minsy stood outside the dead man’s bluff, a clay pipe hanging outside her mouth. it had been an utterly dull work day. for someone who made her living dealing cards to pirates, and smugglers, it was almost insulting how boring it had been. with a slow breath, she exhaled a ribbon of fragrant smoke into the evening air. the tobacco carried a rich earthy sweetness. It was so dull in fact that she considered, not for the first time that week, simply boarding the next ship and leaving for good. didn't matter whose colours it flew nor where it was going.
it was then, her gaze drifted across until it fell on a lone figure lingering nearby. she pushed herself off the post she'd been leaning against and sidled closer with the individual. holding the pipe between two fingers, she offered it across with a theatrical flourish.
"smoke, my dear friend?" she asked, her voice carried that effortless warmth that made people forget they should probably be guarding their pockets. "the tobacco's from the emperor of china himself. harvested only during the full moon by monks who sort every leaf by candlelight while reciting ancient texts" she said without hesitation, her face completely serious. a moment passed and then she smiled a little wider. "or maybe it came from a bloke named jack who sold it to me behind the fish market for a quick shag" she shrugged, taking another leisurely puff from the pipe before offering it again. "i can never quite remember how it goes."
the statement was delivered with such casualness that it was impossible to tell whether the first story had been the lie, the second, or if she'd somehow invented both simply to see which one her new friend preferred.
"Minsy," her name, spoken in observation, could just as easily serve as question and warning both. Boredom was a dangerous thing in a powder keg like theirs, and from where she stood, it appeared Minerva do Carmo was looking for a light. "Convening with his imperial majesty again?" Minsy’s tales had always been easy to indulge, harmless as they were. Foolish, some might think, to place her trust in such hands. But she had never needed to bruise the skin of every truth, never demanded more than the other was willing to give. And in return, Nazanin had never been disappointed. It was a rarer thing than honesty itself, their understanding.
"Curious incense they burn at the palace," she wrinkles her nose at her slow approach. "Smells of mackerel." Only once her own lie has been spun does she pluck the pipe from Minsy's fingers to survey it. Clearly unimpressed at the quality of leaf smoldering within, she glances over through dark lashes. "Tell Jack he overcharged you. Again."
their knees ache from the pew, but it is as familiar as the way it feels to claps their hands together in prayer. maya is no stranger to these walls, but it has been some time since their previous visit, and they wonder if god thinks that they’ve abandoned him. each confession is heavier than the last, but they feel lighter as they bless themself and maker their way along the aisles to push out into the sunshine, squinting as their eyes adjust to the sudden change, causing them to stumble into the form of another. eyes depthless in their darkness shift upward, apologetic and, frankly, embarrassed. “if i apologise, will you promise not to tell the tale of the pirate confessing their sins to the church they’re supposed to hate?”
"Excuse me, it is I who should apologize," the courtesy is delivered easily from Rafael's lips, his head bowed in deference as he waits for the other to pass. The mention of the word pirate, however, gives him pause. Gaze travels until it lands on the person standing before him, a slow smile pulling at his mouth in recognition. One sinner leaves while another stands in wait. Oh, how the devil would weep. "But that is a story worth selling," having just stumbled on something truly worthwhile, he is entirely recovered from his display of good manners. There is no shame in him at being found here, no attempt to conceal the fact that he, too, has sought sacred halls. His own reason waits inside the chapel now - the daughter of a priest, still believing she might make him an honest man.
"But you of all people should know silence has its price," grin turns devilish, eyes glinting. There is, after all, no better time for blackmail than before a confession. "As does the denial of your faith. Eternal damnation, or so I have been warned."
now, who would try and attempt to pickpocket DAIRO? before THE DEVIL'S CASK too? if only the stranger knew better. // accepting replies
he waits. it's between one breath and the next that he senses the hand reach. it's less premonition, more experience of twenty-seven years fighting his way. dairo's fingers snap around the wrist of the pickpocket, tugging at their arm so they stumble forward. a smile spread, unamused and sharp across his face.
"your next words will determine if you're fortunate or foolish. your choice."
The lad's shoes had scarcely kissed the floorboards when the stranger's hand found his arm. Nazanin had watched him work the room for the last half hour - clumsy by her measure, certainly, but admirable all the same. Before he might butcher what little defense remains to him, she steps forward. She would be his benefactor this night, as onceanother had been hers. "Fortunate, it would seem," her voice is mild, cool as she addresses the stranger. Then her attention settles on the young pickpocket, now stilled from his fruitless struggle beneath iron grip. "And foolish. Else you would have chosen a better target."
But hunger was a poor companion to even the most careful hands, and she herself was no stranger to an empty belly. A single coin is plucked from the folds of her skirt, held out to the boy. A pittance by any measure, yet enough for bread or ale should he possess the sense to spend it well. "He has done you no harm. You should release him," it is neither a plea nor command. A barter, perhaps. Or else a test. "Perhaps fortune will turn her favor on you in return."
mouth is pulled into a frown, eyebrows furrowed. she eyes the people going in and out of the establishment... if one could ever call it that. she's made it a mission to explore every place she could in tortuga... and that meant the pit as well. she sighs, looking at the person that has come up next to her. "do you really think this is needed?" shu asks, a slightly disgusted tone to her voice. she's trying to keep it out, but she's really never been a huge fan of all of this.
"Men and their appetites," these are the words of an outside observer, wry, almost teasing. Yet for all the levity of tone, Nazanin's glance would suggest another truth - here we are, after all, it seems to say. Watching.
"Is it a moral aversion you have to such a display?" She has long since grown comfortable with necessary evils. The pit for all of its faults served its purpose well, offering a place for those of raucous proclivities to spend their coin or spill their blood without upsetting a careful balance. All the world was to be bartered or traded, this she had learned early. And violence, too, was best when bottled and sold. "Unlike those fools who favor a drunken brawl, at least the contenders are rewarded for their bloodletting. Handsomely, too."
is that tortuga’s very own nazanin nazari? the owner at dead man’s bluff has been around the island for all of her life, and they remind us of the silken words of a hostess, a dagger poised at your throat / does one ever forget the taste of ash? / no / o lady of liquor and ledgers, they erect a temple in your name. people say they’re self possessed and discerning but we’ve heard they can be secretive and haunted too. rumour would have it that they have an outwardly neutral (inwardly negative) view on pirates, but one thing’s for sure—they’d better get used to them.
given name nazanin nazari also known as the lady of liquor and ledgers date of birth august 23, 1768 age thirty gender cis woman, she/her languages english, french occupation proprietress of the dead man's bluff religion whichever will grant her good fortune (welcome back kaz brekker)
a child of tortuga, it is the only home you have ever known. no foreign shore has ever beckoned, no distant family waiting beyond the horizon. your life is one of salt-soaked timber, crowded taverns and restless men. your parents lived modestly, your mother earned what coin she could mending clothes or washing linens, your father found work wherever ships required a pair of hands. you were not born to greatness and none expected you to rise to it. just another dockside girl, clever enough to know when to speak and wiser still to know when not to.
you were a child the first time you saw a man lose his tongue for the wagging of it. this was one of your earliest lessons.
no kindly relatives appeared to offer shelter after a blaze set by pirates claimed your family home. it had been little more than a hovel, in truth, but yours. old seamus found you alone and cold, took you in, fed and clothed you. whether it was an act of pity mattered little, you slept beneath his roof and ate behind his bar, repaying his generosity in one of the few ways tortuga values. with labor. you swept floors before the age of ten, carried casks before you ever dreamed of keeping ledgers. and little escaped your notice. men saw no threat in the figure of a mousy girl, after all. and a scrawny thing you were, your father used to say. fine boned, like a bird.
watch the men, this was old seamus' lesson for you, and another you learned early on. men were no better than dogs, slavering things, they’d bark and they’d bite.
years passed, and dead man’s bluff became as much your home as his. beneath his tutelage you shed your childhood griefs, the little orphan sweeping floors became a comely lady in fine clothes. tortuga had crowned stranger queens than a women of a gambling house. and crowned you were.
by the time age confined seamus to his quarters upstairs, you had become his caregiver where once he was yours. you proved a kind one, for he alone had won your guarded, tender heart. meanwhile, the books remained balanced beneath your hand, disputes settled themselves with a few carefully chosen words. ever the faithful student, you had long since learned every corner of the establishment, a master of every task. in time you brought in your own strays, offering a family for which loyalty was your only price. when seamus died, the deed passed quietly into your possession.
stories followed, the always do. some claimed you had charmed the old fool into surrendering his livelihood, others still insisted on blackmail or threats. none of the rumors are true, of course. he plucked you from the ashes, raised you as his successor. but you let them believe each and every one.
now there is scarcely a soul upon the island who does not know the lady of liquor and ledgers. your welcome is warm, your ire cold. beneath your roof every captain is greeted alike, every quarrel given the same opportunity to end peacefully. they call your establishment neutral ground, and so it remains. in truth you have little affection for pirates, yet neither do you care for the gilded charter. if the former are rabid dogs, the latter are only hounds in fine collars.
still, you remain a businesswoman at heart. with the charter tightening its noose, you know that fewer ships mean fewer patrons, emptier tables and lighter purses. you begin to harbor more than just casks in your cellars, hosting conspirators as well as patrons in your den. this place is your home, after all. and you do not intend to let anyone take it.
for the crimes of piracy rafael "rafa" castillo aka the stranger is hereby wanted. those who surrender them dead or alive to the crown will receive eighty pounds under this name, at least. they’re famously known to be part of the widow's wake as their whisper. before engaging be warned as they can be deceptive and wanton but if you’re lucky they’ll be silver tongued and indulgent legends say that when you speak their name you’re reminded of a lover's vow uttered softly from an enemy's lips / a man of many names, do you come as beggar or gentleman, hero or fiend? / the warm flush of temptation, of sin.
given name rafael castillo also known as rafa, tomás hidalgo, sebastián or alejandro márquez depending on the port (said by some to be brothers), stranger date of birth november 20, 1692 age thirty six gender cis man, he/him languages fluent in spanish, english, french and conversational in portuguese crew the widow's wake religion catholic
your father was no pirate, you no poor man's whelp. born in caracas to a prosperous merchant family, you knew nothing of hardship. your father's fortune had been built upon honest commerce and you, the eldest and only son of three, were his heir. you received a gentleman's education in reading, writing and arithmetic. you learned etiquette and swordsmanship, lived a charmed life.
yet even the small fortune your father amassed proved a fallible thing when the scourge of pirates, the thieves and criminals he so hated, had taken a liking to his ships. a merchant is naught without his wares and word to back him, and it didn't take long for old friends to turn debt collectors, for old associates to whisper among one another. your father struggled to remain afloat, clung to his tattered reputation as a dying man does his final gasping breaths.
once the good and faithful son, now you pity him. a man so tied to virtue that he could not see his own vices. prideful, he was. greed and glutton both.
eighteen and able bodied, you sought to restore what had been stolen from your family. you departed with your father's blessing aboard a spanish privateer and sailed for four years, lawfully, under the crown's commission. in the eyes of spain it was a noble deed, in the eyes of your father it was a hero's work. when each prize claimed trickled back to your purse, you sent a share home — only ever a small sum, enough to pay down a debt, to keep the household running while your father rebuilt.
when peacetime led to your commission being revoked, that honest work vanished overnight. long since disillusioned by your time spent among sailors, you found it an easy thing to trade one crew for another. those months in service to the black flag may have branded you a criminal, but your work was much the same.
and you enjoyed it, didn't you? ever indulgent, ever faithless. there had always been a devil at your heels, and what a relief it was to finally cease your running. you, who would never be that merchant's boy again, who had abandoned that life long before your father cast you out.
when you returned, there was no question that your father despised you for it. you swaggered into his house swathed in fine clothes and gold jewelry, and your mother and sisters had the goodwill to look past it. he alone refused your embrace, your stained coin, your lavish gifts. but that night over dinner his true rage spilled forth, he declared his only son died at sea, that the man at his table was no more than a stranger. he had already alerted the authorities, he warned. so you fled before they arrived, never returning home again.
later, on his deathbed, he would maintain that warning you had been his greatest mistake. there are many since who would be inclined to agree.
this part of the story is still a wip. bullet points are that in the years since he has sailed beneath several names aboard three crews. his service as a whisper for the widow's wake is his longest yet. among pirates he is an absolute rogue, but when needed can easily assume the image of a gentleman, well mannered and polite. he maintains a network across countless ports comprised of dockhands, clerks, and wives of important husbands.
「 the lingering eyes of a restless spirit, laughter cutting through smoke-filled rooms. tender hunter, you cradle that which you have wounded, fingertips ghosting over each fragile, fluttering pulse. in your hands, the memory of helplessness grows cold. 」 demi woman. she/they. ╱ now nobody in lafleur is saying KIM YUMI is trouble, but nobody's exactly rushin' to defend them either. folks have been talkin' about the thirty three, 300 year old bartender at after hours (when she decides to show up) since the day they rolled into town. seems there's always some new story about how they're allegedly a vampire and have been here for as long as their maker. i don't put much stock in every rumor that floats through this shithole, but with a playful, possessive & unpredictable reputation like theirs, something tells me we only scratched the surface of the GO MINSI wannabe's story
current name: kim yumi. nicknames: yu. date of birth: november 8. zodiac: scorpio sun, sagittarius moon, gemini rising. age: turned three hundred years ago, aged thirty three. occupation: bartender at after hours, occasionally. parallels: villanelle, rosalie, louis, claudia.
she was born in the year 1726, into a family made comfortable by the trade of medicinal goods. merchants and interpreters passed through her father's orbit carrying printed books and foreign words, their lessons intended for her brothers. she learned by listening outside doors or stealing pages left unattended, stitching fragments together until they became whole. she grew to recognize the characters marked upon crates and medicine jars, to name each root, leaf, and powdered remedy that passed through her father’s storehouse. married young to a man chosen for the usefulness of his family, she was widowed and returned to her father’s care before she had properly learned what it was to be a wife.
she was twenty two when she left home again. this time in her brother's clothes, traveling with a trading party under his name. upon reaching the intended port she abandoned her father's associates, survived on her brother's stolen allowance until she bribed passage on a merchant vessel. whether the captain believed her to be the runaway clerk she claimed mattered little - after the exchange of silver and a quiet boarding, he found his stowaway indeed kept a neat hand, could name the herbs and count without error. liar or no she was useful, and so use was made. through him, the world opened before her. as did so many of its cruelties.
you have forgotten that woman. what use is remembering? you who were born of her death, who share no family nor name as a reminder. your making was an act of salvation you have never reconciled with, an exchange of one form of dependence for another. those first decades as a vampyr were characterized by a deep self-loathing. hunger was resisted until it became agony, guidance rejected wherever it was offered. you withdrew, you withered. feeding became an act of mourning, for the frightened reminded you too easily of yourself: once a fragile being, reduced in another’s hands. some of them, you spared. most, you wished you had. and this life your maker had deemed an act of love. you didn't understand arjun then, not as you do now.
in the end, misery became tedious. your grief was traded for restlessness, and restlessness gave way to appetite. you began to travel, first as an escape, then as a novelty. the centuries found you beneath many roofs and many names, disappearing from each place without warning only to return lifetimes later, made anew. before you realized there was none, you sought meaning. you studied wherever instruction could be purchased and, when colleges opened their doors, pursued art, language, philosophy, early sciences. you spent years singing in smoke filled clubs, hunted the men who followed you home for sport. but as all the others, each new place or pastime wore thin, eventually exposing that same brutal emptiness. try as you might to thrash against it, it always pushed you back to safe harbors.
you no longer regret what you are, only that the choice was never yours. that distinction governs all that remains between maker and made. three hundred years later, and arjun alone stands as your oldest grievance and most enduring devotion, both your architect and unmaking. now, you revel in what you once despised. the years have made you greedy for whatever sensation you can find, made you playful with your affections and careless with consequence. your boredom has a tendency to leave broken things in its wake, and your attention is fickle, at times cruel. after so long in your own skin, even tenderness becomes just another means of holding something still.
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