#exilesea

[lordustin-a]

His heart still races from the attack -- they were boarded by pirates, a cargo vessel flying the flag of England. Wyllas was below deck when it happened. He wasn’t a fighter, but he could use a gun; managed to dodge a few swipes of a sword, got knicked even, before he threw up his hands and surrendered. They drag him to the deck, over the bodies of the people who were protecting him, through the blood and smoke -- they’re not kind, relatively speaking, and while they think about what to do with him ( throw him overboard, slit his throat, none of it too appealing ), he makes one last attempt to save his life:

❝ I demand to see Captain Flint! ❞ He’s heard the name before in England, a pirate with a reputation: dangerous, cunning, ruthless. He holds the missive in his hands, parchment smeared with the blood from his fingers. Wyllas has to make up some sort of tall tale, none of it really making sense but what do they know? They put him below deck, a sack over his head when he isn’t being fed and eventually he loses track of time until they bring him up again. Put him on a rowboat and row him to what he thinks is a city, and only when his feet touch the ground do they take the sack off: a colony. A colony on a beach? Or an island?

❝ Where’s Flint?! ❞ They push him along, tell him he’ll see him soon, the missive still kept close to his bloody chest. It looks a tavern, what they bring him to, men drinking, prostitutes working, and it’s only until one leaves their company does he brace himself to meet the legend that is Captain Flint. 

@exilesea

[cryostorea]

“the rest of them ------” his comrades, the men who trained with him, sailed with him, fought beside him. gone. “what’d you do with them?” he has an idea, but the thought is painful enough for him to avoid. bucky looks down, numbed to the throbbing pain on his left, shoulder cauterised. why? he looks over at flint with an addled, exhausted resentment.

@exilesea​ ( sc )

[clevrest]

“ don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

                               inbox cleaning  // no longer accepting *!

the glimmer of his dagger flickers in the muted light, cedric’s companion already long gone. his hands are steady, at least more so than they usually are with their trembling. theyre always much more reliable under pressure. he turns to face the other man properly, moonbeams giving glimpses of his bare chest and small clothes hastily pulled on over long, muscled legs. he rises from the bed and a quick jerk of a sharp jaw moves a wave of chestnut hair from his brow to make the cold stare of his slate gray eyes more visible. the point of the knife is leveled at the other, and though his hands are steady, his heartbeat pulses at such a raging pace, he’s sure the other can hear it.  ‘ secrets are only truly safe in death. ’  he takes an uneasy breath before his instincts kick in, pushing him to be pragmatic as always. a murder is too difficult to explain. he needs to trust this once - if only to ensure his risk of killing is justified when he goes after him and whoever he may share this secret with.  ‘ but i suppose a death-like silence would suffice. ’

[clevrest]

[ enough ]

                             nonsexual acts of dominance  // not accepting *!

[ enough ] your muse commanding mine to stop talking . 

he’s always been clever, just clever enough to survive. a wise man knows there is a place for weakness and submission, for dead men cannot seek revenge. patience is a virtue most critical for survival and one that must be coupled with an intimate knowledge of the minds of men, particularly violent ones such as the one before him. its clear in the wild glimmer of his eyes, the urgent twitch of his fingers. cedric can read aggression lingering just beneath the surface. with a knife in hand, he might be more bold, but the young aristocrat holds his tongue without a blade to accompany his defiance. full lips press tightly together; paired with the unassuming peace in slate gray eyes, he presents no threat. in fact he looks prepared to listen quite obediently. the viper in him coils, waiting for a moment to strike or slither through an opening to safety. this man is dangerous, and yet that danger feels kindred. a deep breath settles cedric’s shoulders in position. he can handle this.

[honnleathrose-a2]

@exilesea from here:

          maybe the suggestion had been a silly one, but he didn’t seem OFFENDED at least.  ❝ it’s no trouble. i could use something to distract my mind from the trip. ❞ she took a deep breath, trying to focus on her destination. most people would be bothered by how UNSTEADY the trip by ship can be. motion sickness and all that --- not rosalie. it was the NOISE that was driving her crazy. it was non-stop and she was a bit of a light sleeper. she knew from the moment they started moving that she would only be able to fall asleep when she was absolutely EXHAUSTED.  ❝ you can’t sleep either? ❞  

[insghts]

❝    captain,   I’m afraid you have the   ...    wrong   ...   person   ...     ❞     she pauses between every word to prevent the   quiver   in her voice which stems from  terror .     but she won’t   show   it ,     tone remaining stern despite her gaze staying lowered                   (  eyes cannot hide how the heart beats.  )   

she breathes in deep   &   presses her lips in a thin line before speaking abruptly :       ❝   you will have to kill me before you get any information out of me.    ❞   

@exilesea   /   ♥ 

[greatwoea]

what he does, he does out of self-interest. anyone who’s seen another side of vane is either in the ground or in the sea. with the exception of a select few, those of whom kept private matters private. he wasn’t exactly a favourable ally to have in the eyes of the people ------ outside of nassau, at least. charles folds his hands over the table, leaning forward. he and flint have always had their differences, but when they worked together, they were nigh unstoppable. “what’s in it for me?” @exilesea.

[fatespin]

@exilesea​.

’ how  many ?  doesn’t  matter  how  many. ’ soil-stained,  roughed fingertips  drag  sharply  across  the  map  that  lays  flattened  out  before  him  finding  their  targeted  mark.  england shallowed  by his  tempestuous  hand:  consumed  with  an  ease  that  vexes him.   were  things  only  as  simple  as  moving  one’s  finger.   then,  with  an  inevitable  sigh,  he  lifts  his  gaze,  stern  hues  meeting  hers:  ‘  their  pardons  have  little  to  do  with  what  is  in  our  hearts.  they  are  strictly  formality.  you  flatter  them  if  you  think, even  for  a  second,  that  a  pardon  will  make  them  care  any  more   about  what  is  in  our hearts.  they  don’t  care,  they  won’t  ever  care.   even  if  their  pardon  may  prevent  the   noose  around  your  neck  for  a  time,  we  will  always  be  their  lesser.  we  have  no  hearts  to  them,  miss guthrie ‘

                    she  would  greatly  prefer  to  believe  that  any  civilized  person  ought  to  be  possessed  of  some  care  for  the  contents  of  the  heart  of  another.    but  she  does  suppose  it  may  become  quite  inconvenient,  to  give  thought  to  a  fair  metric  by  which  a  man  might  be  judged  when  one  has  already  obliged  to  condemn  all  his  class,  a  judgement  en  masse.    she  really  must  let  go  these  childish  conceptions  of  fairness. 

          “ you  may  be  right. ”    the  clean  click  of  her  boots  on  the  wood,  her  indelicate  steps ;   she  stops  across  the  table  from  her  ally,  plants  both  of  her  hands  at  the  map’s  edge.    her  eyes  flick  between  the  country  cupped  in  his  hand  to  the  speck  of  sand  where  she  has  lain  her  heart.    how  far  beyond  reason,  that  in  any  moment  a  well--chosen  word  there  could  spell  their  end  here,  that  the  insurmountable  water  between  them  could  be  so  lightly  spanned.    eleanor  sighs,  drums  her  nails  on  the  desk.

          perhaps  it  may  make  their  lives,  their  prospects,  simpler  --  that  in  the  eyes  of  king  and  country  every  one  of  them  is  equally  reprehensible.    even  ground  is  easiest  to  build  upon.    “ suppose  it  all  goes  to  plan. ”    she  is  not  given  to  optimism,  but  faith  she  can  swallow.    “ the  urca  gold.   her  expenditure  as  you’ve  detailed.    can  you  honestly  see  --  and  i  ask  because,  if  you  can,  i  need  you  to  help  me  to  see  it,  too  --  a  future  for  us  wherein  the  way  england  regards  us  could  hold  no  bearing  over  our  fortunes ? ”