swashbucklcr

[swashbucklcr]

A classic example of a Swept-hilt Rapier, blade made in Toledo, Spain, German hilt, probably ca. late 16th century, housed at the Musée de l'Armée.

[swashbucklcr]

[COMPARE] The sender and the receiver compare scars.

@iron-hearts-ablaze | scar prompt

Scars—many of his campmates were riddled with them, some physical, others less so. Some people hid theirs out of shame or not wishing to be reminded of their cause. Others wore them with pride, and some simply didn't care. Karlach seemed to fall into that last category, much like Finn.

To Finn, scars were just signs of healing and survival. Nothing more. But they also held stories, some bold and triumphant, others devastatingly sad, and a few downright humorous.

"Aight, so you've got a fuck tonne of scars, and I bet most of them came from kicking demon arse," Finn said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "But you got any embarrassing ones? Like, here, lemme show you this one..."

He unbuckled his boot and rolled up his trouser leg to reveal a v-shaped scar above his ankle. "Got this from a chicken. Thought I could handle the little bastard easily. Turns out, I lost the cock fight."

He grinned, waiting for Karlach's reaction.

[swashbucklcr]

[TRACE] The sender leans in, delicately tracing the outline of a scar with their lips. (from the second-main magic man himself - imperitvs)

@imperitvs | scar prompts

His tent, their tent in truth, had become a shared sanctuary for Finn and Osian more evenings than not. This night was no different, though the summer heat had arrived early, and the stifling warmth lingered even after the sun had bid them goodnight. Finn chose to sleep without his shirt to stay cool, exposing his chest without a care. The scars that marked his skin were never a source of shame for Finn; they were proud badges of battles hard-fought and won.

The pair rested atop their bedrolls, a blanket deemed too warm for the night’s oppressive heat. Finn lay beside Osian, his hand tucked under his head, arm crooked, eyes closed as he relished the tranquillity of the evening.

Osian seemed to be in a playful mood, his gentle touches becoming more frequent as they spoke in hushed tones. It wasn't until the elf fell silent, and Finn felt the soft press of lips along his shoulder, that his own voice faded, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.

He ought to say that was enough, to maintain some semblance of composure, but why ruin a perfect evening? Instead, he hummed contentedly, his fingers threading through Osian's hair in a tender gesture.

[swashbucklcr]

( @starbvund from Bob ) "All right I see yer rum over there. I raise ya that homegrown moonshine is better. Will melt the paint off your house." Bob was already piling more ingredients into this barrel. In the process of making said moonshine that smelled rather potent.

@starbvund | BOB

"The fuck do I want melted paint for, Bob?" Finn asked, striding toward the source of the moonshine stench and peering down into the container. "Mate, have you ever thought of enjoying the taste of a drink? This shit looks like it'll just burn you from the inside out... but..." Finn studied the concoction for a long moment, his mind sluggish from the rum but still turning over ideas.

"This stuff’s gotta be flammable as the Hells. Bottle it up, lob it at a few goblins, and get the wizards to light it up. What do you think? Instant bonfire, goblin-style." He grinned, the glint of mischief in his eyes betraying his excitement at the potential plan.

[swashbucklcr]

"Here, you fought with your landlord and didn’t kill him? That's some restraint right there. You know how many would take the chance to gut 'em?" Finn said, giving them a nudge and a knowing grin before unsheathing his sword.

"Alright, I ain’t no landlord. Don’t own any land myself, but that doesn’t mean I can’t teach you how to fight. You’ve got to get that balance just right if you want a decent chance at besting your enemy. Remember, real strength ain’t just in the arms. It's in your stomach, back, and legs—just a bit. But again," he motioned with a swift leg swipe, aiming to trip them.

[athletics + modifier: 23]

"It’s about balance," he said, steadying himself after the move.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Yunae couldn't fathom what possible kind of insult Finn had gotten out of their question, but they were glad that he seemed to be less of a dick about it after clarification.

At the question of learning where to fight, they threw their head back with a single 'hah!'

"I'm far more of a runner than a fighter," the bard responded, "*you* guys are just pressuring me into it." That didn't really answer his question; now who was being obtuse?

"I want to say the Bard's College, since that's where I learned to cast spells, and they did give training in simple weapons-- They *do* call us 'jacks of all trades' for a reason, after all. But really, I don't remember too much time there, whole thing is a bit of a blur."

"My more recent training comes from my landlord, a paladin named Donovan Silvershield."

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Finn watched the wizard cast a light spell, its glow pushing back the darkness. He shrugged; it was better than nothing and considerably brighter than the torch he held.

"Yeah, I guess that'll work," he replied, glancing between the light and the crawling shadows. It was as if they were alive, moving of their own accord, prowling for the kill. There were stories of mists like this at sea, tales of sailors who ventured into them and never returned, leaving behind only empty vessels.

"You think we could fix it by placing a fuck-tonne of bonfires around the place?" he joked, trying to lighten the mood. The oppressive shadows were gnawing at his nerves, and their group had enough to deal with without adding soul-sucking shadows into the mix. "You could just cast your fire spells everywhere, burn the shadows away."

He kicked a pebble down the path, watching as it bounced into the shadows and disappeared with an odd metallic clunk.

Gale scrunched up his noise, resisting the urge to point out that magic hardly worked that way. But he just shook his head, letting out a sigh.

"I'm afraid not. These mists aren't something that can be controlled by regular magic. A curse on the very land itself. It would take more than what I can currently muster to lift it's veil and let us pass in peace."

As it was though, there was nothing they could do, except stave off some of the darkness. He cast light on his staff, brightening the way forward considerably.

"I hope this will suffice, at least? Perhaps something has survived here, we'll have to keep an eye out for anything... bright, I suppose."

As for if they could see anything through these mists, no matter how bright they were, well... Gale had to keep his hopes up.

[swashbucklcr]

Alaara glanced up before Finn could pretend to busy himself with something—a random excuse to explain his presence. In truth, there was nothing around to feign interest in, and the small jolt he failed to suppress gave away his feelings at being caught. A hint of red crept up his cheeks, and instead of allowing himself to feel embarrassed or vulnerable, he opted for his usual defense mechanism: rage.

"No, just wondering why the fuck you're writing music when there's a damn cult on our heels," he spat, hating himself for being such a cruel 'leader.' His father would be proud, but that didn't bring him any joy. The humming did, the peace Alaara had brought before his anger surged in and ruined it.

A flash of several emotions surged through him, but most profoundly, regret. Alaara was a good soul; she didn't deserve his anger. For the first time in a long while, he thought of his mother. She enjoyed the lute too... She would be disappointed in him.

"I—just..."

Yet he couldn't bring himself to say sorry. Instead, he took a deep breath and pushed the anger away, trying to regain some semblance of control.

"You can't use a lute as a weapon. We need to be able to fight to stay alive," he added, echoing his father's words from years ago, just with more empathy.

The words felt hollow, even as he said them. He glanced at Alaara, hoping she could see the unspoken apology in his eyes.

Alaara was lost in the page as she swept her quill across her journal's parchment. Her song about Lae'zel was coming along nicely; she couldn't stop while the iron was yet hot. She hummed as she wrote the lyrics, alternating between laying down words and music notes. To anyone but herself, her process would look like scribbles, a mess indecipherable to all but the most exceptional persons.

Her last line gave her trouble; her voice wavered as she backtracked and tried it again. Again she stopped. Alaara frowned, realizing that her moment had gone. She quietly shut her journal with a sigh, her quill stuffed in between the pages.

"So much for finishing this in one sitting," she mumbled. She rose to stretch and only then did she notice that Finn was there, eyes upon her appraisingly. She startled.

"By the gods," she cursed. "I had an audience without realizing it. I'm afraid my inspiration for what I'm writing has left me, but... if you were here only to listen to me singing and playing, I can share any number of ballads, both known and of my own library if you'd like me to?"

[swashbucklcr]

Elven stereotypes were well known to Finn, thanks to his father's stories—none of which were pleasant. From Duncan's descriptions, he expected the worst from Osian, Astarion, and Halsin. Yet, to his surprise and relief, each of them shattered every negative and repulsive notion Finn had formed under his father's influence. It was a small victory in a world filled with enough hatred and darkness.

"I thought the stereotype was that you lot were tree-hugging know-it-all fuckers," Finn teased, a smirk playing on his lips to ensure Osian knew he was jesting. He reached out, placing a friendly hand on Osian's knee, giving it a light pat.

"So, what’s the deal? Do I just lie here with this stuff on me forever? Or is this some elaborate scheme to make me listen to you ramble on about the Weave again? I’m onto you, wizard."

While Osian tried to stay focused on the task at hand, he couldn't help but to note several things while exposed to this side of Finn. Mostly the scars that scattered, visible in parts under the necrotic damage. Gods, what a life Finn must have led... Osian was not dull enough to believe a pirates life would be without injury, but this seemed so... drastic.

"Ah, well, maybe I'm giving into the stereotype a little here." Osian smiled slightly, a light chuckle in his throat. "Though this is my mothers doing. She's a renowned healer without a single spell to her name thanks to her botany. She taught me some basics." He finished spreading the ointment, leaving behind a rather pleasant smell that instantly reminded him of sitting in his mothers herb hut shredding leaves and crushing certain flowers.

"You'll have to stay still, the paste doesn't really harden or get absorbed. So-" He shuffled back around so Finn could see him properly, brushing his now rather green looking hand on a rag nearby. "Need me to distract you while we wait for Shadowheart? Perhaps I can regale you with something? Hells, mayhaps even bore you to sleep with my utterly interesting discussions on the Weave." Osian tilted his head with a smile. This was easier...much much easier. A little separation. That was how things had to be...right?

[swashbucklcr]

I'm off to the UK for a trip so I won't be on here or Discord much! I'll be back Tuesday. Stay safe folks.

[swashbucklcr]

Either his tease had hurt Osian's feelings, or the elf had stopped listening to him. Most likely the latter, given the momentarily glazed look in his eyes. Finn pursed his lips for a moment, a bit worried for Osian. He was still very aware that his friend was becoming accustomed to the violence they had to endure to survive. Each day he seemed better, but there would always be days when things took a step back. Then, almost as soon as it happened, Osian was present again.

Finn decided to take a pause on the teasing, even if it was helping him ignore his own pain. He adjusted himself with a groan. The cold air stung against his wound, but the application of the paste was a soothing sensation more than anything. He relaxed, not even realizing his body was so tense until the pain ebbed into a numbness.

"Fuck, you elves know your shit with plants," he sighed, relieved. "I mean wood elves," he quickly added. By now, he was learning more and more about elven cultures to avoid being such a prick to Osian, Astarion, and Halsin.

Osian raised a brow as his eyes narrowed slightly. Really? Could he not just take his word for it? These wounds were surely painful, could this not wait? If it was for a second, perhaps Osian would have rolled his eyes and continued with the care, but Finn seemed to linger.

Suddenly Osian became so very aware of everything. He seemed to stop breathing for a second as Finn's thumb seemed to caress his chin. Rather rapidly, it all became a bit too much. The closeness, the touch... He felt so overwhelmed by the urging want for Finn to keep his hand there - but also wanting to push him away. His stomach churned as the anxieties he tried so hard to quell seemed to charge through his entire system. He wanted to stay...and he wanted to flee...

Thankfully, Finn released him and Osian looked away instantly, unable to meet Finn in the eye. Pretending instead to be concentrating on the paste. As if such a simple gesture had meant as little to him as it seemingly did for Finn. Because what else could it possibly be? Nothing. Just an overly concerned friend with his gaze in the wrong direction.

The elf hadn't even taken in what Finn had been saying, there seemed to be an irritating buzzing in his mind filtering it out. It was only when Finn had attempted to remove his shirt himself did Osian find himself in the present again. "Right..." He muttered as he let Finn settle back down on his side and made his way around to the back with his paste at hand. Resting down the bowl, he found his hands were shaking as they went to reach for the bottom of Finn's shirt.

Osian took a second to close his eyes tight, mentally chastising himself for such pathetic behaviour and opening them again with new vigour. Ignore everything, shut the worries up and concentrate on helping... He needed to be useful. Finn was hurt because of him, he had to make it right.

Osian's hands still shook slightly as he rolled up the shirt, but the sight of the gruesome green tinged skin affected by the spell allowed him to concentrate. "This will feel cold, but it should numb pretty quickly... Brace yourself." Osian warned before starting to spread the herby paste generously around the impact area. Gently applying it outwards.

[swashbucklcr]

"Fightin' talk there, Bree. Hand her over. I need a sup to wet me mouth," he said with a hint of a smile, reaching for the bottle and meeting her gesture halfway. Finn's idea of wetting his mouth was taking several large mouthfuls, savoring how the drink burned his throat. Feeling warm inside and out, he handed the bottle back to her.

"Yeah, the sharing bottle thing is bullshit. Made it up for a sup. You best hide your drink well on the Dúncannon, or someone will nick it."

It was probably for the best that Finn interrupted her staring into the flames - it could easily have led to her spiralling alone.

"Oh, you did, did you?" she asked, mildly, taking another swig of rum with a playfully defiant look in her eyes, as if she was baiting Finn into a playfight over the drink. "Well, that might be the name of the game on the Dúncannon, but in the Dancin' Peaks, we've got 'finder's keepers' an' 'on your feet, lose your seat'."

She held the teasing for a further beat, staring him down with a smirk playing across her face, before she handed the rum over to the pirate, elbowing him playfully. "Lucky for you, I thought both those were horseshit. Here."

[swashbucklcr]

With that, Finn withdrew his hand from Osian's and reached for the elf's chin, pinching it slightly and tilting Osian's head for a better view. The poor wizard's blush was rather obvious, but knowing elves and their uppity nature about contact, it was probably just that. Yet as he held the other, a whisper in his mind noted how soft an elf's skin was, the lack of facial hair certainly made a difference. A soft stroke of his thumb against Osian's chin, just to be really sure there wasn't even a whisker.. But, yes, the injury, or lack thereof, thankfully. There was nothing but hair on the other's head, so at least it was worth the wound he bore.

"Good," he added, releasing Osian's face. "Your brain is probably the best thing about you. Gods help you if you ever needed to open a tight jar with those arms... But..." He shifted as he tried to remove his own shirt and fell back into the bedroll with a grunt of pain. "Yeah, you'll have to help me out. Whatever the fuck you need to do, just do it."

He didn't intend to come off too crassly, but the pain from moving just added to his constant anger.

Osian raised his brows slightly as the realisation hit him. He felt his skin grow cold and his heart sink out of pure embarrassment. Finn wasn't reaching for his face, he wanted to check him over for wounds. Gods, was he ever going to go a single day without making such atrocious mistakes?

Osian sighed, realising only now how his hair was started to fall away from it's usual pushed-back appearance. With one hand, he slicked it back as he leaned a little closer. "Gods you are stubborn. Look, there's nothing there. A few scrapes is nothing to worry yourself over. See?"

He gestured toward his head which, truthfully, was unharmed. "W-Well..." Osian returned to his bashful demeanor. "We don't have to remove the shirt, i-if you're uncomfortable with it... Just...well, just rolling it up should be fine..."

[swashbucklcr]

@unfortunatedarling | continued from here

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ They couldn't tell if he was being obtuse on purpose or not. Maybe the term 'swashbuckler' was more of a local term to them, but to Yunae, it was a specific type of roguish adventurer that honed a unique fighting style with a blade, usually a rapier or a cutlass.

"I mean like-- what I mean is... ugh, never mind." The bard scoffed, "I was just trying to say you have an interesting fighting style that's reminiscent to a sailor that's had to fight on a rocking boat, that's all." They seemed a little peeved that he was more focused on the definition than what they were actually trying to make a conversation of. To them, it felt like he was shutting the conversation down than adding to it.

"Oh…" A pause as he momentarily reflected, was he being overly defensive? It was reflex, show none of that softness or people will poke there with their swords. Yet, in that moment perhaps it wasn't necessary, and Finn's whole demeanour eased.

"Well, yeh. I learned how to fight on a boat, gotta get your balance right cause if you fall you're being fucked with a sword. And depending on the fucker you're fighting, you might actually be fuck with one. So… How about you? Where’d you learn to fight?"

[swashbucklcr]

Gods, he was weak. The pain was something he could handle, but whatever the fuck that Shepard hit him with seemed to drain all energy from him, as if trying to suck his life out through the wound. The slow rise and tremble of his hand met Osian's instead. The elf must have misinterpreted Finn's attempt to check if his friend was okay.

"Show me yer head," he demanded. Despite the soft tone, he maintained his stubbornness and most of his gruff. "Your long red hair is good at hiding injuries." Finn made no attempt to withdraw his hand from Osian's; it was nice having someone to care for him sincerely. Rare even.

Not that he'd dare admit such a thought. Instead, he attempted to smirk and hoped it didn't come across as a grimace. "...and then you can take off me shirt."

Osian complied with Finn's request and made to rest him behind cover - but he could hear the battle meeting it's end behind him. Just as Osian made to move Finn's arm off his shoulders, he noticed Finn's body grow limp. "Finn? Hey, Finn!" Osian shook him slightly. He was breathing, but had clearly passed out. The wood elf shouted over his shoulder to alert the others.

------

Osian was humming under his breath as he sat, grinding herbs using a mortar and pestle. The song that occasionally formed a lyric passed his lips was in Elvish - a simple tune that his mother had taught him to remember which herbs helped which kind of injury. The wound was from a magical source, but it was necrotic in nature. Shadowheart was exhausted and unable to aid Finn straight away without rest. He and Gale weren't practiced in healing magic. So, the basics would have to do until Shadowheart was ready.

The red head snapped his head over as Finn started to move and mutter. They were in Osian's tent, the flap laid open to allow for light and air. Osian laid Finn on his side so not to agitate the wound further. He slid over as Finn started to come around.

"Me?! Look, I'm fine, let's not care about that for now, there are much bigger issues at hand-" Speaking of, Osian glanced over as Finn's hand seemed to be shaking, reaching up. Was he...trying to cup Osian's cheek? The very thought caused Osian's pulse to rush, and he knew he was blushing from the violent heat in his cheeks. "Ah, ha-" Osian chuckled nervously, taking Finn's hand in one of his and patting the top of it with his other hand. A friendly gesture to reassure, placing Finn's hand back down to his side. No...he was being silly...

"Shadowheart is tired, but I remember an old recipe my mother made and was able to find all the herbs I needed. It won't help much, but it'll make things numb until Shadowheart can heal you properly. Sorry it's not anything more. Although...it's a paste. I'll...um..." Suddenly he grew flustered. Why? "I-I would need to apply it...t-to your back. So...um..." Why was this so darn difficult?! "W-We need to lift up your shirt."

Gods his ears were on fire.

[swashbucklcr]

A curt chuckle emerged from Finn, not the most knowledgeable on religions but very aware of the rivalry between Selûne and Shar. Oh, she was certainly an easy target for some light teasing. Finn considered his jest to be kind compared to what his shipmates would say.

"Moonwitch? Is that what you Selûnites call her these days? Huh, same shit we call our goddess, the Bitch Queen. Not sure she takes it well, though, so don't make a habit of it."

He wondered if revealing his own nature of worshipping (or as close to worshipping as a pirate who cared little for the gods did) would give Shadowheart some ease in trying to stop hiding the clear fact she was a cleric of Shar.

Shadowheart had been in silent prayer and contemplation when Finn had set down beside her. Eyes closed as she whispered silently. In truth, she didn't know what to make of the man yet. A pirate could be a valuable ally or a dangerous liability, and they hadn't been traveling together long enough for her to determine which yet.

But when he brought up Selune, her expression soured almost immediately and she scrunched up her nose. Her eyes opened as she looked over to the man beside her like he'd just insulted her and her ancestors.

"Why in all of Toril would I give that Moonwitch any of my prayers?" She asked, coming off probably more harshly than she should have. It was difficult, however, to keep her disdain for the Moon Goddess out of her words.

"I will pray to who I wish, when I wish, where I wish, in private."

[swashbucklcr]

[swashbucklcr]

Finn had failed to realize he was using Osian as a crutch until the wizard left his side, hands ablaze. There he stood, gasping for some relief while watching Osian burn the Shepherd with an impressive display of fire and magic. Very impressive, in fact. If he wasn't distracted by the searing pain of his withering torso, his thoughts would drift elsewhere.

And then Osian was back, supporting Finn, and to his own surprise, he was grateful for the embrace. He was glad to throw his arm around the other and hold him while they found a spot clear of the chaos of the battle.

"Lay me down here, I just need t'rest," Finn murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. The pain faded until a new wave of it brought his drifting mind back. Had he fainted? Surely not, but the environment around him was suddenly very different. Regardless, perhaps it was the fatigue, the wear of battle, but Finn found his hand reaching out for Osian again, wanting to check that fiery head for injuries.

"Osian," he muttered, his voice weak but filled with concern. "Are you alright? Did you get hurt?" His hand, trembling and unsure, sought the wizard's face, needing the reassurance that his friend was safe.

Hearing the Ghoul's dying whimper as it collapsed to the ground faded quickly when Osian focused instead on the groan in Finn's voice. It had quickly been pieced together what had happened... Finn put himself in such danger just to save him?

Gods if he wasn't so useless.. So utterly and completely inept, it wouldn't have been necessary! He couldn't afford to crumble under this realisation - instead, Osian gathered every frustration and grievance he had with himself and twisted it to aid him to get Finn to safety.

The sudden clamor from the flintlock was Osian's signal. Snapping his head toward the Shepard Finn fired at, he saw the creature recoil as it was struck, but adjusted itself to continue it's onslaught. His jaw tightened as he moved out from behind Finn's protection. There was no time for second guesses or hesitation...

"Ardē..." The word itself was barely whispered, yet he could feel the power swell in his chest. The somatic movements were pefect, graceful even. Rapid. Flawless for the first time as he released the fireball in the Shepards direction - taking down both it and severely burning a nearby Ghoul. Which made it all the easier for Karlach to finish off.

With his fury quelled, he hurried back to Finn's side, hoisting Finn's arm over his shoulders to bring him away from the battlefield. What was left of it. "They can handle the stragglers. Come, we have to take a look at that before it gets worse."