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."
“you know, for a man who’s spent years taking things out from under me, you’re remarkably possessive.” his gaze drops to the hand around his wrist, then to his own free hand. between two fingers is a button from dairo's clothing, previously hanging on by a loose thread. a faint smile spreads like wildfire.
"it was driving me crazy two streets back. don't suppose you've got a needle on you?"
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.
despite his own preference for bloodlessness, laurent was not opposed to violence as a spectacle. corpses and battles were logistically complicated, and riches were infinitely harder to retrieve from the bottom of the ocean floor. but there could be an art to bloodshed, a beauty to killing. rare, certainly, and rarer still in an arena like this.
"of course not. but that's rather the appeal of vices, no?" he lights up the cigarette pinched between his lips. “people wager too much, drink too much, forget discretion. speak too much. i'd have to be a negligent captain to let something like this pass me by.”
bastian's lounging half-sprawled, one shoulder brushing against a stack of secured crates on a night so akin to many others, swapping insults and bored dirty looks, tipping the rim of a crewmate’s cup just to watch him swear. it's a love language, of sorts, to annoy each other. they would of course never know that some remarks drop clean through him. he would gladly make his anger known over the proper way to coil a line, about baptiste using his knife to cut cheese, or the slanderous accusation that he apparently snored. but this? he knows precisely how quickly he would start detesting the people he has grown to like if pity ever found its way onto the deck, and thus learns to exist silently alongside the blade, cutting as it may be.
yet laurent's involvement is a factor entirely new. bastian catches laurent’s eye as the captain enters the conversation and turns it beneath his hand without anyone noticing, away from memories laurent could not possibly know still taste vile in bastian's mouth. the room readjusts, easy as a sail catching wind. yet it cannot be a rescue. laurent is not sparing him ridicule ; neither of them would insult each other so, that he trusts.
more like a subtle, deliberate adjustment of where the current is flowing, it feels. laurent would not have done this yesterday, in a discussion like this, or many a time before. the hours afterward lose their shape as it dawns on him, what it must be. bastian hates, vehemently, that he suddenly can't bring himself to look at anyone, despite the conversation continuing to flow as free as ale. he only follows laurent with his eyes at first, the three knocks. the familiar signal feels newly invasive; a kindness he has accepted a hundred times becoming unbearable the moment it contained knowledge he never gave. he keeps tracking laurent until he's out of sight.
yet he finds himself at laurent's door hours later with no formed plan; beneath a perfectly composed face, terror cogs turn over the true details and what laurent must know of them. incensed and grateful ; every inch of him abrasive and bristling, yet vaguely guilty at how he's only returning the knocks without really returning them. distrustful somehow, while knowing him standing here is still as good a sign of trust as they come.
he's sure bastian knows. more than that, he's sure bastian knew before he'd knocked thrice. it isn't like laurent to spare anyone from companionable ribbing, and bastian would have caught the minute stiffness in his approach, the inflexible lilt of his voice when he'd interrupted. his presence at laurent's threshold only confirms it.
not that laurent had tried terribly hard to hide it. stumbling upon such intimate knowledge of bastian's captivity had felt like a violation of exceptional order, like wandering uninvited into a surgical theatre to find someone laid open, their innards left haphazardly upon the table.
bastian never knocks back, but laurent watches the light beneath his cabin door flicker and pulse with the rhythm of anxious strides. for several minutes, he leaves him to it. then several more. but he's never known the silk to pace like this before, and unrest begins to prickle unpleasantly in his gut.
had he erred more gravely than he'd thought?
the door swings open onto bastian.
“you're going to wear the floorboards thin,” laurent says simply.
behind him, candlelight stretches his shadow long across the corridor until it eclipses bastian. even half-swallowed by it, the silk's face is unreadable. what a talent.
The others who kept to the code, had seen the Widow’s Wake in a different frenzy than Kiyoto had. They seemed lacking in something ⸻ heart or brawn, he couldn’t tell which. Raider’s Revenge, after all, was the one ship who had twisted his heart around her tongue. But this Captain had seen the subtleness in power. Or saw the comfort in cowardice. The nature of the bloodless who had been squeezed between desperation and falsehood, barking at the baited hook. The Widow’s Wake is only filled with foxes in their hole, chattering about the rabbits caught in their tripwires ⸻ all while being the hares themselves. The morbid connection of two men on death row, regardless of how swiftly the reaper comes. “ Ah, an interesting spot to find you, eh? “ This is a comment, sharp and poised, as they stand in the blacksmith filled with weapons that the other captain was less likely to use. If one peers too closely one might note the slight rattle in the younger man’s chest, a godless echo of an abyss he had to swim out of to become what he is today. His anger bumped so close to his throat that the world keels over. A sickening crack in his stomach, like some unreachable thing awakening. “ I suppose the ghosts always find themselves returning to dryland. “ No smile on his face yet, but the rolled cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. A flash of a memory, teeth gnashing, knuckles reddened. The looks of horror in others’ eyes. Yes, he certainly had grown into the scaly skin of his fate. Kiyoto is aware. Kiyoto is attuned to the way the mind rots and sweats ⸻ as if he were just rainwater in the grave. The clanking of steel and iron in the backroom is the only melody beyond them. He tilts his head to search the open room around them, absentmindedly refusing to take a longer look at this ghostly apparition in front of him. “ Not much else to haunt out there on the water. “
it is true that laurent would rarely make use of the weapons surrounding them now, gleaming like jewels where the sun spears through the windows and catches along blades, flintlocks, and daggers. not when there are so many more interesting ways to ruin a man.
still, he expects incuriosity from kiyoto, this man of ash and scales, whose moniker conjures something vast and ruinous, all appetite and violence, chewing its way through the sea and leaving precious little behind. a pack of beasts might be more accurate. bloodhounds left unattended too long, loosed upon anything unfortunate enough to run.
“i’m the ghost, you say?” laurent muses, testing the weight of a dagger in his hand. “yet here you are, haunting me. people will talk, you know. they may start to think we’ve grown sweet on one another.”
he turns the hilt once against his palm. a narrow, beautifully worked thing, the sort of weapon that would doubtless end up dulled and battered in kiyoto’s possession.
“i do occasionally enjoy looking at things i have no use for.”
laurent’s gaze drifts over the racks of swords and axes before settling, pointedly, on kiyoto.
“so my being here has already proven worthwhile.”
the dagger returns to its display.
not much else to haunt out there on the water.
“no,” laurent says, almost pleasantly. “you’ve burned most of it.”
with @bastian-varga / several years ago in tortuga
the sky is clear and redolent with flickering starlight by the time he makes it back aboard the widow's wake, and he finds the sight mocking, as if to taunt him for the knowledge he now possesses.
drunk men were always terribly charitable, giving away their secrets and misdeeds as if they were sweets. there had been a particularly loud one a seat or two away from laurent and conversation partner of the evening, a red-cheeked merchant, telling some story loud enough for half the tavern to hear. luckily, laurent is adept at appearing to be engaged in a conversation while eavesdropping on another. something about a prisoner. hungarian. land infiltrator. did not take to water well, least the way they administered it.
by the time laurent reaches the wake, some of the crew are loitering on deck with drink in hand, sprawled over barrels and crates, their laughter skipping across the black water like stones. bastian among them. ‘you look like a fuckin’ tomato when you’re drunk, you know that?’ ‘stick it up your arse, you don’t even need one drop of rum to have all the barmaids in tortuga clamoring for your hide. someone outta keep youse in a crate!’
raucous laughter, howling and barking. the taste of wine still bitter and burning in his mouth.
“yeah? if i’m a dog, never seen a bigger drowned rat than bastian! shoulda seen him when we first hauled him out the water, swear he coughed up half the ocean in my face!” a stomach churning impersonation of said gagging and spluttering.
“oh, i’m sure baptiste has had greater public humiliations,” laurent cuts in. “surely i’m not the only one who remembers when he tried to impress that pretty little thing at the siren’s nest and fell straight through the table.”
“captain! how could you! the table was rotten.”
“and the six cups of rum?”
the story catches on quickly. someone remembers the splinters that assailed them. as quickly as laurent cut into the conversation, he is as quick to retreat to the empty far end of the ship with a bottle an import captured from their last merchant ship. but not before lightly knocking on the railing thrice.
name: laurent villiers
monikers: the bloodless. formerly, the darling, sweetmouth
age: forty-seven
role: captain of the widow’s wake. formerly, silk, hostage, bastard
faceclaim: cillian murphy
height: 6’
build: slim, toned and tightly muscled
sexuality: bisexual, demiromantic
notable traits: impeccable manners even when drunk, an ability to make one feel forgiven without actually forgiving them, a poor relationship with debts and being rescued
born a bastard to a wealthy french lord, laurent is granted private acknowledgment through the villiers name and most of the comforts permitted to legitimate offspring. he learns early, and on his own, why. an educated bastard is a useful one, and a comfortable bastard is less likely to make a fuss. regardless, he loves his family and believes they love him too, molding himself into the sort of son he thinks they will find easy to keep loving.
he becomes clever, discreet, and persuasive. rooms open themselves to a funny, handsome bastard, and his illegitimacy makes it easy to coax others into lowering their guard before he slips back into the shadows with whatever he came for. he takes meetings with unwanted visitors and makes them feel vital. he handles matters too delicate for his father and brothers to be seen muddling with. he is good at cleaning up messes, and he knows enough to consider himself lucky. the perfect bastard.
at twenty-one, he is sent to the caribbean as a liaison for his family’s commercial interests. the rigidity of french society loosens thousands of miles from home, and it feels like an exhale. for the first time, he steps out from beneath his family’s grand eclipse and finds there is sun enough for him too.
at twenty-three, while traveling aboard a merchant ship, he is taken hostage by the widow’s wake. he nearly meets the same end as the rest until he invokes his family name, and even the captain recognizes the fortune that might be made from a villiers. a ransom is demanded, and they wait. laurent is frightened, of course, but assumes the matter will be settled within days. perhaps a week, if his father finds the price excessive. he is useful, after all.
days become weeks before a letter bearing fine, elaborate handwriting and the family seal is finally placed into the captain’s hands. “monsieur villiers has no legitimate son by the name laurent and accepts no obligation concerning the debts or circumstances of the aforementioned man.” perhaps out of pity, the captain lets him read it. laurent reads it three times, then asks if he may keep it. it still sits in his bedside drawer, folded and unfolded a hundred times since.
the pirata codex leaves them with an ugly problem. laurent is no longer worth ransoming, and a captive who refuses to serve cannot simply be released. the captain gives him a choice: join the wake or die. laurent has little argument with that. hell, as far as he is concerned, he has no family anymore. no ties to hierarchy, wealth, or duty. stripped of everything that had once decided his place for him, he finds something almost like freedom in the choice.
he chooses to become a silk. what use is his cleverness now, if not to keep opening things that were never meant to open for him? only now, instead of slipping into grand halls and private meetings, he slips into beds when necessary, or when he feels like it, and gets his hands on key rings, shipping schedules, guard rotations, private correspondence. he lies beautifully, and the widow’s wake thrives for it. he becomes a favorite of the captain’s, partly because he is good at what he does and partly because he is good company. laurent offers an impartial voice when others flatter and a frank one when others fear to speak. in time, he becomes fiercely loyal to the man who offered him a second life after his father condemned the first.
the golden age begins tarnishing around them. pirate ranks thin beneath naval campaigns, pardons, and the gallows, and laurent adapts faster than most. faster than the captain, certainly. traditional piracy is becoming a sure route to the noose. burning ships invite investigation. open battles create witnesses, wanted posters, and bounties. subterfuge is cleaner. take the riches before anyone realizes they are gone, and perhaps they might survive long enough to spend them. better yet, they might thrive.
the captain does not adapt with him. perhaps it is age, or fear, or the crown tightening its grip around the caribbean, but something in him begins to change. betrayal appears everywhere he looks. simple misunderstandings earn harsh punishments. unnecessary risks cost them good sailors. a temper once kept on a short leash begins to lash out like a whip. laurent starts intervening beyond his station, at first to protect both the crew and the man commanding it. sailors begin bringing their concerns to him before the captain, and laurent still defends the man when their doubts turn ugly. then comes an incident he cannot excuse. laurent confronts him privately and appeals to his better sense, to the safety of the crew, to the man he remembers. the captain answers by reminding laurent who commands the ship, and who gave him the life he now enjoys.
it never begins as an intentional mutiny. laurent would never admit how much it pains him to watch the captain become inflexible, paranoid, and cruel. still, by the time he finally confronts him on deck before the assembled crew, the outcome has already been decided. the silks trust laurent. the whispers bring their findings to him first. the mirrors seek his counsel before carrying out orders they no longer trust. the captain reaches for his weapon and finds it gone. nobody moves to defend him. not a drop of blood is spilled. betrayal may be punishable by death, but laurent would wager the captain betrayed his crew long before they betrayed him.
a wiser man might have executed the former captain. laurent, in spite of everything, cannot quite carve out the part of himself that clings to loyalty like a rock in a squall. instead, he has the man marooned. the captain laughs when he realizes what is happening. “don’t have the stomach to kill me, lordling?” laurent only tilts his head, as though the answer should be obvious. “we’re even now. captain.”
more than a decade has passed since then. laurent remains as disarming and lovely as he was when he was young, and later when he was a silk, though something sharper has settled beneath it with age. it surfaces when the stakes are high. he survived a family that would not pay for him and became a man the crown would gladly pay a fortune to hang. he survived the captain who offered him a second life, only to learn that the gift had come with chains attached. none of it sits lightly with him. he invites his crew to challenge him, though he expects it done in private. trust comes slowly, but once given, it is difficult to shake. those he calls his own are put to work, listened to, protected, and fought for.
misc.
he earned the moniker “the bloodless” well after the mutiny, more a descriptor of how the captain of the widow’s wake can steal everything from underneath you without drawing a single drop of blood. some mistake it to mean that he is merciful; he doesn’t mind being underestimated. to laurent, spilling blood is a sure sign things were poorly planned.
as a silk, he had different monikers. the darling, officially; someone had suggested it as a callback to his “noble” heritage. to those most intimate to him, they thought of another: sweetmouth. using either now to his face is a sure way to tempt fate.
a decent swordfighter, a good assassin, an exemplary spy, but a poor shot.
he prefers not to make a grand entrance or to have recognizable habits. no signature scents or songs to mark his entrance and presence. most people unfamiliar with him would only suspect they were speaking to captain laurent by the way secrets clutched to their chests spilled easily from their lips and the peculiar warmth of wanting and feeling wanted curling their fingers. how long after he was gone, there filled his absence a great loneliness that refused to settle.
dark water. even though he hated small spaces, he was never a precipice guy. the call of the void was nearly universal, but wasn't one of stand on the edge of skyscraper. he was, however, known to spiral into the rush of waves.
the ocean heeled him like a dog, a siren's voice calling him out onto the deck. as he leaned over the side, his breathing deepened from the panicked shallow gasps he was taking inside. wit had learned a lot tonight, had experienced a lot more. they surrounded him in the void, stuck him on a boat in the middle of it.
but he had a lot to live for, he thought bitterly. nothing nice and lovely, like his friends or family, but things to live for anyways. " if you were gonna jump, i called dibs. " wit's voice was light, but he was still gripping the railing like a life preserver.
There she stands, just a breath away from the void's swirling currents, a realm that once cradled her like a womb and home, now lost to her grasp. Leaning against the ship's railing, she is an errant slant with slender fingers folded underneath her chin, her pale hair whipped into wild, windborne dances. Nights like these awaken a deep longing for her mother, for the warmth of her little coven nestled within a tourist haven, for days untouched by the stain of blood on her hands.
An eyebrow arches in concern. True, the seasick have been a common sight in the past hour, but his malaise seems marrow-deep. Sick of heart, as she is.
"No need. Ocean's big to harbor both of us, no?" Azusa offers a faint, curling smile, tinged with bemusement, intrigue, and a touch of pity. "I suppose something quite shitty must be weighing on you if even a bar brimming with overpriced cocktails and a sparring ring full of spit and blood couldn't lift your spirits."
She lifts her chin. "Might as well tell me. It's the next best thing to drowning."
closed to @playsgods / azusa & hiroshi / tw: depictions of blood, gore, and violence
It's a long walk from a pool of blood to Hiroshi's office. She's lost count of the number of steps in between here and there, but once she's there, she's here. Standing before the underboss, she is a figure cloaked in blood and viscera, a stain on the cleanliness of his orderly realm. There is, however, a certain satisfaction in this desecration, a perverse sense of power in tarnishing the immaculate. Beneath Hiroshi's mask of stoicism, she senses grief, a heart speared by the sight of her, transformed into a weapon of his will, a pearl-inlaid blade stained crimson.
With a deliberate motion, she reaches into her bag, extracting a head by its hair, only just sliced clean off its accompanying body. Lifting it for a moment for him to see and recognize, she then allows it to fall to the floor with a dull thud.
In a different world, she might have just risen from the depths of the ocean, emerging silently behind him as he peered anxiously into the water for her shadow. There, she would have been poised to whisper in his ear: "Hi." Her voice is a soft echo in the room. "It's done."
