There's a design flaw; a poorly executed load bearing beam in the hull. A single strip that might have been laziness, or short-minded intellect of its craftsman. What could have been a long lasting pleasure project would sink the next time it meets low tide, or graze a hidden rock pool below the surface. Instead of gliding along the sharp edges and tip to avoid its wrath, it'll be gutted wide. Like a knife in the belly of a fish, left for the sharks in the water to feast on. It's the reason the vessel sways so keenly with a hundred bodies dancing beneath the moon. Docked, it is merely a symbol of status.
It would be a shame if someone's else's power painted it ruby. But the ocean will steal that right, before anyone else gets the chance to make art, he imagines.
He's not on board the yacht for personal entertainment, it's business. It often is. His family like this town — so he hears, in letters and messages, and already in the three hours he has landed, he has found it quaint, and uncivilised. A package stolen, which had meant to be delivered to a home his sisters have staked claim to.
He doesn't believe that the owner of the yacht is responsible — but a hand of theirs, trying their luck with a man on new soil. Underfed thralls were reckless, Zakar would know. It's the same reason he has a tracker on his case, that has led him to a party. He'll believe it is a mistake too, if that's the story he's told. Merciful, isn't it? He'll spare the culprit, because it is worse to know that they lived, whilst all the things around them are killed. Maybe they thought they were smart enough to win.
He helps himself to a drink, to stop idling hands from getting ideas. He’d draw them out, if he had to. Slipping between drunks, and dancers, he begins searching for the crew, or the owner of the soon-to-be-sunken yacht. Theft used to cost a hand, he remembers. Sliced clean from the wrist. He'd settle for that compromise, too.
A shoe knocks against a brogue, and he lifts a glass to avoid spilling it on himself, whilst he turns to acknowledge a girl and her clumsiness. His suit pants are safe, as is the sweater below the camel coat. She's lucky he's already occupied his mind with something else.
End of the world, she says.
Hardly. But he'll humour her, for the effort to salvage his favour. "Quite the disappointing ending to your story, is it not?" If her sarcasm is real, then he wonders why she cares to indulge the banal act of being present at all. "A yacht in the night, with strangers for company." A quirk of his mouth, hidden behind the tip of his glass. Eyes as dark as the sky, and hair slicked back in the shadows and neon. Perhaps their versions were different; most often, they were worlds apart.
And he's assuming she's alone, because of how aimless her direction had been.
stormborns
baratheonpilled
titsay
