sky. A reader of the heavens' maps could pick up on it as easily as one of the Wake's own, a gesture that signaled not only respect for the rival's comparable expertise, but an adoration of it. "You are a rare sort, from what I hear, Mr. Doone," she grinned in the same wry, borderline impish way he cast toward her, not a shred of malice to be found; in fact, there was an enjoyment in the play, "I have great admiration for you, even if it must be from afar."
A hum purred from her nose, the kind that could draw in anyone looking for a soft place to lay their head, a gentle confirmation of peace and comfort. "I do," she agreed. "I always know what I want." Discernment lived by many aliases. What was wanted or what was best, what was tactical and what was necessary. What lived on the edge between hedonism and strategy. "And you - do you follow what you want like stars on a map that lives in your head? Or is dry land the place you let yourself get lost?"
"Off-duty? Didn't know there was such a thing for your kind." Dooneâs mouth curved, a slow thing, dry and edged, as her words lingered. Admiration. Want. Which meant that she knew more about him than he'd thought. An interesting if a slightly worrisome revelation. He let the silence stretch long enough for the marketâs din to fill in the gaps before speaking again. âCan't speak to what you've heard,â he said, voice pitched low, threaded with a grain of humor. âAfar is nice and safe. But when has anything we've done ever been safe?â His gaze caught hers again...steady, deliberate, a storm held tight behind glass. He turned his head and finished the fig he'd been eating. Looking up at the blue sky a few scattered clouds, a small flock of birds flying East.
He tapped the compass on his chest, a superstitious habit, then seemed to remember where he was. He leaned a fraction closer, not crowding, just bending the air between them tighter. âYou say you always know what you want. Dangerous sort of truth to hand someone like me.â Doone tilted his head slightly, studying her the way he might study a shifting sky. âEven when people are sure of the what. It's the how that trips 'em up." A pause, his eyes never leaving hers, wry and edged with something like admiration. âI'm never lost. Aye, maybe I don't know where I am for a moment, but lost? Never." His voice drew a little deeper but softer, like he was sharing a secret, "And I'd prefer if you just called me Doone. Don't need the Mr, rare sort or not.â
"Sometimes one job takes multiple steps I guess" Mary returned Zarin's half smile. Of course she couldn't stop thanking him. Did Zarin know how much that conversation at the docks had assisted her?
She picked up the bag. Zarin was right, they really were lighter than they looked. "I'd rather be taken for a carpenter than a pirate on the current climate" Mary slung the box on to her shoulders and walked beside Zarin. "I'm charmed that you think I'm striking. Where is your next assignment again?"
Zarin nodded, "It can." most of his jobs took multiple steps, often far more than most realized. He was curious what that job she had mentioned was. This single thing with many steps but he knew better than to ask. He hadn't pointed her in a safe direction for the thanks, he'd done it because he'd liked her and did something to help her keep her head out of a noose. He wasn't overly altruistic but he did listen to his gut and had no love for the Crown or the Navy.
Watching Mary pick up the kit he smiled as she was able to lift it without difficulty. "Understandable. But the way the town is going I think people are starting to see pirates or pirate collaborators everywhere. When pointing a finger pays it doesn't really matter who you're pointing at after a while." As they walked through the market it felt a little odd not to be carrying his tools but as he'd said most people barely gave them a second glance as they moved through. He glanced over when she said she was charmed. "Glad you found it charming. But I was just speaking the truth." At the question he let out a soft breath of laughter, "Assignment makes it sound very official. I'm buying some hinges at the Blacksmiths for a cabinet. And then I am supposed to be meeting a Boatswain of a local Schooner that has a bad case of ships-worm. The ship that is, not the man." He glanced over to Mary, "The glamorous life of a ships carpenter."
Missing was complicated by the least of standards. It denoted truths of love, wanting, sorrow, things Jo had not deliberately avoided but simply grew beyond, the way flowers need larger pots once they've found fertile soil. Lives spent at sea, where loss was inevitable and tragedy lurked over the crest of each wave, was a choice that carried the expectation that attachment was distracting at best, and perilous at worst. But she wasn't a ship, or a statue. She'd known love, and she'd faced loss. Tear stains on a dress long shed and burned. Any affection she felt for Zarin was met with understanding and respect. Jo adored everything he was, even if his presence was impermanent. "I know," she assured him, keeping her voice quiet, as if not to startle him. "You show it, though."
The figurine fit in his hand like it'd been carved exactly to settle into each groove and hill of his palm. A warmth budded and bloomed in the center of her chest, spreading like ink through water onto her face. He was right, in a sense - her penchant for knowing things often preceded people's own knowing of themselves, and the ability to surprise and delight was still a treasure somewhere in the part of her heart that remembered being a little girl. His joke of jealousy sprouted a laugh in her belly, and she shrugged. "Normally I wouldn't challenge her on any matter less than life or death," she teased, "but when it comes to staking claim on your heart, I'll take my chances."
She regarded him with a tenderness reserved for memory and story, fiction by any other name, and yet as real and as tangible as the salt in the sea air, the wind that carried the sails. Perhaps that was a kind of love, the wind that set the ships offshore, never to claim them, or cage them. If he were a ship, it was her duty to become the wind, if it was his desire to head for each new horizon. He caught her eye the way a child might capture a firefly, and she willingly landed in his palms. A flicker of light between them, a safe haven, and a smile that spoke of a promise upon every return. "Maybe that's the idea."
With practiced precision and an ease that normally wouldn't have thought to have matched, Jo took a single step toward him, lifting onto her toes to press a soft, chaste kiss on the warm plane of his cheek. Just as seamless and deliberately as it seemed to happen, she swept around him, popping up onto the rail to sit and watch him work, a weightlessness about her. "Go on, I've distracted you long enough. I'll look on as you work like it's the theater. Maybe you can narrate for me, so I'll feel a bit less like a ghost and more like your assistant." She grinned, playful and light. "Or maybe you can tell me stories of everything you've been up to while you've been away."
Zarin didnât move when she kissed his cheek. Not because he was stone, but because he wanted the moment to last as it was, unbroken. He breathed in, slow, the faintest shift of his jaw betraying that it had landed deeper than the simple brush of lips on skin. A soft warmth on his cheeks and the feel of the air against where her lips pressed. By the time she perched on the rail, he had turned the figurine once in his hand and set it carefully by his tools, somewhere it wouldnât risk falling. âYou always did have a flair for distraction,â he said, voice low but softened by the smile that ghosted across his face. âBut I donât mind the theater. You make for better company than half the drunks in port, thatâs certain.â
He crouched, unrolling the oiled canvas with care, pulling out a chisel and mallet with the reverence of a priest laying out relics. âAn assistant, though?â His glance flicked up at her, amusement tugging at his mouth. âThat comes with duties, Jo. Youâll need to fetch me nails, sweep sawdust, and stand still long enough to hold timber in place when Iâve only got two hands. Not all glamour and narration, Iâm afraid.â He smirked faintly, testing the spar with his thumb. âBut if you insist on the role, Iâll give you the easy tasks. Like reminding me when Iâve gone too long without a drink.â
For a while, he worked in silence, the steady rhythm of the chisel filling the air between them. It wasnât avoidance. It was how he spoke, measured, with the pauses given weight. Finally, he said, without looking up: âTunis was hot, loud, full of people trying to sell you less than they promised. Same as anywhere, if you think about it.â A glance, a half-smile. âBut the domes were white as bone, and the air thick with spice and leather. Worth seeing. But also no burden to leave when a better offer appeared.â
His eyes lifted again, meeting hers with steady fondness. âBut Iâd trade a hundred domes for a steady pair of hands nearby. Even if all you do is sit there and claim to be my assistant.â He continued working for a while longer before he asked, "What about you and the Wake? I know some of it. The blockade, the wave... But not before that."
open starter located at dead man's bluff
pockets had been heavier before setting foot to the card table, && yet, as they emptied, teodosio found his spirits rising. so the money flowed, as did the laughter, and the rum. as long as he could afford the next hand && the next pitcher, life was good.
but then - no, he'd only finally just noticed. blinking through a tipsy haze of merriment && good booze, the frown replaced the wide grin that the pirate wore, and he slammed a hand down against the cracked wooden playing table. " damn you, you rat! snake! i saw that, i saw it just now! you traded out the dice for your own! prove to me they aren't weighted, or i'll show you how a cheat is handled by a harbinger! " bold words, all but shouted in a vivacious howl to the competitor opposite teodosio. heat crawled up his spine as irritation grew, the other looking awfully smug for having been caught, and teo was about to leap across the table && strangle them there && there.
yet - a hand on his shoulder stopped him, and teo glowered at who had decided to step in, ruining his chance for revenge. " you have a cheat across from us! " he accused, scarred finger jabbing out towards the other. " i'm owed fifteen pounds back, or i'll teach a lesson here && now! are you with me, or against me? "
Dooneâs hand stayed steady on Teoâs shoulder, the weight of it firm enough to keep him from springing across the table, but not so tight it could be mistaken for restraint. His green eyes flicked from the flushed, furious archivist to the smug-faced cheat opposite, and then down to the dice in question. Heâd seen this play a hundred times in a hundred ports. Always ended in blood or broken teeth unless someone read the room first. âEasy, Teo. You know I'm with you.â Doone said low, his voice like the hush before rain. âCheats thrive on noise.â He lifted his hand from Teoâs shoulder, ink-stained fingers drumming once against the wood instead, like punctuation.
Then his gaze cut back to the accused, calm but sharp as a reef. âMy friend hereâs got the eye of a hawk, and Iâve never known him to call storm without lightning behind it. So if youâre going to sit there with your smug face, best show us those dice are clean. Now.â The words werenât loud, but they carried, Doone wasn't the type to make demands without purpose behind it.
Doone leaned back just slightly, not casual, measured. âRoll the dice.â He let the silence stretch, green eyes fixed steady on the cheat. Waiting for the roll of the dice before saying, âFifteen pounds seems fair to me. Or the table decides how to balance the books.â Then, with a sidelong glance at Teo, the faintest curl of dry humor touched his mouth. âWhat do you say, Teo? Should we let him buy his way out, or no?â
"Aye, hence why I'm an Archivist for this crew," she chuckled. For all her life, she hadn't wanted for anything. There'd been no need for her to find a job to earn her wage; with the Aslanbey family money, she could fund anything and everything she wanted to do and learn. And oh, was there much she wanted to learn. All her life, she read each and any book she could get her hands on while hiring the best tutors that could come to Mardin from across the globe. It was with much great luck that she'd been able to obtain all the learning and develop critical thinking skills for herself. Fixing up cups for Doone and herself, Klio sighed softly at his words. "I know," she mused and held out a tulip glass full of tea before continuing, "I the same for you. With the brig break-in not too long back, I would not be surprised should there be more of the crown's men on our shores soon."
She hadn't thought about that at the time. Nor did she regret it. She would do the break-in all over again if given the choice between doing so or not. Arthur is alive. That's more than she could've ever hoped for. "At least the sea and sky are still constant," she says before taking a sip. The Historian could feel her heart aching. For the longest time, she had wished to stay on the island as long as possible. Now... Well, she was ready to be back on the sea. To face the horizons and write down all kinds of stories along the way. "I hope to be back out to sea soon. I must admit, I am quite ready to bid Tortuga farewell for a moment." Looking up, her smile was soft. She shook some of her long bangs out of her eyes. "You haven't faced any trouble, have you? I would hate to think so."
Doone accepted the tulip glass with a small incline of his head, the steam curling up like incense in the dim light. He let it rest in his palms for a moment before drinking, as though weighing its warmth against the weight of her words. Her comment about the breakout drew his sharp attention. A stirring of curiosity. "I heard some talk about that... Very daring. And stupid. But there's no love lost between the the Storm's Eye and the Oathbreaker." He paused then shrugged, "But if it was my Captain? I might've done the same."
âConstant,â he echoed softly. âAye. Sky and seaâll still be here when the Crownâs gallows rot to splinters.â He finally sipped the tea, mouth twitching into the faintest smile at the taste. At her question, his gaze drifted down into the dark liquid, then back to her, steady as ever. âTrouble? Always. Itâs just a question of whether itâs mine to carry, or someone elseâs trying to drop it on my deck.â His thumb tapped once against the rim of the glass. âNothing with teeth yet, though. No hunters on my trail. No blades in my ribs. Just whispers, and the kind of looks in town that make you check the shadows as you walk home. And a few comments that were corrected with my fists.â He leaned back slightly, his sea-glass eyes lingered on her, calm but intent. âYouâre not wrong to be ready to leave Tortuga behind. Landâs beginning to feel less like harbor, more like trap.â He raised his glass to her, quiet and deliberate. âSo no. No trouble yet. But I donât trust the quiet. Never have.â He looked down at the tea for a moment. "What about you? Troubles of your own making or troubles of others? Figured there had to be some troubles for you to be so scarce."
Theia watched as the other crewmember turned her flask in his hands, and felt a flicker of embarrassment at how little remained inside. It must have felt weightless in his large, calloused palms. She did not look up at him as he spoke. Instead her gaze followed the slow orbit of his fingers instead, grateful for the distraction. Once, she had kept her hands busy braiding rope, the knots holding her mind as firmly as they held the lines. She could not recall when she had abandoned that habit, letting it unravel into something darker. âDrinking from is the right choice of words,â she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the muted creak of the shipâs timbers.
She listened in silence to his words of the tides, of gifts and curses, until that humorless laugh escaped him. That sound pulled a small, dry snort from her. She shook her head faintly against his shoulder, not yet ready to meet his eyes, though the storm within her steadied by the barest margin. âHow the captain managed to gather a crew of madmen with either an arrogant lack of fear or a death wish is beyond me,â she said. âBut given the name of our vessel, I suppose your taste should come as no surprise.â
His gaze pressed against her until she finally looked up, meeting his narrowed study with her own. She swallowed hard before speaking, her thoughts circling the dangerous idea of allies beyond their own deck. How they could be both a shield and a blade, as well as much of a liability to her as she was to them. âSometimes⌠it feels like things would be easier if I were alone again.â
When he held the flask back out to her, she shook her head and nudged it away, pushing temptation a fraction farther from her aching hands. âItâs not the sea that took, Doone. And if she did, I imagine it would be peaceful to yield to her pull⌠like being carried away.â Her sigh was soft, but there was longing threaded through it. An ache for the deepâs quiet cocoon, for the weight of water that shut out the world. âI wish I could believe you, that the Crown wouldnât break me. But they have already come close once before. Why should this time be any different?â
Doone didnât look away when she finally met his eyes. He let her words sink like stones, settling into the deep quiet between them. The notion of being alone again... he understood it too well. It stirred something old in him, but he didnât let it surface, not fully. âYouâd last alone,â he said, steady and certain. A short nod more to himself than to her. âNo doubt in my mind. But thatâs not the same as living. Like I saidâ He turned the flask once in his hand before setting it down on the floorboards between them, leaving it where either of them could reach, or leave untouched. âYou're right. It wasn't the sea. She carries away, but she gives too. Always has. And if she meant to take you, Theia, she wouldâve already.â His mouth twisted, not quite a smile, but something close. âYouâre still here. That means something. Your chart. Your path. And here you are still.â A small pause and the lightest bit of a tease in his voice, "Wallowing as you say."
He leaned back against the wall beside her, gaze drifting to the low curve of the ceiling above, as if he could still see the stars through timber and canvas. âThe Crown will try again. The Charter will try again. They always do. Thatâs their way. But they donât know you like we do. They don't know who you are now. What you've become. What you're becoming.â His voice dropped, quieter now, more an oath than reassurance: âDifferent this time, because youâre not facing it alone. Youâve got the Eye at your back.â A pause, then the faintest dry flicker of humor. âAnd if nothing else, weâve got the luck of madmen with a death wish. Which -between you and me- has carried us further than it has any right to. It's not an arrogant lack of fear. It's knowing that today might be the day. But it also might not be." He stopped and smiled, something far less self-aware than he usually looked. "If the drink doesn't give you a headache, I surely will with all my jabbering. But drinking alone invites demons to whisper in the ears."
nya only smiled and said nothing else, while her kindness and generosity were true; she could be a deadly poison, slowly dripping into those who were deserving of such a treatment. but to the outside world her true friendlyness was the only thing they saw and that was the point, wasn't it? she was the person that people could trust to heal and protect them, they just never knew how far she would go to achieve such a thing.
she listened with patience at his request and chuckled. "well, i'm glad you're not in any sort of trouble." sure, nya had plenty of connections and people who could help if doone was truly in trouble but none of them would do it for the kindness of their own hearts. "you're thinking about what comes after, that's smart." she stalled, of course nya new things - people talked to her and whispers were plenty around the place but still, she had an image to maintain. "if you're looking for the island's secrets, there's a person i can recommend to you but i highly doubt he'll give that information for free." sure, she could ask dorian to do it as a favor for her but given what doone was requesting, a single favor won't cover it all. "i can only point you to the people that might give you what you seek, i'm only a physician- i treat people, not secrets." she chuckled, her innocent demeanor shinning through.
but there was curiosity as to what exactly doone was looking for, just information? "may i ask if there's something specific you're looking for?" she tilted her head, maybe he was simply a person that was looking for any sort of advantage and in tortuga, nya could understand it.
Doone let out a faint huff at her words, half amusement, half the sound of a man whoâd heard a truth wrapped in silk. âYou treat people, not secrets,â he echoed softly. âAnd yet⌠the two bleed into each other more often than not.â His fingers tapped three times against the compass at his chest, as if anchoring himself, then fell still. At her question, he took a moment before answering, gaze turning from her to the crooked line of Tortugaâs streets ahead. âSpecific?â He repeated it like he was tasting the word. âNot names, not yet. I donât need to know who whispered what to the Crown. Thatâll come to light when it matters. And there are a few that are gone that won't be missed. But what I want is the shape of it. Where the cracks are spreading. Which places are still friendly and which aren't.â His sea-glass eyes flicked back to her, sharp but steady. âSome people are less discriminating in their name droppin'.â
He shifted his weight, drawing a hand over his beard. âWorldâs turning fast, Doc. Too fast. Iâve seen the omens, birds gone too quiet, storms that shift before they should.â Then, softer, with the barest flicker of something like gratitude in his rough voice: âIf all you can do is point me toward someone who trades in such things, Iâll take it. Iâll even take your warning that it wonât come cheap. Nothing worth while ever does. But coming from you, itâll be a map worth following.â A pause. His mouth curled just enough at the corner. âAnd after, Iâll still take that tea. If it's still on offer.â
Ginika smiled, more mirt to her face. "You are not wrong, I do think we do it better, being the eye of the storm, cleaner, quicker. But there is something to be said about both ways. And we are too similar, though those are problems for the oceans. If I acted upon my gut feeling whenever I made land, I would return to my ship with blood on my clothes every day." She moved her hands over the skirt of her dress. "And these are much too fine and pretty to spoil."
She touched a hand to her chin, a gesture to say that she was joking. Or perhaps a gesture to say he was safe for now.
She thought about his offer, then her smile became more amused, more on edge. She was eager for something that got her blood pumping. "There are plenty of games we could play, it's not that which matters, but what we will be betting on. I suggest a quick game, and whomever loses has to tell a secret nobody else knows. The winner deals for the next game."
Dooneâs coin stilled on the scarred wood, the faint glint of metal catching the lamplight before he pinned it flat with two fingers. He let her words hang, studying her with that same unhurried calm, like a man tracing the shape of a storm cloud he already knew was bound to break. âCleaner, maybe, I'll give you quieter... Quicker? I would argue.â he said at last, tone as even as the tide. His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. âStill⌠Iâd rather your dresses stay unstained tonight. Be a shame to waste the color.â A dry note in his voice, teasing, edged, never careless.
At her suggestion of a game, Doone leaned back slightly in his chair, sea-glass eyes fixed on her with that same steady intensity he saved for maps and stars. âSecrets,â he echoed, slow, thoughtful. âDangerous stakes, that. A manâs coin spends easy, but a secret?â he tapped the side of his temple with one ink-stained finger, âThat lingers. Cuts deeper than steel, if you know how to wield it.â
He let the pause stretch, then tilted his head, the faintest glint of mischief breaking through the caution. âBut Iâve played worse odds.â He gestured to the dealer with two fingers, voice pitched low, steady as weather about to turn. âDeal us in then, Madam Wake. Letâs see what sort of storm youâve brought to my table.â
Zinas scoffed. "But not everyone is a liar," he said. Or so he hoped. If everyone was a liar, could he even trust... anyone? He bit the inside of his mouth, thoughts already coming to his brain about the woman who had taken him in. What if she knew more than she let on? No, no, not right now. He instead tried to focus on the other's eyes, scanning his hands, the muscles, the scars. He knew they were his hands, but now he saw them too telling a story that he was not privy to.
Hair stood on end when the other touched his skin. His body felt warm, uncomfortable, and he almost pulled his hand away. Instead he kept them steady, tried to see what Doone saw, but found himself unable to pick the signs. When he mentioned the breaking, Zinas frowned. Once the other was no longer touching him, he took his hands back, holding them closer to his face.
"The one steals, the other... probably doesn't..." he said absent-mindedly. "How do you see my fingers have been broken?" he asked, turning his hand around, then touching his fingers.
"Navigator... on a pirate ship?" he asked, only now realising that he'd made that assumption based on the scar. Pirates had scars. He looked at the scars on his hands again. What if?
He bit his lip this time, finding the other to be too nice. But also saying things that seemed to resonate, and he did take a minute. He did feel it, he did find that he wanted to be closer to the ocean. "Well then, if pirates and sailors both have that, then no... very little difference."
Dooneâs grin widened just a touch, not sharp, but knowing, like heâd just heard something worth tucking away for later. He kept his hands slow and steady, like he was drawing a map. Each movement a deliberate line. "Didn't say everyone was a liar. Just that everyone lies." He shifted his weight, rolling the knife-scarred palm of his own hand upward, showing the crooked knuckle that had never quite set right. âSee that? Healed wrong. Your fingers? Same story. They donât line neat when you curl âem. Little bone shifts, angles off just enough a man who knows what to look for can spot it.â He flexed his hand once, the bones clicking faintly. âPainâs a language. Leaves its own map behind.â
Dooneâs gaze drifted back toward the black seam of horizon where sea kissed sky. His voice stayed low, almost thoughtful. âStealing, fighting, running cargo⌠all ships steal, one way or another. Even navies. The Charter too. They steal men from taverns, steal years off lives, steal blood from anyone in their way. Pirates just donât bother dressing it up respectable.â Turning back, he studied Zinas with that same patient intensity he gave the stars. âSailor, pirate, doesnât matter what you call it. The sea knew you and you knew a ship.â
A faint smirk ghosted across his face. He tipped his head, eyes tracing Zinasâs face rather than his hands now. âThatâs it,â he said quietly, âvery little difference. Sometimes none at all. Mostly itâs the flag you fly and the stories people tell after youâre gone.â Doone leaned back a little, "You seem a little focused on Pirates to be sure. But I don't think you were one. If that's any consolation." He paused and added with an easiness that belied his next words, "If you'd been on a Pirate ship they would've made sure you were dead."
A moment passes, a breath, and then Ned realises that he knows the voice that answers him. He's served Doone enough times at the tavern, and when he says he wouldn't dream of stopping him, Ned finds he believes him, a measure of tension leaving the set of his shoulders. "Dying isnae dignified, but death ought to be. And it's up to the living to make it so," he says softly, sadly, "Whoever these people were, whatever they've done, they all deserve to rest now. They've already had their punishment, this display is just... cruel."
Ned balks to hear his actions so plainly called a crime, but there's no disputing the veracity of the statement. They had been warned, all of them, that any attempt to interfere with the gibbet or those that dangle from it would be under penalty of death. He had grappled with this decision, just as he had the only other time in his life he dared to be disobedient, but the correct course of action never became any less clear. "The greater crime would be to leave them," he says firmly, against the flutter of fear in the pit of his stomach, "But if ye would help me, I would be grateful. It'll be quicker with two." Shifting the awkward weight of the body he's still holding against himself, he offers his knife to Doone without hesitation, "I can hold them steady, if ye can cut them down."
Doone looked at the knife offered him, the iron catching a brief gleam of moonlight. For a long moment he didnât reach for it, only studying Nedâs face, drawn tight with purpose, eyes glassy but steady. A young man standing in the teeth of the gallowsâ shadow with more conviction than most men. Finally, Doone let out a short breath through his nose, half a laugh, half a sigh. âYouâve got more steel in you than sense. Keep yours...â he murmured, but but he pulled a knife out of one of his own pockets, a small nod of his head. "Brought my own." Not the first time heâd cut rope in the dark.
He stepped in close, boots crunching over stray gravel, and reached up toward the first swaying body. The hemp was rough beneath the blade, creaking like it might protest being severed. âMost times the dead don't care.â he said low, steady, âAnd the world doesnât thank men for mercy. Most times, it eats them alive for it.â The rope parted with a sharp snap, and the corpse dropped heavy into Nedâs waiting arms. Doone crouched briefly, adjusting the slack weight with him, then rose to tackle the next. His voice carried quiet through the hanging hush. âBut,â he added, almost to himself, âI suppose you think it's better to be eaten for mercy than remembered for cruelty?â
Another rope gave way. Another body fell. The gallows creaked above them, less burdened but no less grim. Doone worked without hurry, the knife sure in his hand, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp, watching Nedâs every movement as much as the swaying dead. âYou keep at this,â he said finally, a note of warning in the rasp of his voice, âand sooner or later, folkâll start calling you saint or sinner. Trouble either way with those.â A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, quick as a ghost. The final body landed and Doone stepped down, putting the knife away. "What now Saint Ned? You wanna bury 'em? Say a few dignified words?"
Bartholomew sighed and bowed his head. The usually horrible pirate looked weary. He offered the seat by him to Doone. "Just avoid getting on my nerves. Those are oh so difficult to repair" Bartholomew was not close to the Drift of The Storm's Eye but he did not see him as an enemy either. Often, Doone was a little bit too superstitious for the likes of Bartholomew who built his beliefs on hard science.
It wasn't a secret that Tortuga was going to the dogs. Sure, trade might have opened back up but no pirate was safe. Bartholomew noticed executions had increased greatly but there were too many soldiers always around to reap what was left. What was an unethical scientist to do?
He took another sip to calm himself from going into a rage. The Crown was only a small part of his problem. Bartholomew's bloody captain decided to pick a fight with two other pirate crews. It wasn't like they needed more enemies now of all time! Not to mention, the people of Tortuga were so behind on scientific knowledge they didn't even know you could catch disease from all the corpses. "The island rots quicker day by day" Bartholomew muttered just loud enough for his new companion to hear. "What is it you must know?"
Doone eased into the seat like it was a truce struck, not a chair offered. The faintest flicker of a smile at Bartholomewâs warning, but nothing so careless as to count as humor. âWouldnât dream of it,â he said, tone dry enough to pass for sincerity if you didnât know better. âLast thing I needâs a surgeon with a grudge.â He leaned back, the tavern noise a low thrum around them, and gave Bartholomewâs muttering a small nod. âQuicker by the hour,â he agreed, voice low. âFeels like the islandâs holding its breath, waiting on something sharp to break the air. And when it doesâŚâ A slight shake of his head, green eyes glinting faintly. âIt wonât be the Crown clearing the bodies.â
The little book in his coat weighed heavy against his ribs, cipher-scribbled observations pressed between its pages. He didnât pull it, not here, but he kept the thought close. âWhat I need to know,â he said finally, leaning forward just enough to catch the other manâs eye, âis how deep you reckon the rotâs sunk. Surface filth, or marrow-deep? I can chart storms well enough. But pestilence...â a dry shrug, âthatâs your current, not mine.â He let the words hang, respectful enough to acknowledge Bartholomewâs expertise, but not so deferential as to strip away the edge. Then, softer, a thread of curiosity woven with calculation: âBut I figured. Maybe you tell me what youâre seeing in town. And Iâll tell you what the windâs been carrying in from beyond Tortuga.â
Who: closed for Dairo @stcrmings
Where: The Storm's Eye
The Stormâs Eye had been moored in Tortugaâs harbor, her sails furled but never resting, her crew restless as wolves pacing a cage. At least that's how Doone saw it. None of them were meant for this land life anymore. The docks below churned with the usual chaos, fishmongers shouting, coin clinking, soldiers and dockworkers pretending not to stare too long at pirates. But to Doone it felt wrong. Too quiet in the wrong places, too loud in others. Like the sea before a squall. He leaned against the rail, fingers tapping thrice against the compass at his chest... habit, ward, prayer... and let his eyes sweep the horizon. The omens had been heavy of late: gulls circling at dusk, a blood-colored sunset that had lingered too long, the unnerving stillness of a night without wind. Heâd seen signs before storms, before betrayals, before shifts in power, and all of them whispered the same truth that the world was changing. Why else would they still be here?
He'd left the rail and walked to the figure at the aft. The measured tread of boots following him. He stopped not to far from his Captain and his finally spoke. âHarborâs rotten quiet,â Doone murmured, voice low, steady, eyes still fixed outward. âBlockadeâs gone. But the town watches us like weâre already on the gallows. Birds vanish at dawn, then circle again at dusk. Fishermen pulling nets too thin, soldiers drilling too thick. Itâs not peace, Captain. Itâs the hush before a storm breaks.â He thumbed the scar at his cheek, dry humor cutting through. âAnd Iâve never trusted still waters.â
Only then did he glance over, green eyes meeting Dairoâs, carrying the weight of the years beside him through storm and fire. âWeâve built the Eye into a legend, but legends draw hunters. We've got our alliances but they wonât be enough if the Crown presses harder. If the townsfolk keep selling names.â His voice dipped lower, meant for the captainâs ears alone. âWeâll need more than the weather on our side this time. More hands. More shadows at our back. More than weâve trusted before.â Doone straightened from the rail, standing solid, compass tapping once more between his fingers. âTell me the course, Captain. Iâll see us steer it true. But mark my words... the seaâs shifting. Weâll need more than just her love to keep afloat.â
For weeks Klio has made her presence scarce on the island. Hiding away mainly in either her abode within an apartment above a shop or onboard the Harbinger. There were times in which she has needed to go into the Shambles Market for food and other necessities. But, fortunately, she has been able to afford to remain hidden for the most part. She wasn't sure if her part in breaking Arthur free from the brig had been made known or not. But the Archivist certainly wasn't going to try and gain that knowledge. Not when it could cost her her life.
Aboard the ship, she had been updating some documents when she heard someone make their presence known. Her hand had hovered over her pistol as she looked. Sighing with relief that it was Doone instead of a bloody redcoat. "You're more than good," she mused. Moving her hand away while turning to give him her full attention. Her gaze cascaded down on the cipher, her fingertips tracing the edges while her eyes moved up to him. Her lips moving into a small smile. "Thank you. I'll use this knowledge wisely."
In many ways, she greatly appreciated Ptmarigan Doone. She saw much of herself in the manâand much of him within herself. While she wished to see him more, the pirate was just relieved to be able to see him at all. That he was right here in front of her instead of off in the brig. "Would you like some tea? Turkish, I promise. No British tea will pass these lips." Klio's gaze softened after she mused a little jokingly. "I am glad to see you here, Doone. I've been hoping that you were okay. My presence has been made scarce these past few weeks."
Dooneâs shoulders eased a fraction at her words, the faintest trace of tension slipping off him like rain from oilskin. He let the corner of his mouth curl, wry and quiet. âTurkish, then. Youâve a better sense than most of whatâs worth keeping close.â He set his hat on the edge of the desk, fingers brushing once more over the cipher as if reluctant to part with it fully. Her mention of absence wasnât lost on him. He studied her for a moment, ink-stained fingers, that steady calm edged with caution, the kind that didnât fade even in supposed sanctuary. It mirrored his own in ways he didnât name. âScarcityâs wise,â he murmured, low. âThereâs been too many eyes looking where they shouldnât, too many tongues wagging.â His gaze flicked briefly toward the low ceiling beams, then back to her. âIâd rather see you scarce than swinging on the gallows.â
The words were blunt, but beneath them lay the weight of care he rarely put plain. He leaned a little closer, elbows braced on his knees. âAs for me? Still afloat. Still star gazing.... The sea and sky've seen fit not to forsake me yet. I'm not very good at blending in. Not like some can.â A ghost of a grin followed, dry as salt. âWalking these decks feels steadier than the dry land lately.â He let the quiet settle a beat, eyes resting on her rather than the books. âGlad to see you, too, Klio. More than you think.â
For weeks Klio has made her presence scarce on the island. Hiding away mainly in either her abode within an apartment above a shop or onboard the Harbinger. There were times in which she has needed to go into the Shambles Market for food and other necessities. But, fortunately, she has been able to afford to remain hidden for the most part. She wasn't sure if her part in breaking Arthur free from the brig had been made known or not. But the Archivist certainly wasn't going to try and gain that knowledge. Not when it could cost her her life.
Aboard the ship, she had been updating some documents when she heard someone make their presence known. Her hand had hovered over her pistol as she looked. Sighing with relief that it was Doone instead of a bloody redcoat. "You're more than good," she mused. Moving her hand away while turning to give him her full attention. Her gaze cascaded down on the cipher, her fingertips tracing the edges while her eyes moved up to him. Her lips moving into a small smile. "Thank you. I'll use this knowledge wisely."
In many ways, she greatly appreciated Ptmarigan Doone. She saw much of herself in the manâand much of him within herself. While she wished to see him more, the pirate was just relieved to be able to see him at all. That he was right here in front of her instead of off in the brig. "Would you like some tea? Turkish, I promise. No British tea will pass these lips." Klio's gaze softened after she mused a little jokingly. "I am glad to see you here, Doone. I've been hoping that you were okay. My presence has been made scarce these past few weeks."
Dooneâs shoulders eased a fraction at her words, the faintest trace of tension slipping off him like rain from oilskin. He let the corner of his mouth curl, wry and quiet. âTurkish, then. Youâve a better sense than most of whatâs worth keeping close.â He set his hat on the edge of the desk, fingers brushing once more over the cipher as if reluctant to part with it fully. Her mention of absence wasnât lost on him. He studied her for a moment, ink-stained fingers, that steady calm edged with caution, the kind that didnât fade even in supposed sanctuary. It mirrored his own in ways he didnât name. âScarcityâs wise,â he murmured, low. âThereâs been too many eyes looking where they shouldnât, too many tongues wagging.â His gaze flicked briefly toward the low ceiling beams, then back to her. âIâd rather see you scarce than swinging on the gallows.â
The words were blunt, but beneath them lay the weight of care he rarely put plain. He leaned a little closer, elbows braced on his knees. âAs for me? Still afloat. Still star gazing.... The sea and sky've seen fit not to forsake me yet. I'm not very good at blending in. Not like some can.â A ghost of a grin followed, dry as salt. âWalking these decks feels steadier than the dry land lately.â He let the quiet settle a beat, eyes resting on her rather than the books. âGlad to see you, too, Klio. More than you think.â