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@stcrmings
STCRMINGS : an exploration of what is lost at sea when the rain finally halts / how you stand against the whipping wind, howls bursting free / ignoring the cold trying to seep under your skin / blinking back memories before your eyes water / the aftermath of your choice, following you like a shadow / what you live with, until the end.
dairo / kaminari / captain / the storm's eye / thunder
kun montreiul / apothecary / sawbone / hearth
hanna never doubted what she saw, though it wasn't bred from confidence or conceit. she knew that her visions could change and that what she saw one moment could differ from the next, but just as the winds at sea changed, she had learned how to ease her sails and let that wind guide her. it spoke to her, it led her by the hand, and she knew that there were many who didn't understand. many who would curse her for false idolatry, for arrogance, for lies.
but that look on his face. the way his eyes revealed the way his very soul was being carved out. hanna knew that dairo felt it too.
at his question, her hand raised close to his face and moved slowly as if she were stroking the dark strands of this woman's hair around her nimble fingers. her hand stopped just past his shoulder, where she could see the strands fade away. "so beautiful. so... so much sorrow." she muttered with a deeply furrowed brow, as if the words just slipped out without her control. she was still in a daze from this spectre who had visited her.
eyes widen as hanna reaches for his face. dairo doesn't force himself still, simply --- suspends. his breath, his soul. as if he watches from a few paces away, seeing how close hanna's hand lingers, how her fingers weave through the air as if it was hair.
he didn't need hanna's answer. but what else is he to do with this knowledge? how else is he supposed to carry the thought that his mother's spirit followed him even after he abandoned her earthly flesh? no burial, no ceremony, no respect. and still, she guards, whispers the boneteller. and still, even now, he cannot sense his mother's presence.
finally, he breathes, a ragged, broken sound. he blinks, and he's seeing through his own eyes again, leaning toward hanna. his hand takes hers, pulling it away as he tangles their fingers together. "okaasan was beautiful." even with her face blurred in his memory, he knows this of his mother. how, past the child-like haughtiness and antics, he admired how she held herself. this he recalls clearly. and how that pierces his heart.
swallowing, dairo finally breaks hanna's gaze. he forces another deep breath, still holding hanna's hand, trying, trying to ground himself. "she needs to rest, hanna," he whispers. how awful it must have been, to guard him through these decades. "she needs peace."
the island felt like a powder keg ... one wrong move and the whole place would blow. adeola wanted to make sure that she was prepared. she didn't want to be caught short. which was why she headed to the apothecary that day. if things were going to explode, she wanted to make sure that the cask was well stocked, so she could look after her own.
she couldn't blame kun for being a little apprehensive about letting people in - but it annoyed her none the less. "why do you think i'm here?" she huffed, "i need to gather some things. to organise my own supplies. let me in."
"and the apothecary is still suffering from the aftermath of the blockade. i'm low on most everything, adeola." they're not snapping yet, but kun's patience withers under the heat. still, they take a deep breath, running their hand through their hair. "i need to know what you're here for so i can tell you which smuggler to contact, in case i don't have enough. fair?"
hanna's eyes weren't wide because of the way dairo reached for his knife, nor for the look he gave her, nor the kindness he extended to her. it was like his whole face was haunted, and not just that deep pained look in his eyes, but almost as if his face wasn't his own at all. it belonged to her, the woman she had seen, and now that she had looked at him that way she didn't know any other way to see him.
she followed his instruction, stepping aside with him to avoid the busy clamber of people near the marketplace, and shook her head slowly. "no, it's not..." her words were quiet, as if the ghost in him were squeezing her throat closed, begging her not to tell him. like it would pain him to know, like somehow he was being protected by this apparition. hanna was not one to withhold her visions for the sake of money or mystery, but there was a strange feeling that she couldn't shake about this and she wished she hadn't been so compelled to involve herself, because now she felt that she owed him the truth of it.
"i saw... a woman. i felt her." she glanced to her side, hoping no one was eavesdropping. the last thing she needed was the guards alerted for causing a scene in the middle of the streets. "in you. she... she guards you fiercely, i can't see her now, but... you and her are one and the same." cryptic as it was, she knew no other way to express what she saw.
his concern written in the line between his brows, dairo waits. lets hanna take the time needed. he's witnessed this before aboard the harbinger's ship, tucked into the hanna's space. he'll always wait, until she's ready.
and yet --- and yet.
would he have ran, if he knew before what would fall from her lips? belief in the boneteller never faltered, for how often has he paid tribute to the sea for safe passage and silent escapes? there are spirits of all kinds who could alter his fate, and he will listen to each, even if they won't change his mind.
but he doesn't truly listen now. he can't. his thundering heartbeat drowns all other sound. a woman --- in you ---- guards you ---
( she haunts his dreams, always in the corner, the breeze kicking up her hair to cover her face. but when she reaches he wakes with beading sweat and gasping breaths and a hear that breaks all over again. )
the silence hangs heavy. hanna looks at him, and dairo can't tear his gaze away. "this woman --- " his voice cracks. swallowing, he starts again. "this woman . . . how long is her hair?"
A chuckle rose and bubbled from Jo's throat, low and sweet, like the nectar of a honeysuckle. "Both, I imagine." The smile that dressed her face had all the satin and lace of a lady, and all the sanguine thirst of a lustful youth. She drew further into the establishment with practiced, easy steps, hands gently cradled behind her as she studied the walls, the herbs, the aromas. "Thank you. I can wait."
Curious how the smell of saving life often resembled that of death itself - bitter herbs, yellowing bones, foreign spices, doused in a thin veil of alcohol. The sound of pestle and mortar, leaves ground into powder, decaying floorboards groaning under her pixie-soft footsteps. Her eye caught the knotted end of a sleeve, dancing by their side like a sail, a lone vessel's colors. A practitioner whose expertise lived by proof, not by coin or faith. Success that thrived in shadow - or, perhaps, was trapped in it. "May I give you a hand with anything?"
"pity. a shame they fell into the trap of both." already, they reach for one set of herbs then another, stalks and petals slipping between fingers. they make a couple rounds, tossing the herbs onto a nearby table as they calculate nausea versus hangover, aches versus exhaustion.
by the time they start at the mortar and pestle, they've relegated the newcomer to the corner of their mind. the sound soothes, a steady rhythm against the reminder of waves and the crown's ships that rest just beyond shore. so entranced in the practice, their head jerks again at the question, gaze snapping to the source.
kun narrows their gaze. was it an insult? an offer dressed to hide a taunt? but as the heat beats harsh on their skin, kun forces their shoulders down, slowly beckoning relief over tension.
"there's a cauldron out front, tucked at the corner of the porch. fill it with water from the well out back and place it above the fire. tend to the flame, if it's out. i need the water hot."
Bartholomew set the bone back in its place. Hopefully, Kun was one of those more practical types rather than superstitious. "Interesting" He walked to the corner of the shop and addressed Kun. "Did you know some sailors think sea cows are mermaids?" It was a ridiculous thought to Bartholomew.
His eyes looked over their box, wondering what was in it. Would it be so hard to plunder it. "You should label it better. Prevents confusion" Bartholomew drifted closer to Kun's belongings.
"i hear it as often as one of them dropping a tentacle at my feet and claiming it from the kraken." they shake their head. "not just a kraken, the kraken. but whatever they claim it is, as long as i have stock ---" they stop, shrug, and mold their face to neutrality. they're still trying to improve inventory after the blockade. but they won't share just how desperate they are for more of those kraken tentacles, no matter how false the origin.
kun shifts, blocking direct view of their box from the other's view. a thin smile stretches across their face. "a label denies you curiosity, me a conversation starter for an offer, and a way to organize who knows and who does not. so, where shall you land? do you recognize most of what lines these walls?"
dorian's laugh was already spilling out of him before kun's hand even fully lifted, his pipe hanging from his mouth as if it had every right to be there. his lazy grin curled wider at their request. "what i'm here for?" he echoed, voice warm with amusement. "thought i might let you tie me to one of your cots, see what sort of remedies you'd come up with when you've got me at your mercy." he winked, taking their hand without warning and placing a kiss to their knuckles. then he let go, and straightened up with his smile warming. "though the truth isn't far off. i was hoping you could craft me something, purely for fun. something strong and almost definitely illegal."
their irritation doesn't dissipate at dorian's antics. but it weakens nonetheless, propped by the decades they've spent in his orbit. the ships still remain on the horizon, but kun's mind can focus here, on dorian's lips brushing knuckles, and be better for it.
still, they roll their eyes, head following in action. "i'd knock you out before you could take enjoyment in being tied up." the smallest curl of amusement plucks at the corner of their lips, and they pull their hand away, beckoning him to follow into the apothecary.
"nearly everything i make is illegal. surely you have something specific in mind?" they walk toward the back, fingers beginning to trail over their more eclectic ingredients. "what trouble do you want?"
Theia’s steps slowed as she reached the helm, the boards creaking underfoot in a rhythm that seemed to belong to the Storm’s Eye alone. The ship was anchored, yet it still felt alive beneath her soles. Breathing, waiting. She could almost believe it longed for the sea as much as she did after all the recent events that had come to pass. Her eyes lifted when Dario’s voice cut the air, the title curling warm and heavy around her like a cloak she had once thought too large to wear. Even now, there was a tinge of pride that flickered in her chest at hearing it from his lips. Pride, as well as gratitude. It had been him who had pulled her from the ocean’s jaws, him who had set her on this deck and allowed her to earn her place here, storm after storm.
A faint smile tugged at the corners her mouth, though it carried the weary shadows of the weeks past. “Perhaps both,” she said at last, voice seeped with honesty but softened by something steadier than before. “Though I’m not sure the storm inside me could carry out your command, not tonight. I may not be steady enough yet” Her gaze lifted, following his toward the clouds gathering in the distance, dark and swollen with promise. “The sea has its tempers, and I guess so do I. But…” she exhaled, long and quiet, "the worst of it feels like it’s passing.”
She stepped closer, letting her hand brush the wheel for a heartbeat, as though sharing in the silent communion between captain and ship. “And I have also come... I have also come to apologize.”
the small smile doesn't change, but his gaze softens as he listens. the crew harbors little doubt over his demeanor; cruelty cannot be a stranger when combating the seas. but for a pirate, dairo possesses a fondness his father would disprove of. perhaps dairo fosters it out of spite. perhaps it's what little he still carries from his mother.
"a good thing, when the winds calm and the storm breaks," he offers. "to put the worst of it behind. to breathe again, until the next time."
when theia reaches for the wheel, he softly hums. rarely does he relinquish his position, commanding in the same place his father did, but he doesn't hoard the power it holds. nor the comfort of it, even if only for a breath.
how quickly that comfort can dissipate.
paranoia rears. the questions waterfall in his mind: what do you mean, are you departing, what stirs your guilt into confession?
but those questions never make it to his tongue. no change in stance, no shift in expression. all he does is tilt his head at theia, and asks the predictable --- the expected --- question. "what are you apologizing for?"
Where: Sawbone Apothecary
Who: Open to anyone :)
Bartholomew strutted into the apothecary as if he owned the place. Bartholomew was on the hunt for bones or any discarded organs the physicians may have misplaced. he would have preferred to not run into them, but out of all the townsfolk that inhabited Tortuga he found those that were employed at the Sawbone the most tolerable. Perhaps it was the shared love for science. Perhaps it was the shared love for blood and guts.
He picked up a long yellowed bone left carelessly on the self. If only he knew what sort of creature this came from. Legends rode on the waves speaking about goddesses and krakens and mermaids, but Bartholomew was a man of science and firmly believed everything could be explained through scientific means. Bartholomew heard the bell on the door jingle as somebody walked in, not that he cared all that much. He turned to face the person that entered with a disinterested "hmph".
kun re-enters their apothecary with a small crate balanced between hand and hip. it's not surprise that colors their face at the sight of a customer, but wariness. a flash of irritation already flares at the hmph, but they manage to keep their eyes from rolling.
"you're holding the bone of a sea cow." kun walks to the back of the room, setting the crate down before placing a hand on their hip. "more for display than for sale. unless the coin convinces me otherwise, hmm?"
now, who would try and attempt to pickpocket DAIRO? before THE DEVIL'S CASK too? if only the stranger knew better.
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.
"you're next words will determine if you're fortunate or foolish. your choice."
No one could withstand the heat and the sick all at once. Even on the calmness of the waves in port, the men were making a mess of it all, bodies lurched over the railings, losing what was left of their insides after a night of ill-advised drink and questionable food. She stood at the threshold for a long time, leaning a touch of her bodyweight against the wooden beam that seemed to threaten collapse at any uninvited touch. The voice that emerged from the small stature before her made a grin slide up the wide of Jo's face, a kindred spirit in any other lifetime. Unpressed but not unkind, she nodded once, tip of the chin, as if to ask permission to cross, to darken a doorway, to bring what energy she carried into the new space. "Begging your pardon, of course. A tonic, mostly," she replied, a feathery softness on each edge of her voice. "Several men aboard our vessel are in need of something to calm their guts. Bad meat, I reckon."
they acknowledge the nod with a blink. courtesy was baseline. expected so it never had to be demanded. the door may never fully close at sawbone, but boundaries are set and kept. they were foged in blood.
the quiet stretches, but their hand does fall. "bad meat or poor decisions?" still a rough edge to their words. but they finally jerk their head for the other to follow. "if it's both, you'll need to wait for me to make a fresh batch."
the rain has yet to burst over tortuga; dark clouds rumble overhead the SAWBONE, but KUN pays little mind as they inspect NED's back. // @bovndlcss
feather-light touch along broken skin, they lean forward. sniffs once, twice. "lucky, lucky," they murmur. no stench of rot coats the back of their throat, and the wounds have closed. they expected oozing puss, but the worst infections spared the new face before her. still, the wounds remain tender. fresh, in a way that time has yet to take root to heal them.
"any itching?" they step back, pouring a mug of ale over a rag. "i will need to make a new poultice, so don't spare any details or hedge your answer. withholding is a fool's choice, and no one takes kindly to a fool, hmm?"
@stcrmings — hanna & dairo, the streets of tortuga
hanna was perusing the stalls at the shambles, searching for candles and procurements for the casting of her incantations in her little room on the harbinger, the one she still struggled to leave even as it sat stuck anchored in port. even after so many years with vidar, who gave her her freedom, she still couldn't quite break the habit of clipping her own wings and keeping herself caged.
she was just musing about how she would visit the apothecary after, when a figure caught her eye. a woman, moving fast through the crowd, an air about her that sent a chill down hanna's spine and called to her immediately to follow. her pulse began to thud in her ears and her breath hitched as she made chase, through the streets, until eventually she caught up and reached out to touch her shoulder. when she turned, she realised it was no woman at all. it was none other than dairo.
hanna startled, her eyes looking over him, but still she could see that woman. in his eyes, especially, she was there, staring right back at her. it was a most peculiar vision, one that left her frozen on the spot, breathing heavily and staring at dairo as if he had two heads.
nothing caught his eye. strange, for a day in the market to leave him without. few met his gaze in hopes of a deal, and fewer still stood with enough confidence to stir his thoughts of potential connection. doone's warning echoes, a haunting reminder day after day. but dairo keeps slipping through the crowds, mind changing with nearly every breath.
after this, he'll blame a cluttered mind for the way he reacted. a touch at the shoulder --- not a slam, not a stabbing --- and he whirls around, a hand darting to his waist for his knife.
but it's hanna. it's simply hanna.
they mirror one another for a breath. frozen, eyes wide. and then dairo shifts, steadiness rising to the forefront to shove back shock. a flare of concern alights too. "come to the side, hanna," he murmurs. he lifts his hand, but doesn't touch. it hovers over her arm, more guide than chain, as he directs her away from the traffic of the crowd.
only when they are deep into an alleyway, where quiet muffles the noise of the market, does he face her again, hand dropping to the side. "better? or do you need to return to the harbinger?"
Who: closed for Dairo @stcrmings
Where: The Storm's Eye
The Storm’s Eye had been moored in Tortuga’s 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. He’d 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. “Harbor’s rotten quiet,” Doone murmured, voice low, steady, eyes still fixed outward. “Blockade’s gone. But the town watches us like we’re already on the gallows. Birds vanish at dawn, then circle again at dusk. Fishermen pulling nets too thin, soldiers drilling too thick. It’s not peace, Captain. It’s the hush before a storm breaks.” He thumbed the scar at his cheek, dry humor cutting through. “And I’ve never trusted still waters.”
Only then did he glance over, green eyes meeting Dairo’s, carrying the weight of the years beside him through storm and fire. “We’ve built the Eye into a legend, but legends draw hunters. We've got our alliances but they won’t be enough if the Crown presses harder. If the townsfolk keep selling names.” His voice dipped lower, meant for the captain’s ears alone. “We’ll need more than the weather on our side this time. More hands. More shadows at our back. More than we’ve trusted before.” Doone straightened from the rail, standing solid, compass tapping once more between his fingers. “Tell me the course, Captain. I’ll see us steer it true. But mark my words... the sea’s shifting. We’ll need more than just her love to keep afloat.”
the crew thrums with impatience. and as much as dairo shapes his demeanor into a calm, collected captain, that same impatience digs under his skin. the crown's ships circle tortuga --- sharks smelling blood. the breakout was lucky; the crown won't suffer the same humiliation again.
nobody can leave. not even the storm's eye can slip past the crown as long as soldiers prowl the coast. the crew must accept the pain of their own irritation. but it will implode. and he must prepare. he must find a way through.
dairo inclines his head before doone even reaches him. a habit formed through years. doone's one of the last witnesses to his rise to captain. dairo's trust will always be hard-won, but doone has earned it over and over and over.
"i agree we need more allies, in both townsfolk and other crews. it's who that troubles me." he sucks at his teeth for a few moments. "approaching either raider's revenge or widow's wake doesn't instill confidence." oathbreaker was out of the question. but it left them between an unknown they could turn into trouble with and a competitor with grudges. "we will need to bring something to the table to convince them against betrayal."
he sighs through his nose, finally facing doone, gaze flicking to the compass for a breath. "any townsfolk you've met that seem amenable?"
high noon stretches hot along the paths through tortuga. KUN leans against the front of SAWBONE, seemingly unfazed, though a bottle does rest at their feet, condensation dripping as if it was once cold.
every breath tastes more like heat than it does salt, and it fuels kun's burning irritation. it would matter less, perhaps, if not for the crown's ships at the edge of the horizon. but the ships exist, a taunting rule, and kun can do little except nurture their own spite at the sight.
eyes flick to a newcomer turning the corner. the apothecary straightens, hand held up in pause. "need to know what you're here for before you enter. if you so please."
sunlight streams through the cracks at SAWBONE, and KUN works on supplying LUIS with the limited inventory they possess. // @holdfasts
relief steals their breath. supplies arrived. limited, still rationed, but they won't need to dilute as much any longer. they don't have to think of any who may have passed when there wasn't enough. they cannot dwell on how many died in excruciating pain than blissful peace.
"this game of desperation . . . despicable." kun growls the last word, low as thunder in the distance, but luis will hear. "it'll take months to properly restore my inventory. and the crown will keep doing this, knowing someone else will break. and why wouldn't they?"
a hot, long exhale. they press a cork into the glass, setting the tincture aside. "no matter --- what are you in need of?"
DAIRO slips through the crowd at DEAD MAN'S BLUFF like a breeze, only to stop at the back entrance at the sight of LUIS // @holdfasts
winnings hang heavy in the inner pocket of dairo's cloak, thumping against his chest. he starts calculating what smugglers will demand for the higher risks they must now take, when he narrows his gaze. the alleyway's lit by lanterns, but the flames flicker weak, unhelpful. but even when crouched the curls announce the form of the stranger. "rolling in filth, luis? how expected."
