#captain ragamuffin

[clownboyskingdom]

Road update: Made it to our first resting point at my seasonal friend’s place of residence! We’re stopping here with the cat for a few days before I head out solo (+The Captain 🐱) on Saturday, then resting back home until heading 12 hours west to the next job!!

[comshipbracket]

Antis DNI

Propaganda for both ships provided under the cut

RagamuffinxLenore Propaganda (Age Gap - Lenore's mind is 9 and Ragamuffin 300 years older than her)

"Okay these two are so fucking funny. Their friendship is genuinely a huge keystone of the whole series, with ragamuffin taking on this relationship with her that isn't /really/ fatherly but isn't NOT that either. BASICALLY, he's a vampire who got cursed by a witch to be a doll, who was immediately picked up by lenore while she was still alive. 100 years later, she breaks the curse by accidentally bleeding on him…. buuuut the curse isn't TOTALLY lifted because she's been embalmned, so her blood ain't right. from here on ragamuffin just kinda lives in the house with her, a living doll subject to a little girl's ever whim. there are a few times where he gets his original body back, but it never lasts, and he always ends up using it to protect her and their other friends. Ragamuffin is often THE person who's worried about her, accepting his role within a few comics and coming to genuinely care about this strange, silly person. do you see why i was insane about them as a little kid?"

Kalvey Propaganda (Only comship reason provided by Submitter was enemies/unhealthy dynamic)

None that fits the bracket provided - feel free to Reblog with your own propaganda for this ship's advancement in the bracket

[showdown-of-the-undead]

Undead Character Showdown Redo: Round One Matchup Four

Who is your favorite undead character?

Propaganda:

No propaganda is submitted for Ragamuffin! If any is submitted through the ask box or comments on reblogs, they will be added next round!

Brook: "Brook died and ate a devil fruit that would let him revive, but he's soul got lost for and by the time he found his body, it was already a skeleton. He's obsessed with skeleton puns. His a great musician and at some point becomes a rockstar known as "Soul King". He has a very sad backstory too.

(Spoilers for Brook's backstory)

He was part of a pirate crew that befriended a baby whale. They eventually had to leave the whale because they felt it was too dangerous to take it with them, but they promised they'd eventually comeback. Sadly half of the crew got "the plague" along the way (including the captain) which meant that those that were still healthy had to continue the adventure on their own. Later they got attacked by an enemy crew and everyone died, making Brook the only one of his crew left thanks to his powers. Unfortunately the rowing of the ship had been broken, leaving Brook adrift and completely alone for 50 years until a new pirate crew found him and welcomed him. The promise he made to the baby whale has kept him going this time." -Submitter #1

"Former musician-turned-acting-captain of the Rumbar pirates, he was revived after death due to the effect of his devil fruit. Of course, it took a bit and the ocean carried away his ship, so by the time he found his body, he was nothing but bones. He joined the Straw Hat pirates in an effort to fulfill his crew’s final promise, as well as to help Luffy make his dream a reality.

He is light enough to run on water, can enhance his attacks with ice, and he’s been able to save the crews skin on multiple occasions…which is ironic considering he doesn’t have any!

Skull joke! Yohohohoho!" -Submitter #2

[brandwhorestarscream]

Reincarnation AU

Poor Mom of Triplets Rodimus so Exhausted. Luckly the Lost Lighters have heard the phrase "It takes a vilage to raise a child." Suprisingly Whirl is up there in compatition for most beloved uncle with Drift. Seriously who knew the Psychocopter was really good with bitties.

It's probably a good thing since Roddy wasn't the only one to fall to the Reincarnation shenanigans. He was merely the first. When Drift, Ratchet and Megatron all fall pregnant the call back to Cybetrton reveals Optimus, Starscream, and Prowl are all greatly gravid.

[Meanwhile somewhere off stage Tarn is feeling Things™️. He kept his array pure for Lord Megatron The Cause. And somehow he is experiencing the mechpreg.]

He's having such a hard time lmao. Even tho the crew adores the bitties and are always happy to help out their captain, they're still very young and can't really be away from their carrier for too long. Offers to babysit last perhaps a megacycle, tops, before the bitties get squirmy and cranky and their tiny sparks begin reaching for their maternal bond, and Rodimus has to hurry back to them

Funny enough, he actually gets the most rest when he's not by himself: though he trusts Drift and Ratchet completely with the triplets, and go an extent Ultra Magnus as well, Roddy struggles to actually relax when he's alone in his habsuite or office and his kiddos are elsewhere. It's like a reflex he can't control: whenever his sparklings are out of sight it's like a switch just flips in his mind. His thoughts swirl around them, always insistently pulled away from whatever he's supposed to be doing. Wondering if they're alright, if they're hungry, or if Pinky is getting anxious without him like he tends to, or if Maroon was still trying to choke himself by sucking on his own fingers. What if they miss him, what if they're too much for their sitters to handle, what if they think he's abandoned them, what if they trip and fall and hurt themselves and he's not there to make sure they're ok?! What if something terrible happens, like what if they fall down the stairs and break their cranial casing? What if there's another psychotic sociopath hiding aboard somewhere that takes his sparklings hostage when he's not there to protect them?! What if they get attacked by space pirates?! What if they DIE?! Of they die it'll he all his fault and he's the worst mom ever and-

On and on it goes. Whenever the exhausted carrier tries to nap by himself, his thoughts just spiral and throw him headfirst into a fit of anxiety. Rodimus has some of the worst imposter syndrome we've ever seen, and i think that would carry over to how he sees himself as a parent: he has no idea what he's doing and he loves these sparklings more than life itself; the only thing he wants, more than anything, is to do right by them. To give them the life they deserve, to be the mother they deserve. He's scared to death about raising them, honestly, so afraid to make a mistake and ruin their lives. He'd never forgive himself if he let them be hurt or, worse, if he hurt them. Having them out of sight exacerbates his anxieties, because he can't possibly know exactly what they're getting up to.

And because of all that, exhausted mama Rodimus gets his best sleep either on his berth with the three ragamuffins puppy piled on top of him, or in common areas when someone else can keep the kiddos occupied and he can keep an eye on them. Knowing they're safe and right in front of him but also knowing that he's not the only pair of adult hands available, the combination let's his body finally relax and he is out. Either helm down on the table or crashing onto the nearest shoulder, Rodimus drops into such a deep recharge so fast the first few times it happened the crew worried he had actually fainted. And when I say out I mean out, face completely limp in exhaustion, mouth open, and snoring. Everyone in the vicinity is happy to let him recharge, Primus knows he needs it. Drift makes sure to get him a blanket, and it's not long before the triplets are lured in by the warm softness and their mother's form, getting all comfy in the little blankie nest at his side 🤭

Sorry, that Rodimus part went on waaay longer than I expected it to, I just love him sm ok 🥺

BUT HOO BOY THE NEXT ONE

Ratchet and Drift and Megatron all at roughly the same time? Damn. I feel like idw Megatron would be quietly horrified because, in his (probably correct honestly I love him but I shouldnt lie) opinion, he is not fit to be a carrier. Ratchet is crabby with Drift when he finds out, grumbling about outdated contraceptives and overly affectionate conjunx, until he's able to actually do a paternity test at Rodimus's prompting. His babies don't have a sire, so maybe...?

Ratchet is surprised and suspicious when the same turns up for him. Once is a random occurrence, twice is a coincidence, thrice makes a pattern. For the three of them to all turn up carrying at roughly the same time was already very unlikely, but for two out of the four pregnancies onboard to be asexually conceived... the chances of that happening randomly is astronomically small. He pulls Drift in for the same test, and wouldn't you know it? No sire. Same story with Megatron. When they get in contact with Cybertron, he finds they're all thankfully on the same page. Starscream had pegged it as incredibly statistically unlikely, though he hadn't had paternity tests performed to determine the lack of a sire. It's almost surreal, once said tests are done, hearing that every single one of them is expecting what is, essentially, a naturally occurring little clone of themselves.

Final closing thoughts because I've rambled enough: I'm still incredibly amused by the idea Tarn in labor, high as a kite from the epidural, tell Nickel, "Nooo don't touch my seal, that's for Lord Megatron" 😂 poor Tarn man, saved himself for all these years, only to get slapped with virgin mary syndrome and BOOM, magic baby. He gets all the pains of childbirth without even experiencing the act of conceiving the baby in the first place. Press F

[aristocratic-otter]

Disaster strikes...here's chapter 2 of my Age of Sail AU!

Chapter 2: Storm at Sea

Summary:

The crew of the Watford fight to survive a sudden storm...

Simon

“Simon, lad, fetch me that cask, wouldja?” The ship’s cook runs a meaty hand over his forehead, clearing a layer of the sweat that’s dripping into his eyes. .I’m back in the cargo hold, but this time, I chose to be here. Davy asked me to help him, and so of course I came.

I owe Davy a lot. He’s the one who convinced the Captain to take a chance on a ragamuffin former goatherd. And he watches out for me. If the other sailors get too rough, he tells them off. He even thrashed the bloke who stole my breakfast ration once.

So when he wants my help, he’s got it. I don’t care what it is, I’ll do it.

Read on AO3

[sheepwithspecs]

Only Mine: Chapter 1

|| FFXIV || Rated M ||

Ao3 Link

Against her better judgement, Captain Rhoswen finds herself in the Holy See. Her mission: convince Count Charlemend de Durendaire that she is, in fact, his estranged son's loving spouse. Though she'd rather fall on her own cutlass than so much as bat her eyes at the source of her frustration, it's only for four days. What could possibly go wrong?

“N’ as they rode up the mountain path, one o’ them—erm—” Rhoswen scowled down at the tome on her lap, lips pursed in annoyance as she tried to puzzle out the word. The page swam before her weary eyes, elegant letters dissolving into meaningless squiggles on the faded parchment. “M… Majestic beasts came swoopin’ down from the ‘eavens. The boy’s chocobo reared up in fright, sending the boy tumblin’ down the mountainside to his n… his ni….”

“Nigh-certain demise,” whispered Aubrix, his small head pillowed against her shoulder.

“To his nigh-certain demise,” she repeated firmly, turning the page with a barely suppressed huff.

The Boy and the Dragon Gay had become a recent favorite amongst the many younglings who called the Missing Member home. For days on end they’d been begging her to read it aloud, never once minding the fact that even the youngest of the brood could read circles around their dear captain. Now, having finally surrendered to their incessant cries, she was left picking her way through the Coerthan tale word by godsforsaken word… at least, to the ones that were lucky enough to be in the tavern.  

As a general rule, Sirens did not waste idle time worrying about where their children were at any given moment. Most of the younglings lived in the tavern, bastard children of women who had no clue—nor care—who the father might be. Others, like Aubrix, were born of former Sirens who had chosen to wed for one reason or another, and lived in the city-state proper. It was assumed that if they weren’t at home, they were in the tavern; if they weren’t there, they were wading in the shallows, or wandering the marketplace, or pestering the Skylift workers for a free ride up the Descent.

Together they made up a large group of unruly ragamuffins that, for the most part, could look after themselves. The rest of the crew worked as collective eyes and ears, with everyone from the lowest deckhand to Rhoswen herself keeping watch over the little brats as though they were their own flesh and blood. A force to be reckoned with, they had a keen understanding of how to wheedle anything they wanted out of an unsuspecting victim… including their own captain.

In truth, Rhoswen did not mind reading the occasional story, even if it took valuable time out of her busy schedule. Though she constantly cursed her own softheartedness wherever the scheming little bastards were concerned, she could not bear to see their hopes dashed by her own misgivings. The majority of her life had been spent in illiteracy, only able to recognize those seven distinct letters that made up her given name. She had taught herself to read as a deckhand, collecting scraps of parchment from plundered ships and painstakingly tracing them by lamplight long after the others had retired to their bunks. Despite her best efforts, she was still forced to sound out all but the simplest of words, her clumsy tongue tripping over the syllables.

It was for this very reason that she had insisted all children born to Sirens would learn to read and write. The mismatched bunch huddled around her on their threadbare coverlets were better equipped to handle the world than their own mothers would ever be, safe from corrupt guards bearing false warrants or conniving merchants with dubiously worded contracts. Though they might hem and haw over their slates, she could rest easy in the fact that they would thank her one day for the efforts she took to secure their education.  

But for now….

“N’ the gods saw fit to spare his life, if only m… meagerly so. As he lay there, battered n’ broken, all manner o’ foul beasts drew near—” The heavy ocean winds rattled the shutters, moaning eerily in as it swept through the Aftcastle. The children nestled around her like so many chicks in a nest, the eldest reading along over her shoulders while the littlest ones dozed on her lap. They shivered with trepidation at the illustrated shadows on the accompanying page, hulking and half-hidden by the leafy undergrowth as they crept towards where the wounded boy lay in the foreground.

“He’s gonna be okay, aye?” Zori asked with a yawn that seemed to split her face in two, chubby fists rubbing at her eyes. Her feline ears, overlarge for her small stature, flattened as she studied the illustration with clear concern in her bright gaze. This was hardly the first time that any of the children had heard the tale, but they seemed to enjoy the pretense of asking questions as though it were brand new.

“Turn the page, n’ we’ll see what happens.” Had it been left up to her, the boy would have broken his neck at the bottom of the mountain and saved her the trouble of reading the rest. But of course a child’s fairie story would never end on such a sour note.

There was a collective sigh of admiration as the children caught sight of the dragon illustration on the next page. The sinuous creature was painted so that its scales seemed to shimmer in the lamplight; iridescent flames erupted from its gaping maw to frame the border of the text. Rhoswen had never seen a dragon before in her life, and certainly had no plans to go searching for one. Still,

she had to admit that the painted beast did seem rather formidable, if not majestic.

“Just as the boy was makin’ his peace with the Twelve, another dragon—”

“Cap’n?” The door cracked open with a rusty squeak. A’brohka—her first mate and closest confidante—poked her head through the door with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, but there’s somethin’ of a situation downstairs.”

“Aww!” The children fell apart in a chorus of groans, their tension shattered in the wake of this new interruption.

“C’mon, A’brohka!”

“This is the best part!”

“Shut yer traps!” A’brohka hissed, leaning further into the room. “’Tis the same damn tale every night. Ye can miss it for once.”    

“What is it? Don’t tell me that fool astrologian is back for another round,” Rhoswen scoffed. “Go out there n’ tell Melkoko I said she’s got my permission to throw the bugger out arsefirst if he keeps askin’ after her. Better yet, Abarwint can shove him off the balcony; I doubt anybody would miss him.” She shook her head, lips pursed in annoyance. “I swear, this city’s been overrun with long-eared fops too in love with the sound o’ their own bloody voices.”

“That’s good t’know, but it ain’t—”

“Whatever it is, Brohka,” she grunted, adjusting the heavy tome on her lap, “I’m sure ye can keep a lid on things ‘till I’m finished with this lad n’ his thrice-damned dragons.”

“T’would be best if ye handled this one yerself, Cap’n.” A’brohka leveled a glance at her over the rounded frames of her pince-nez. “One might say it requires a certain… sage wisdom.”

“For the love of—!” Rhoswen pinched the bridge of her nose, tamping down her temper before it could flare in front of the little ones. “All right, all right.” She climbed to her feet, her resigned sigh drowned by a fierce outcry from her captive audience. “Oi! That’s enough o’ that!” An immediate hush fell over the room, twenty pairs of eyes pleading with her to stay and finish the tale. “Aubrix can read the rest, then it’s off to bed with the lot o’ ye. We’ll try it again tomorrow.”

Aubrix took command of the tome, continuing where she had left off with far more enthusiasm for the source material. The children bunched around him as Rhoswen waved A’brohka out the door, following quickly and nearly slamming it on its hinges. The dragon’s belligerent roar became a quiet hum in the relative silence of the corridor, the only sound a faint whistling of wind in the highest rafters.

“What in blazes have ye done to him now?!” she snarled, once she was certain none of the children were attempting to eavesdrop from the other side. “If ye’ve been covering for someone, Brohka, best fess up now before I have to go down there n’ hear it from—”

“No, ma’am!” A’brohka shook her head fiercely. “Me n’ the girls are clean… at least, so far as I’m aware.”

“Then why in the seven hells is he turning up on our doorstep in the middle o’ the night?”

“I have no idea, I swear! He just showed up out o’ nowhere n’ demanded an audience with ye. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, even when we was… less than polite about it.” A’brohka hesitated, one dainty fang gnawing on her lower lip.

“I know that look.” Rhoswen narrowed her eyes. “Yer hidin’ somethin’.” 

“Not hidin’, just…”

“Just what?”

“Well—” A’brohka leaned even closer, lowering her voice until it was barely audible. “Just between us, I can’t remember the last time I saw Carvallain this out o’ sorts,” A’brohka admitted. “He ain’t been this flustered since the ‘Cudas stormed his ship looking for that bastard Emerick.”

“That bad, eh?” She rested her palm against the door, the heavy wood cool against her calloused skin. “N’ yer certain he didn’t say anythin’ about why he’s bothered showing up? Nothin’ about the Maelstrom, or the Executioners?”

“On my life, not a word.”

“Tch… he probably thinks I’ve challenged him to another duel.” She rolled her eyes at the thought. Sometimes it made more sense to think that he was the one obsessed with her, believing every errant missive and unsigned letter to be an invitation to duel to the death. “I’ll go down n’ see what he thinks he wants. Ye best stay up here n’ make sure these brats get to bed on time. Or, better yet, find one o’ their mothers to do the dirty work for ye.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

I wonder what it is this time? Rhoswen descended the staircase slowly, fingertips grazing the roughhewn stone walls as she turned the question over in her mind. It was not like Carvallain to willingly venture into Siren territory—at least, not without a damn good reason. Even on his excursions to Naldiq & Vymelli's, he made certain to keep to the far side of the Aftcastle. He never lingered to rest on the long benches encircling the plaza, nor did he stop to admire the sapling growing in the alcove beside the Missing Member. He saw to his business and left as quickly as possible, retreating to his own world of merchants and marauders on the opposite end of the upper decks.   

At the foot of the stairs, she found Abarwint peering furtively through the cracked door that led into the belly of the tavern. His bulky frame barely fit in the narrow stairwell, shoulders brushing the stone on either side as he crouched to keep his skull from connecting with the solid ceiling above.

It was something of a misconception that the Sirens did not allow men into the Missing Member. The crew was entirely female, to be sure, but there were always menfolk trickling in and out of its doors. There were sons of Sirens both past and present, vendors, regular patrons, and a few bilge rats who’d managed to charm her girls in one way or another. Some of them she even deemed worthy enough to live and work in the tavern, provided they knew how to earn their keep. Before leaving to pursue his dreams—or whatever the hells he thought he was doing, H’mhasi Tia had been her best chef. Likewise, Abarwint was the son of a former steerswoman, and had served faithfully as the Member’s barkeep ever since coming of age.

“Ye want that I should stay nearby, Cap’n?” Abarwint asked when he spied her, hands knotted in his stained apron. “I can sit on the stairs n’ be out faster than levin if ye need me.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” she snorted. “It’s only the fop. What’s he gonna do, lecture me to death?” Abarwint didn’t budge, bushy eyebrows meeting over his square nose as he glanced once more through the crack. “What’s the matter?”

“’Tis just… ‘e seems so… I dunno. Nervous, maybe.”

“He ought to be! Showin’ up to the enemy’s stronghold after dark… wouldn’t ye be nervous, too?” He didn’t answer, shoulders slumping as he wrung the threadbare fabric between his thick hands. “Don’t bother yerself about it. I know how to best handle Carvallain,” she insisted, shoving at one massive arm with all her strength. Abarwint stepped aside, obliging as always, though the pensive frown remained. “Hurry up n’ finish yer duties for the night. That inventory ain’t about to count itself.”

“Aye, Cap’n. But if ye find yerself in need of a strongarm—”  

“Get on with ye!” She shoved again, sending him scurrying towards the storage rooms as though his life depended on it.

That being said… it wouldn’t hurt to get a handle on things aforehand. “Ascertain the situation”, as the Admiral would say. Taking his place at the door, Rhoswen squinted through the crack.

The tavern was nearly empty, its polished floors still glistening from the remnants of the mop pail. On either side of the large room, the balcony doors stood open to allow the ocean breeze a chance to cleanse the air of sweat and ale. The ever loyal Melkoko sat atop the curved bar, the heel of one immaculately polished shoe tapping against the wooden frame. Her spine was ramrod straight, arms crossed and expression downright violent as she watched their uninvited guest.

Carvallain stood in the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by upturned chairs. One long finger tapped his chin as he waited, an otherwise unmoving statue in the center of her domain. The remaining lanternlight threw the lines of his face into sharp relief, angular cheekbones and tapered jawline, the slender column of his neck disappearing into the crisp folds of his collar. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight, thrumming traitorously against her breastbone. Handsome bastard.

To say she had feelings for Carvallain was something of an overstatement… but neither was it a complete lie. The Sirens and the Krakens had a longstanding feud that could not be ignored, no matter how handsome their captain might be. But Rhoswen had never forgotten what he’d done for her at Carteneau, whisking her from the jaws of death at the last possible moment. It was a scene straight out of a fairie tale, only it had taken place inside a horror story.

They’d argued about it afterwards, of course, but that was simply their nature. Her gratitude would have been out of place with him, just as any acknowledgement of the deed would have been out of place with her.

In fact, Rhoswen had the sneaking suspicion that many of their miscommunications—if they could be called such—arose not from any real antagonism, but rather something vital that they both seemed to lack. Neither bent to the other because such a thing simply did not happen in their lives; as a result, they were almost always at loggerheads.

A damn shame. Rhoswen sighed, gathering her wits for what would most likely be yet another needless battle. Carvallain’s ear gave the slightest of twitches, barely perceptible in the dim light. If he heard her, lurking as she was on the other side of the door, he chose not to bring attention to it. Steeling her nerve, she set her jaw and stomped into the tavern with a confidence she did not quite feel.

“Oi, ye mangy bastard! What in hells’ name d’ye think yer doin’ here at this time o’—!” Most of the fiery tirade she’d improvised sputtered to ash at the sight of Carvallain’s anguished expression. He turned towards her, plucked brows furrowed and mouth set in a grim line. Had she not known better, she might have believed it the look of a damned soul catching his first glimpse of the gallows.

Twelve above! Brohka wasn’t lyin’! She had not seen his forehead this creased since they stood together before the storm at the Flats, waiting for the Admiral’s orders to charge. She could almost feel the arid wind against her cheeks, crispy with the frying heat of magitek fire and searing flame of thaumaturge spellwork. Changing tactics, she waved to Melkoko in dismissal.

“Go ahead n’ finish up. I’ll take it from here.” The hostess leapt nimbly from her perch, curtsying to her captain before vanishing through the door that led to the Missing Member’s innermost chambers. Crossing her arms, Rhoswen nodded at an empty barstool with what she hoped was a civil—if not exactly amicable—expression. “Go on, then.”

“No, thank you.” Carvallain leaned against the wall with a careless shrug that belied his clear agitation. “If it’s all the same.”

“Suit yerself.” Pale eyes trailed over her body, sternum to ankles and back again in slow measure.

“You appear rather… underdressed.”

“Moon’s out, ye daft sod.” She resisted the urge to fidget, locking her hands tightly under her folded arms. The way he was staring at her made her feel far more exposed than she truly was. “Some o’ us are tryin’ to make it to bed before first bell.”

“That’s what you wear to bed?” His gaze lingered on the exposed swell of her bosom, outlined in white by the loose folds of the tunic tucked into her breeches. A flicker of heat, gone between blinks, so fast that she might have missed it… or misinterpreted it. His eyes cut away forcefully, scanning quickly over the empty bar before returning to her once more. His gaze remained stubbornly locked with her own, the obstinate fire unable to fully douse his unease.

“Why are ye here?” she finally relented, feeling close to a migraine. “If it’s a fight yer after, it’ll have to wait until the ‘morrow. I’m a tad busy at the moment.”

“Too busy to parley with an old enemy?” His head canted to the side, lips downturned in a feigned pout. “Not at all like the harpy I know and loathe.”

“That harpy retires with the sun.”

“Good to know.”

“Look,” she growled, rubbing her head with a wince. “Believe it or not, I don’t plan me days around… whatever this is.” She waved at the distance between them, summing up everything they were—and weren’t—in a concise flip of her wrist. “If yer hankerin’ for a battle, the least ye can do is let me get some shuteye first. Or, better yet, quit wastin’ my time n’ tell me what ye think yer doin’ in my tavern at the witchin’ hour!”

“I—” His mouth twisted, unspoken words bitter on his tongue. “I’ve come to ask a… favor.”

“F-Favor?” The breath seemed to stick in her lungs, burning a hole in her chest. “That’s a dangerous word for the likes o’ us.”

“As I am well aware.” Carvallain made no attempt to elaborate further. It seemed as though the admission had taken most of the bluster out of him, the wind leaving his proverbial sails. All at once she felt the pendulum blade swinging low, just overhead. Gulping back her nerves, she framed her fear to sound more like anger.

“If ye think ye can just waltz in ‘ere n’ pull some five-year debt scheme our yer arse just to—”

“Five… debt?” he echoed, puzzled. “What debt?”

“The—!” Now she burned for an entirely different reason, mingled shame and the remnants of something that might have once been admiration. “I’m talkin’ about what happened at Carteneau, o’ course!”

“No!” Confusion gave way to shock, then horror. “Gods, no!” he repeated emphatically. “I have never—do you truly think me a complete—” He bit his lip, reigning in the wayward emotions with a grounding breath. When he next spoke, it was with an air of forced calm. “I do not, nor have I ever, considered what happened at Carteneau to be a debt on your part.”

Then what was it? The words fought to be heard, bunching and tangling together at the base of her throat. Five years… five years of lying awake in her bed each Rising, fighting off nightmares with the thought of his stupid noble arse scooping her onto that chocobo as though she weighed less than a feather. Five years of wondering why me? why not another? with no answers to be had. There were plenty he might have saved instead, and yet he’d made a point to save her: his enemy, his rival captain, his… his what?

What had prompted him to risk his own life—not to mention the life of his beloved bird—by putting himself in harm’s way for her? Battered and beaten, half-crazed, her crew lying in bits and pieces at her heels… nothing to live for, a death wish in her back pocket—

Not the sort of woman worth trying to save.

“In fact,” he added, somewhat reluctantly, “Should you decide to help me in this… matter… ‘tis I who will be indebted to you. A debt that I admittedly have no idea how to repay in turn.”

“Ye still haven’t told me just what it is yer after.” Rhoswen shook her head. “If it’s coin, I haven’t much to spare. Anythin’ else….” She averted her eyes. “Anythin’ else depends on the request, I suppose.”

“Yes, well… I need you to—” He paused, tongue working in his cheek. “That is, I require that you— I would appreciate it if you’d—”

“Out with it, already!”

“Accompany me to Coerthas. To Ishgard.” The words left his mouth in a rush. “That is my request.”

“N’ then what?” She stared him down, waiting for the other shoe to fall. Coerthas? Ishgard? He might as well have asked her to sail right off the edge of the map. She’d never cared to look beyond Vylbrand, happy to content herself with pickings on its bloodstrewn shores. Carvallain wouldn’t have his heart set on that snow-swept wasteland without good reason, but what good could someone like her possibly be in a city full of stuffy, long-eared nobles? There had to be an ulterior motive, something he wasn’t telling her.

“While we are there, I need you to pretend to be my…” He lifted his eyes to the rafters with a grimace. “My wife.” 

“What?!”

“Rest assured, it’s only for four days.”

“What?!”

“Allow me to explain—”

“Aye, I think ye’d better.” Her legs felt week, but she dared not sit down while he remained standing. Pretend to be his wife?! That was the sort of thing joked about in alehouse yarns, not acted out in real life! What in the Navigator’s name was he thinking?!

Carvallain turned away from her, staring out into the inky darkness above the bay. He did not speak immediately, gathering his thoughts while she waited with growing horror. What could possibly be so bad that he needed her—of all people!—to pretend to be his wife? Finally he took a deep breath, arms falling to his sides as he faced her once more.

“My life, or at least what you know of it, is a lie.” Rhoswen waited for more, eyes darting from his face to his hands and back, but he seemed frozen in place.

“S-So?” she ventured, when the silence stretched too long to be comfortable. “I’d venture a third o’ the pirates walkin’ the decks have some longwinded backstory they found at the bottom o’ the ale keg. Ye think that makes ye special or somethin’?”

“Please, let me finish.”

“Ye weren’t talkin’—!”

“I am not an orphan. My parents were not fortune-tellers… though my family is admittedly known for reading the stars. And while I am the victim of a pirate attack on our vessel, I was not coerced into this life. Rather, I chose it as a means of escape from the one I’d previously known.”  

“I still don’t see what any o’ this has to do with—”

“Twenty years,” he interrupted, waving away her protests impatiently. “Twenty years I remained hidden in plain sight, making it known that I wanted nothing to do with Ishgard. They are cold bunch, lacking both in passion and imagination, and I had little reason to remain in contact following my voluntary separation. In fact, there was a time not so long ago when I wished never to be reminded of that icy fortress, nor those who choose to reside there, trapped in chains of their own making.”   

“However, it appears that circumstances have recently changed within the Holy See. The Dragonsong War has ended, and in rebuilding their city it seems that the people have taken a less… orthodox approach to mending their many woes. After careful consideration, I thought it prudent to—that is, a recent report made it clear to me that—what I mean to say is—”

“I hope ye don’t plan on talkin’ circles around yerself ‘till sunrise,” Rhoswen grunted, crossing her arms. Despite his rambling, he still hadn’t managed to land on exactly what he was doing here, or why he was going there, or how she fit into the picture.

“Perhaps you have heard that the Krakens recently entered a trade agreement with Ishgard.” He lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely as he spoke. “The agreement itself was of little importance; such things are commonplace enough between nations, and merchants of nations. But the merchant in question is well-known to me. He is a shrewd tradesman, a skillful financier, a powerful orator, and… he is my father. Indeed, I am the only son of Count Charlemend de Durendaire.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“Count Durendaire… of House Durendaire? One of the four noble Houses of Ishgard? Founders of the Holy See?” Rhoswen shrugged, shaking her head.

“I don’t know, n’ I couldn’t care less.”

“They are a noble and prestigious—never mind.” Secretly, she couldn’t help but feel relieved that his anxious energy quickly fizzled into annoyance at her lack of knowledge. “What matters is that until recently, the Count was under the impression that Gerald was the true captain of the Kraken’s Arms. I did not dare allow the truth to be known until I could ascertain for myself whether or not his apparent change of heart was genuine.”

“Change of—?”

“My father was a cold, calculating sort of man. Appeals to emotion held little sway over his decisions. That being said… to see him so affable, so willing to reveal trade secrets, and to piratesat that….” He shook his head in clear disbelief. “In any case, the truth has since been revealed, and my father has since requested my presence in Ishgard. To that effect, I may have made several false claims in my attempts to circumnavigate this particular reunion.”

“N’ I suppose one o’ these claims is…?”

“That I am happily married to a Limsan native, and—being head over heels in love—thus cannot bear the thought of leaving her behind while I undertake such a journey.” He hesitated, glancing at her with an expression that sent a fresh wave of trepidation down her spine. “I feel I must admit that in my attempts to shock him with some of the more sordid details, I may have… described you.”

“Why ye—ye schemin’, no-good bastard of a fop!” she spat, cheeks scalding in a hot blush. “I ain’t done nothin’ to ye… not in the last twelvemonth, anyroad! Just what in hells’ name did ye have to say about me?!”

“Only the unvarnished truth.” It was his turn to lift his shoulders in a careless shrug, fingers flying as he listed off her apparent “qualities”. “Crass, vulgar, loudmouthed—” she advanced on him, stomping across the room as visions of pushing him from the balcony flooded the forefront of her mind. He watched her approach with mild disinterest, cocking his head to the side as he continued. “Shrewish, vexing… alluring.” She stopped short, heart doing an odd leap from her throat back down to her chest.

“Wh-What—”

“Cunning, loyal…a might to rival the Fury and beauty to match.” There it was again, that hint of something that vanished just before she could full process what it was, or what it meant. “Of course, I was hoping this news brought about a swift and merciless disownment, perhaps even a curse on any bastard offspring I chose to sire. Imagine my surprise when… well…” He took a piece of parchment from his silken shirt; it had the look of having been folded and unfolded many times, the edges creased and worn. Holding it at arm’s length, he began to read:

My son,

Words cannot fully express the elation I felt at learning of your nuptials. The thought that you have fostered a love as deep and poignant as the one I once shared with your late mother immediately sets my mind at ease.

Of course, your wife is more than welcome to accompany you to our fair and noble nation. In fact, I will be quite disappointed if I am not allowed to meet and make her acquaintance during the duration of your stay. Rest assured, my home—our home, I should write, for it will always remain yours as well—is freely open to her, as well as any other esteemed personage you wish to bring on your travels.  

I look forward to anticipating your arrival on the twenty-fifth sun of the third astral moon, should that date be amenable to you and your wife.

Yours,

Count Charlemend de Durendaire

“Twenty-fifth—! That’s less than a sennight!” she screeched. “Even if I did care to go along with yer insane plan, it ain’t nearly enough time to get my affairs in order!”

“You needn’t concern yourself with anything,” Carvallain assured her, tucking the letter back into the folds of his shirt. “Think of it as an all-expenses-paid holiday. Four days of absolute luxury: comfortable accommodations, hearty meals, a little sightseeing… and best of all, you won’t be responsible for a single gil. In fact, as a token of gratitude I’ll purchase whatever your heart desires while we’re there.”  

“But—But—” She looked desperately around the empty tavern, hoping some handy excuse would jump at her from the shadows. “Ye said it yerself: I don’t know the first godsdamned thing about being a noble lady! I’m crass n’… n’ shrewish!” N’ beautiful, she couldn’t help but add to herself, still tingling from the compliment.

“I don’t expect you to behave like a noble lady,” he replied patiently. “I expect you to behave like yourself. If my father has truly changed for the better, he shouldn’t so much as flinch at your… lack of etiquette. No,” he mused, a sly smile lifting the corner of his mouth, “no, it is imperative that you behave like a true-blue Limsan.”

“Well—I ain’t got nothin’ to wear!”

“That can be arranged.”

“No! Say we did manage to find some fancy-lookin’ duds in the Alley,” she argued. “It’d still be impossible for anyone to tailor ‘em in time fer—"

“Anything is possible, provided you have the coin… which I do.”

“But—No!” she repeated, stomping her foot. “No, absolutely not!” Pointing at him, she gathered her resolve and released a tirade that would have sent her Sirens running for the hills. “Why should I give a damn what ye said to yer da?! Yer the one what made this mess in the first place, n’ far as I’m concerned yer the one that can fix it! I ain’t havin’ no part o’ yer little scheme, no matter how much yer offerin’ to pay! Mark my words: it’ll be a cold day in all seven hells when ye catch me pokin’ a single toe past their front gates!”

How do I manage to get myself into these situations!?

The airship hummed beneath her boots as it picked up speed, icy winds whipping at the fur-lined hood of her cloak. Her “husband” was right; with enough gil, anything was possible. Rhoswen scowled at the thought, tugging absently on the lace cuffs of her new woolen gown. A valise of similar outfits sat at her feet, the likes of which she’d only dreamed of as a child.

Despite Carvallain’s goading, she was not wholly unfamiliar with the concept of stays or gartered stockings. She had been a normal maiden once, with all the modesty expected of village girls. It was only after she turned to begging that she lost her sense of propriety, trading her smallclothes for food and eventually adopting the buccaneer’sstyle. That being said… kid gloves and embroidered boots were well outside her realm of knowledge. She felt more like a bird in borrowed feathers than a merchant’s wife, but so far no one had bothered to question her.   

It’s only four days, after all….

Carvallain sat stiff as a board beside her, hands tightly fisted on his thighs. He had also elected to dress warmly; unlike her, he seemed perfectly at home in the silk and brocade. It was not very different from his usual wardrobe, she noted, though better padded against the chill. His unruly hair had been trimmed and tamed into a more conventional style, though the wind had managed to work a few fiery strands free. They draped limply across his forehead, giving him a boyish air that clashed with his tense frown.    

She resisted the urge to reach up and tuck his hair back into place, instead placing a hesitant hand atop his in a rare display of pity. Carvallain had been quiet ever since boarding the airship, and it seemed that each malm only added to his growing unease. Even so, she had no way of knowing if he’d accept her touch for what it was, or slap her hand away with disdain.

In the days leading up to their little excursion, he had not bothered to explain what, exactly, being his wife was supposed to entail. Surely he didn’t expect her to be all lovey-dovey; she didn’t think she could handle it, not without losing her last meal in the process. Likewise, she was fairly certain he didn’t expect her to be frigid. “Be yourself”, he’d said, but what did that mean?

Did he truly want her, or that version of herself he was bound to recognize? How could she know? How could she even bring herself to ask?

“We’ll be landing in Ishgard within a bell’s time,” the captain announced, wiping his brow with a dingy handkerchief. “Best gather up your belongings and prepare to disembark.” The scholar across the aisle shut his tome, following the captain’s order to the letter as he carefully packed his knapsack. Near the back of the cabin, a merchant opened one eye; seeing naught but cloud cover, he rolled over with a grunt, pillowing his head with his bag of wares.

Rhoswen’s attention was called back as long fingers encircled hers, warm even through the gloves. Carvallain seemed to rouse himself with a little shake, letting out a low breath; she watched it steam in the chilled air, a shiver running through her that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Second thoughts?” she murmured, testing the waters and giving his fingers a bracing squeeze. “There’s still time to change yer mind, scurry back to Limsa with yer tail ‘twixt yer legs.”

“No, I don’t think so.” He shot her a rueful smile. “Might as well get it over with.” His thumb traced slowly over her palm, back and forth. Their eyes met and she turned away quickly, feeling toasty despite the freezing cold.

“If nothin’ else, ye can always let the blame fall on me.” She pulled away from his inviting warmth, burying her hands in her skirts to stop herself from wringing them nervously. “If they start gettin’ all pushy, just tell ‘em I can’t stand the cold. Ye’ve no choice but to take me home, what with my weak constitution n’ all.”

“Home,” he echoed, the sound lost on a forlorn sigh. “Yes… my siren, calling me home….”

“Yers my arse.” Her ears felt as though they were on fire beneath the hood. “I still don’t know how ye managed to rope me into this steamin’ pile o’ chocobo shite… why ye even chose me in the first place….”

“I had to make it believable, didn’t I?” he huffed absentmindedly, digging through his pockets. Pulling out a silver timepiece, he squinted down at its thin hands in the pale light. “Who else would I marry?”

“Eh? What’s that supposed to mean!?” He clicked the watch face shut, glancing at her sharply before clearing his throat.

“Ahem. I suppose we’ll be landing any minute now. Do you have your valise?”

“Don’t change the subject on me, coward—!” He put a finger to her lips, effectively shushing her before jerking his head pointedly towards the captain. His meaning was clear: don’t make a scene. “This ain’t over,” she hissed, batting his hand away before yanking the valise onto her lap. “Watch n’ see if I don’t blow yer cover the second we land.”

“If that’s the case… I wish you the best of luck in paying for your return ticket, my dear.”

“Argh!”

Author's Note: Was this whole fic an elaborate excuse to force Rhoswen into the High House cloche and bustle? ...Maybe so.

[leiflitter]

The Quotable Catton

These chapters needed their own section because Felix’s Bedroom Brain means he's extra quotable. I don't make the rules.

"Technically I'm a Baronet, but that's not really a job, it just means ol’ King James the first went to… I think it was Thomas Catton? Anyway, Ol’ King Jim said, Hey Tom, you're a well-off fellow, if you lob me some cash for soldiers I'll give you a hereditary title. So here I am.”

Chapter 50

“Venetia did ‘em, and I did hers. Mum decided to get us this learning experience with a tattoo artist pal of hers when I was sixteen- christmas prezzie. Of course, we were meant to just use the fake skin stuff, but we got a little squiffy at that year's New Years do and oopsie daisy.”

Chapter 50

“Whoa. If you showed my dentist I bet he'd know I did it."

Chapter 50

“But Ollie, how can I Carpe the Diem if I'm busy behaving? It's simply not possible, I've got to be a bit naughty.” [...] “It's on me forever, you know, so I have to live up to it.”

Chapter 50

“Aye aye, captain.” [...] “Okay. That's out of my system, I promise.”

Chapter 50

“I have been paying attention, you know. Useful stuff- I'll have to buy shares in the company.”

Chapter 51

“Gonna knock you up, you little fucking- Oh, Christ-”

Chapter 51

"I might be ridiculous, but you're in love with me.”

Chapter 51

“Fine. I did warn you, you little ragamuffin.” [...] “Nope, can't get out of it. You're having a fucking bath, Oliver.”

Chapter 52

“Please stroke my ego, Ollie, it's taken a fucking beating this last week.” [...] “Had fucking Farleigh tell me I was shit in bed, and he wasn't the cousin I got a little too friendly with. Pretty, pretty please?”

Chapter 52

“Oh, Olls, not the eyes, the spirit is incredibly willing but the flesh is weak.”

Chapter 52

“I told you, didn't I? It's all because of your eyes, because I was absolutely normal before I got up close and you looked up at me and… Christ, Ollie, it made me absolutely stupid. What sort of prick assumes that a stranger'd wheel his bike back to college instead of just chaining the fucking thing up and getting it later? And shit, you know what I was like- I was looking for you, Olls, else I wouldn't have spotted you in the pub. I'd have blown you off like everyone else who did things for Felix. ” [...] “Because Ollie… as soon as you looked up… And of course I had to kiss you… And you drove me absolutely bonkers that whole term… Couldn’t understand it and I swear to God, Oliver, if you'd… I was trying so hard…”

Chapter 52

[carewyncromwell]

Carewyn’s eyes grew a little smaller upon his face.

“…You thought of me?”

Something flickered at the back of Orion’s eyes – was it uncertainty? His gaze flitted back down to their hands.

“…Yes,” he murmured. “Not…constantly, but…the memory of your voice was very soothing, on the most restless nights at sea.”

~POTC AU, Act I, Part II: A Maid in Bedlam

“Carewyn…what Beckett did to me was make it so that I’m no longer able to live a normal life. What he did to me was make it so that the only life I can lead is that of a pirate – a creature of few friends, adrift on an unfriendly sea. However much I’ve been able to find independence and camaraderie on the high seas, that doesn’t mean I’ve ever been truly free. For I was never free to stop being a pirate. I was never free to stop running. I was never free…to return to the island where I first met the girl who would flit in and out of my dreams, like a songbird on the wing…see if she was happy…see if…she even still remembered me…”

Carewyn’s eyes widened.

“When I met you, I was an orphan with no name or home to call my own,” murmured Orion. “Although I’ve since crafted a name for myself…thanks to Beckett, I can never have the second. And even if I somehow ever could…that home would not be complete without you.”

~POTC AU, Act II, Part IX: Uranus and Saturn Collide

x~x~x~x

Before Orion Amari became the Pirate Lord of the Caribbean Sea or took command of the sloop called the Artemis -- hell, even before he took on the name “Orion Amari” -- he was merely an orphan raised in a monastery who was forced, at the ripe old age of fourteen, to take on a position with the East India Trading Company as a cabin boy.

The prospect of sailing the sea on its own appealed to the boy who would one day be known as Orion Amari. He loved the thought of being free to travel the world and perhaps find his place in it. Unfortunately the boy was not truly free -- a fact that was made all too plain when he arrived at the ship that would become his place of employment, the Wicked Wench. Almost as soon as he arrived, the fourteen-year-old was yanked backward by his shirt and thrown into a straight line with the other sailors, so as to be inspected by the ship’s owner, the young master Cutler Beckett.

At that time, prior to being named a lord by the King, Cutler Beckett was but the Director for the East India Trading Company. Even at the age of 21, however, he was just as cold, cruel, and calculating as he was in his later years. And upon laying eyes on this ragamuffin boy with dark hair and black eyes who didn’t immediately straighten up and salute at the sight of him, Director Beckett decided to make an example out of him.

“Your name?” he asked very coolly.

The boy frowned up at the young white-wigged man before him. He’d never seen anyone with a face hard and blank enough to rival a marble statue’s before -- did all wealthy man have such an aura, or was it just this one?

“...I have no name of my own,” the boy responded mellowly at last. “Just one I’ve used, in place of one.”

Before the boy knew what was happening, Cutler Beckett had snatched the sword right out of the ship captain’s scabbard and used it to slash into the teenage boy’s arm.

“Ah!”

The boy’s hand flew to his arm, clutching the gash. Blood soaked the torn fabric of his shirt.

“I asked for a name, not an anecdote on your sorry circumstances,” Beckett said very coldly. “Now give me your name.”

The teenage boy choked through his pain. He stared up at Beckett, stunned, as he subconsciously took a step back, his shoulders coming up beside his head.

“They...call me Smith -- ” he mumbled.

Beckett took another swing at him -- this time, though, the boy called Smith managed to dodge: something Beckett did not take kindly to, for he shot a furious look at the ship’s captain, who grabbed the teenager from behind to prevent him from dodging again. Beckett then brought the blade around to cut deep into Smith’s left shoulder.

“Ahhh!”

Smith clutched his bleeding shoulder, crumpling in on himself as the captain released him. Beckett took the opportunity to grab the back of the boy’s shirt, yanking him forward enough to hiss in his ear.

“Well, Mr. Smith,” he said very icily, “take heed that in signing the papers to join this crew, you became one of my laymen. And given you have no family of your own to support you, let alone any title to make you valuable to me, that means that I am the one who controls your fate, future, and fortune. Your life and your livelihood are now contingent on serving my interests. Serve me well, and you’ll be rewarded -- but displease me in any way...and I will be sure to make my feelings known.”

He tossed Smith backward with such force that the boy nearly fell back-first onto the deck -- he only just barely managed to catch himself.

“I am a businessman first and foremost, Mr. Smith,” Beckett said very coolly as he turned his back and strode away. “Give me what I need to thrive -- and you shall have what you need to survive.”

~*~

The boy called Smith (or “Smithy,” to the crew he’d been assigned to) ultimately did not give Beckett what he wanted -- for ultimately, that would’ve involved helping transport a whole ship full of slaves to the Caribbean, to line the East India Trading Company’s coffers. So Smithy instead helped the enslaved people onboard spark a mutiny and then helped them sail back to Africa and freedom. Sadly their leader -- a king called Amari -- did not survive the East India Trading Company’s attack trying to recapture them, but he did give Smithy a gift, to help his people return home.

“This compass...is far more than it appears,” Amari explained, smiling weakly through his coughs. “It doesn’t point your way north -- it points you toward your greatest desire on this Earth...”

With difficulty, he placed the compass in both of Smithy’s hands, enclosing his fingers around it.

“Promise me,” Amari rasped. “Promise me -- you’ll take my people home...”

Smithy glanced at the men and women surrounding them on the deck, all of whom looked terrified and distraught. Then he turned back to Amari and nodded solemnly.

“I give you my word,” Smithy said very lowly.

Amari smiled. “...E dupe...kekere olori...”

Smithy didn’t need to know the King’s native language to know that this was a thank you. And indeed, they were the last words the King would say before he took his last breath.

~*~

True to his word, Smithy brought Amari’s people back to Africa. Unfortunately, upon taking the next ship out of Africa and ending up in Port Royal, Jamaica, the boy called Smith found himself immediately under arrest, on the orders of Director Cutler Beckett, for “theft of Company property.” The fourteen-year-old was clapped in irons, branded, and set for execution the following day. While being transported to another cell by some newly recruited soldiers, however, Smith somehow managed to break free and dashed into the town. He dodged and weaved, swinging down clotheslines and ducking around shops in a frantic attempt to get away -- his heart was beating so fast, he could hardly breathe --

In the midst of running, Smithy heard something clatter to the ground. When he whirled around, he saw that Amari’s compass had slipped out from the inside of his shirt where he’d hidden it.

His heart leaping up into his throat, Smithy doubled back to grab the compass and then set off again at a faster run than ever. It was as his hands clutched desperately at the tiny black-lidded gift, though, that Smithy remembered what Amari had said --

“It points you toward your greatest desire on this Earth.”

I want safety, Smithy thought desperately. I want a safe place -- a place to hide --

He opened up the lid on the compass, to see it pointing to the right. 

Too terrified to do anything but run, Smithy actively chose to run in the direction the arrow pointed. It kept veering him right, and right, and right, until he’d nearly made a full circle. At last it finally directed him to a tiny house clustered among some shops with a swallow carved into the corner of the door. Taking no time for a second thought, Smithy barreled up to the door and opened it.

He’d been expecting the house to be empty -- but when he opened the door, to his horror, he realized it wasn’t. 

Sitting in a chair made for a much taller person and sewing up a worn dress draped across her lap was a small girl, only about a year or two younger than Smithy himself, dressed in green with a red-ribboned ponytail of ginger hair poking out under her white mobcap. When she looked up, her light blue eyes went to Smithy’s face like a shot.

“Who -- ?”

She stopped at once, though, when she took in the sight of the thick iron manacles around Smithy’s wrists.

Smithy warily backed up, holding up his hands defensively in such a way that the chains attaching his manacles together rattled terribly. The girl’s eyes flew down to the “P” brand on the inside of his arm, gleaming in the candlelight.

“...Pl...please...” was all Smith could stammer.

I’m not here to harm you -- please -- please, just help me --

“Go look over there!”

“That little arsworm’s not getting away -- ”

The sound of raucous yelling in the distance made Smithy flinch. It was the soldiers -- they were catching up -- !

Smithy was about ready to give up and run for cover -- but for what reason Smithy didn’t know, the ginger-haired girl leapt to her feet, her blue eyes narrowed. Smithy was fully prepared to run, thinking she meant to attack him, but instead she darted past him and immediately shut the door, trapping him inside.

Smithy’s face lost all of its color.

“Please -- ” he stammered again weakly. His blood was pumping too loudly in his ears for him to conjure up a better response. “Please -- please -- ”

But the girl with the ginger ponytail brought a hand up to her lips.

“Shh,” she whispered, attempting a smile. “It’s all right. I’m going to help you.”

Smithy watched the girl warily as she darted over to the window to look out. She quickly shut the curtains and then dashed back over to him -- the sudden movement made him back up again, withdrawing like a startled horse.

“It’s all right,” the girl said again.

Her blue eyes flickered with hesitation. Then she brought a hand up to unbutton the back of her dress’s collar and slip a chain out from under it. Once she’d pulled the chain up and out, she showed Smithy the pendent on the end -- a solid gold medallion, emblazoned with a skull.

Smithy’s eyes widened.

“My brother stole this from our grandfather’s cabin, before we were able to escape his ship,” the girl explained. “He was a pirate too -- a much meaner one, though. Charles Cromwell is his name...don’t know if you’ve heard of him...”

Smithy had heard of him. Rumor said that Charles Cromwell’s ship, the Revenge, was the fastest ship in the Caribbean -- able to reappear and disappear like fog on the sea, with a crew more demonic than human...

“So you see, I’m not afraid of pirates,” the girl said with a wry smile, tucking her necklace back under her dress. “Especially not unarmed ones being hunted down by soldiers twice his age.”

Smithy stared at the girl as she set about rebuttoning her collar. His wariness was ebbing away slowly, just enough that he managed to regain some power over his vocal cords.

“...You...do not...”

She looked up with raised eyebrows, surprised by the sound of his voice. Perhaps it was softer than she’d been expecting.

“...You do not fear...working against the likes of the British Navy?” his whisper came out uneasily.

The girl gave a light huff. “Not a whit. I don’t like bullies, no matter who they are.”

Despite himself, Smithy found his lips turning up in a softer, almost awed smile. For such a small maiden, it seemed she had bravery akin to a small lion.

Rap, rap, rap!

A loud, aggressive knock at the door made both Smithy and the girl stiffen like cats. In an instant, the girl snatched one of Smithy’s filthy hands and pulled him across the room toward the back of the house. She led him into a tiny room, where she immediately shoved the bed there to the side so she could get at the worn rug underneath. Then she pulled the rug aside and started sliding out the loose floorboards they’d been hiding. Little by little, a tiny crawl space was revealed, about the size of a small dingy.

“In here,” she hissed. “Hide!”

The knocking at the door grew louder. Smith clutched at his own hands anxiously, for a moment too scared to move -- suddenly looking tense herself, the girl steered him down into the small cellar in the floor. Once he was inside, she slid the floorboards haphazardly back into place and quickly threw the rug over them as a loud, stern voice came from the other side of the door alongside more rapping.

“Open up! Open up in there!”

“Ah -- one moment, please!” the young girl called.

Smithy could hear the girl straining to push the bed back into place. It got a lot darker in his hiding space, as the bed was undoubtedly pushed over it to better conceal it. Then he heard the girl kick off her shoes and dart back across the floor, as if returning to the door.

“One moment more!” Smithy heard her cry, sounding almost frantic, as the knocking grew even more aggressive. “I’m nearly suitable!”

Somewhere in the distance, there was a creak of a door opening. Smithy clutched his hands tightly around the legs folded up against his chest, trying desperately to steady his lightning-fast heart rate and breathing.

“Officers?” said the girl, sounding worried. “Whatever is the matter, sirs?”

“Ahem -- begging your pardon, little lady,” said one of the officers, clearing his throat. “Is there anyone else in the home, with you?”

“Not for a few moments more, sir,” said the girl. “Until my brother arrives home...”

“There’s a fugitive that’s escaped into the area. Just over five feet tall, scrawny, dark hair and a yellow bandana -- manacles on his wrists?”

“Manacles?” the girl repeated, her voice going up a few pitches as if scared. “Is he an escaped convict?”

“Indeed he is, little miss -- wanted by the East India Trading Company itself, for acts of piracy.”

“Acts of piracy...” breathed the girl. “Oh, that’s horrid...”

She sounded very convincing. If it weren’t for how high her voice sounded, compared to the tone of voice she’d used earlier, Smithy almost would’ve believed she truly was as scared as she seemed...

His ears were pounding with pressure. Smithy found himself staring up at the ceiling, trying to visualize what was happening above him. How many soldiers were up there? He’d heard at least two voices...

“He was seen running down this block,” said one of the who-knows-how-many soldiers. “We strongly suspect he may be hiding in one of the houses or shops on this street...”

“Hiding?” said the girl, alarmed. “Oh, sirs, you won’t find him here -- I’ve been sewing in the main room all day! No one could break in here without me hearing them...”

“Yes, well...all the same, we should make sure...the boy’s awfully sneaky...”

“I don’t suppose you’d agree to let us search the premises? Just to ensure your safety, miss?”

There was a pause. Smith clasped his hands more tightly together.

“...Well, I...I suppose...” the girl said reluctantly. “But I’m afraid there’s not much to search...ours is but a very small house...”

Footsteps echoed through the room next door. Smith hunched in on himself subconsciously, cringing as furniture was shifted over and the clopping of boots slapped across the floor.

“Nothing over here.”

“Nor here.”

“The window’s clear -- no sign of any forced entry...”

“Check the other rooms.”

Footsteps in the next room. Footsteps in the same room. Smith’s heart was in his throat hearing a set of footsteps clap closer to his hiding spot. His hands were drenched with sweat and he squeezed them and his eyes tight, trying hard to slow his breathing.

Focus on the smells -- focus on the space -- focus on your breaths. In. And out. In -- and out. Peace -- calm --

They had to hear him. They had to hear him breathing so hard and his heart beating so loudly -- they were deafening, in his own ears, so surely the whole world heard them just as loudly --

Peace -- calm -- peace -- calm --

There was some scurrying outside. Another unfamiliar voice suddenly rang out from a distance, so far away Smithy couldn’t make his words out. The footsteps over Smithy’s head seemed to retreat.

“Nothing in here, sir,” the soldier’s voice rang out a ways away, likely closer to the door frame.

Smithy felt close to collapsing in on himself in relief.

“Begging your pardon, sir -- just here searching for a fugitive,” said the soldier formally.

“A fugitive?” said a dynamic, but oddly sharp voice. “And what makes you think that my little sister would be any sort of criminal?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all!” said one of the other soldiers. There was a note of intimidation in his voice.

“W-we’re just trying to do our duty, sir!”

“Well, see that you do it in a home that doesn’t contain my sister only half-dressed in it,” spat the voice. 

Smithy gave a double-blink. “Only half-dressed?” But the girl had been fully dressed when he’d seen her...

Of course, Smithy realized. She did it to explain why she hadn’t come to the door right away. Not only that, but seeing any lady only half-dressed, even a young one, would throw any man of honor off-guard, and would make her look all the more fragile and innocent.

This girl really was clever.

“It’s all right, Jacob,” the girl said reassuringly. “They were just looking for a pirate spotted in the area. But he’s not here -- so now they can check in with the neighbors and make sure they’re safe.”

“Ahem...yes,” said one of the soldiers stiffly. “Sorry to disturb you, little lady...sir. About face, men -- move out!”

With this, the soldiers’ footsteps faded away. A moment later, the front door closed, and Smithy at last felt like he could breathe half-way normally.

They were gone...they were gone. They didn’t find him. They didn’t hear him -- they had gone...

He was safe.

Smithy closed his eyes and bowed his head, repeating this phrase to himself several more times over as he finally managed to slow his breathing.

You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.

“...going, Wyn?”

There was a rustling overhead. Smithy opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, tensing at once as he heard the bed and rug being moved again. Fortunately, when the floorboards were peeled off, he was faced with the ginger-haired girl from before, who looked very pale, but was smiling fully. Right behind her was a young man of about twenty with a ponytail of curly black-brown hair and eyes just like the girl’s, who looked completely taken back.

“What in the -- ?”

“It’s all right,” the girl said to Smithy. “You can come out now.”

She still had her shoes and stockings off, but she’d clearly retied the bow in her hair (it was noticeably crooked) and tossed a shawl off her shoulders onto the bed so that it’d be easier to hold her hands out to the boy.

Smithy stared up at her, his black eyes running over her face and hands -- there was some trace of blood staining her palm.

“Are you hurt?” Smithy asked, concerned.

The girl blinked, before she realized he was staring at her hand.

“Oh...no...this is your blood, not mine.”

She indicated Smithy’s right arm -- a bullet had grazed it in his initial escape, and it was indeed now bleeding. Even now, looking at the floor more closely, Smithy could see some small blood stains on the floor.

“...I see,” said Smithy. “Forgive me...that must’ve been hard to hide from the soldiers...”

The girl shook her head. “I let them see it. Let the older officers with sisters or daughters think I was changing clothes for personal reasons.”

Smithy blinked, taken aback. Then his face broke into another impressed smile.

“...It seems with your lion’s courage, small maiden, you also have a fox’s guile.”

Carewyn's blue eyes sparkled brightly as she smiled, charmed by the witty compliment.

“Here -- let me help you out of there,” she said kindly. She extended her hands again.

With some difficulty, Smithy took her hands and hoisted himself up and out of the cellar. His dark eyes flitting to the girl’s older brother (who was watching him warily), Smithy tried to wrap his wounded arm a bit more in his sleeve, to prevent the blood from spilling further.

“I thank you for your kindness,” he told the girl quietly, “but I dare not infringe on it more. I must go...”

The girl looked incredibly upset.

“You’re not going anywhere in that state!” she argued. “You’re still locked up in those manacles! And you need bandages on those wounds, or they’re going to get worse. Not to mention it looks like you haven’t eaten anything substantial in days -- ”

“We ran out of rations outside of hard tack a week ago,” Smithy said airily. “But all the same...I cannot impose further hardship on you or your brother, with my continued presence...”

“If you wish to spare me further hardship, let me use a proper lockpick on those chains and feed and bandage you properly -- then you can stay the night to regain your strength,” the girl shot back. “You’re in no fit state to get much of anywhere, as you are now.”

Smithy opened his mouth to speak, but she shut him down.

“You’re staying the night, and that’s that,” she said very firmly.

~*~

This night -- the one in which Carewyn Cromwell fed, bandaged, and sung to sleep the boy who would soon take on the name Captain Orion Amari -- ended up changing both of their lives. One could argue that it was the night the boy Smithy lost his heart -- even if Orion himself would’ve never gone that far, he never forgot the little red-haired maid of Port Royal. If nothing else, she appeared in more than a few of his dreams over the years. 

Some of those nighttime fantasies where Orion found his childhood savior again had “realistic” endings, such as Carewyn happily married and mothering several children and/or not remembering Orion, but wishing him well anyway. One particularly unpleasant dream during a storm featured Orion and his crew plundering a ship with Carewyn and her new family on board and them being completely terrified of him. But the ones Orion would dwell on way more than he sometimes felt he should’ve were those with overly romantic trajectories -- dreams where Carewyn recognized the pirate captain at once as the boy she’d saved all those years ago...dreams where Orion returned to Port Royal, only to find that Carewyn had grown up into the town beauty, refusing to wed none but the boy who’d captured her heart so long ago. Dreams where Orion would follow Carewyn’s song through darkness until he found her singing alone in the night and they would embrace and talk as if no time had passed at all...

Orion Amari couldn’t have envisioned just how he and Carewyn Cromwell would meet again or the epic adventure that their unlikely reunion would spark. And as it turned out, the idea of Carewyn harboring the same fondness he’d nurtured in his heart for so long was not as fanciful as Orion might’ve believed.

[the-puppet-bracket]

Kyros submission:

"Best dad in the entire show he kept taking care of his daughter as an alive toy soldier even after she forgot about him."

"Kyros was a ragamuffin living on the slums of Dressrosa, until he killed someone and was arrested, sentenced to fight in the coliseum. He won 100 battles to earn his freedom, but chose to stay out of shame and guilt. He eventually won 3000 battles, and King Riku himself pulled him out of the arena to become Captain of the Army. After Kyros rescued the princess Scarlet from a pirate attack, she faked her death so they could get married. Kyros had a little baby girl, Rebecca, but he still saw blood on his hands so he refused to touch her.

Then a pirate Warlord took over Dressrosa, framing Riku as an arsonist. Kyros came to his defense, but one of the pirate underlings transformed Kyros into a toy soldier, which also caused everyone to forget he ever existed. Another pirate underling shot Scarlet, and Kyros held her dying in the rain, her not remembering him, and him not being able to feel the warmth leave her body through his tin arms. He found and adopted his own daughter, unable to tell Rebecca who he truly was, and trained her in self-defense as they lived in the slums.

Kyros remained rebellious against the Warlord for 10 long years as a toy, until finally an ally broke the toy curse and he returned to human. In the chaotic war that ensued, Kyros protected Rebecca, revealing he was the toy soldier, and defeated the pirate who killed Scarlet. After the Warlord was defeated and Riku was re-instated to the throne, Kyros went into self-imposed exile, thinking Rebecca deserved a happy life as a princess. She ran away and hugged him, and Kyros felt his his daughter's embrace for the first time."

[disciplinarybullshit]

...Guess I should introduce myself.

I'm Mimi. Captain of the Disciplinary Team here at Lobotomy Corporation. Pronouns are she/her.

My job is to carry out orders given by Miss Geburah, my boss. I suppress Abnos that breach, work to generate energy, and keep fellow employees in line.

Just follow the rules and don't do anything stupid and you might survive here.

Hi! Mod Rags here! This is a Lobotomy Corporation roleplay sideblog run by yours truly! Lobotomy Corporation contains several depictions of gore, violence, mindfuckery, death, and flashing images. I won't be posting any of those things here, but you should know that these are regular occurrences in the world this blog takes place in. This blog also contains heavy spoilers for Lobotomy Corporation.

Most of the stuff I'll be posting on here will be formatted as shitposts in response to other Lobcorp blogs so I don't clutter my main with stuff that most people might not understand. I will be using the same tag I use on my other roleplay sideblog: "for legal reasons this is rp" to mark my posts as roleplay posts.

Another thing I should mention is that Mimi is very rude and short-tempered. She is not a kind person. She will be rude to everyone, except for the Sephirot. THIS IS NOT MEANT TO DISCOURAGE INTERACTION. I don't hate anyone on here simply for interacting with this blog! If I'm genuinely uncomfortable with something, I'll address it out of character or simply delete the ask.

If you're interested in stuff I post outside of this blog, please check my main blog, @local-ragamuffin !

Profile picture made with this picrew!

[scotianostra]

April 14th 1736 saw the Porteous Riots in Edinburgh take place.

The riots that erupted were over the execution of a smuggler called Andrew Wilson. Andrew was one of three who were charged with smuggling and attempting to rob Collector of Excise, James Stark at the Pittenween Inn, Fife One of the men, William Hall, turned Kings evidence and was exiled from Scotland, which left Wilson and his friend George Robertson, facing the hangman’s noose.

The pair had been locked up in the Tolbooth on the High Street and an attempt at escape had been thwarted after the rather portly Wilson got stuck in a window after managed to saw through some bars.

A few days before sentence was to be carried out, the men were taken to the Kirk to make their peace with the lord and repent for their sins, it was here Wilson caused a distraction and Robertson made off, according to legend he made it to Holland and ran a Tavern the rest of his days.

There was a feeling of sympathy for Wilson, not just because he was the only one left to face the music, but the populace of Edinburgh, and Scotland as a whole were still smarting at the higher taxes imposed through excise after the act of union, on the day of his hanging a large crowd had gathered and they were a bit unruly to say the least but the execution took place without incident, but the peace didn’t last long. Just as Wilson’s body was being cut down from the gallows, a section of the crowd began pelting the executioner with stones. Rumours had been rife that Wilson had been tortured while incarcerated and what had been a relatively calm sea of spectators quickly transformed into an angry mob.

The poet Allan Ramsay was among the crowd that day and wrote about ………..

[The escape of Robertson] made them take a closer care of Wilson who had the best character of them all (til his foly made him seek reprisals at his own hand), which had gaind him so much pity as to raise a report that a great mob would rise on his execution day to relieve him, which noise put our Magistrates on their guard and maybe made some of them unco flayd [unusually afraid] as was evidenced by their inviting in 150 of the Regement that lys [lies] in Canongate, , who were all drawn up in the Lawn Market, while the criminal was conducted to the tree by Captain Porteous and a strong party of the City Guard……..

Wilson was executed, as Ramsay says, “with all decency & quietnes,” but when the body was being removed the irritable crowd favoured its obnoxious guards with a few missiles. Porteous, who obviously wasn’t the turn-the-other-cheek type, destructively escalated the confrontation.

After he was cut down and the guard drawing up to go off, some unlucky boys threw a stone or two at the hangman, which is very common, on which the brutal Porteous (who it seems had ordered his party to load their guns with ball) let drive first himself amongst the inocent mob and commanded his men to folow his example which quickly cleansed the street but left three men, a boy and a woman dead upon the spot, besides several others wounded, some of whom are dead since. After this first fire he took it in his head when half up the Bow to order annother voly & kill’d a taylor in a window three storys high, a young gentleman & a son of Mr Matheson the minister’s and several more were dangerously wounded and all this from no more provocation than what I told you before, the throwing of a stone or two that hurt no body. Believe this to be true, for I was ane eye witness and within a yard or two of being shot as I sat with some gentlemen in a stabler’s window oposite to the Galows. After this the crazy brute march’d with his ragamuffins to the Guard, as if he had done nothing worth noticing but was not long there till the hue and cry rose from them that had lost friends & servants, demanding justice. … I could have acted more discreetly had I been in Porteous’s place. John Porteous, captain of the city guard, who was accused of both shooting and giving the order to fire, was brought to trial in July and sentenced to death.

Events in Scotland alarmed the government in London, and Sir Robert Walpole attempted to influence events by asking his representative in Edinburgh to become involved ordering The Captain be pardoned. He had miscalculated, underestimated the depth of feeling in Scotland. Walter Scott’s famous novel The Heart of Midlothian written in 1818 would later recall the events in great detail.

Look out for a follow up to this in September!

  The first pic shows a depiction of the riots by Edinburgh artist James Drummond, those who know Edinburgh, even a wee bit will be able to see where exactly this was as the scene has not changed all that much. In the foreground is the junction connection Grassmarket, Candlemaker Row and Cowgate. the second is from Sir Walter Scott's Heart of Midlothian, the third is a 20th century interpretation of the scene.

[comshipbracket]

Antis DNI

Comship Bracket Round 1!

Round 1 is split up into 4 Segments, which are split into 4 smaller polls within them! These will be posted near-daily, with a 6-day voting time limit. Look out for your ships! Propaganda is both welcome AND encouraged, whether through the form of essays, art, fanfiction recommendations, or otherwise, All propaganda will be reblogged.

Segment 1 - Bottom Left

Poll 1: SunMari (Sunny x Omori), Omori VS God's Hand (Master Hand x Lady Palutena), Super Smash Brothers

Poll 2: SlyCoop (Slider x Cooper), Cyberchase VS King's Throne (The Bard King x Noise), Roleslaying with Roman

Poll 3: Ragnvarde (Ragnvaldr x Le'Garde), Fear & Hunger VS Licoivlis (Licorice x Ivlis), Funamusea

Poll 4: AquaRuby (Aqua Hoshino x Ruby Hoshino), Oshi no Ko VS ShizuShiho (Shizuku Hinomori x Shiho Hinomori), Project SEKAI

Segment 2 - Top Right

Poll 1: Kaeluc (Kaeya Alberich x Diluc Ragnvindr), Genshin Impact VS Aineta (Shouta Aizawa x Minoru Mineta), My Hero Academia

Poll 2: Hitachiincest (Kaoru Hitachiin x Hikaru Hitachiin), Ouran High School Host Club VS Sebaciel (Sebastian Michaelis x Ciel Phantomhive), Black Butler

Poll 3: Enabler (Ruby Rose x Yang Xiao Long), RWBY VS BruDami (Bruce Wayne x Damian Wayne), DC

Poll 4: Hayniss (Haymitch Abernathy x Katniss Everdeen), The Hunger Games VS SeymourxTwoey (Seymour Krelborn x Audrey II), Little Shop of Horrors

Segment 3 - Top Left

Poll 1: KomaSugi (Komaru Naegi x Kotoko Utsugi), Danganronpa VS DirkRose (Dirk Strider x Rose Lalonde), Homestuck

Poll 2: Polymatsu (All 6 Matsuno Siblings), Osomatsu-san VS Wincest (Sam Winchester x Dean Winchester), Supernatural

Poll 3: RagamuffinxLenore (Ragamuffin x Lenore), Lenore The Cute Little Dead Girl VS Kalvey (Captain Kaldena x Harvey), Octopath Traveler

Poll 4: Yugicest (Amane Yugi x Tsukasa Yugi), Toilet-bound Hanako-kun VS AngemonXTK (Angemon x Takeru "T.K." Takaishi), Digimon

Segment 4 - Bottom Right

Poll 1: Billdip (Bill Cipher x Dipper Pines), Gravity Falls VS Stapis (Steven Universe x Lapis Lazuli), Steven Universe

Poll 2: DecadeZi-O (Tsukasa Kadoya x Sougo Tokiwa), Kamen Rider VS Tabloidshipping (Seto Kaiba x Mokuba Kaiba), Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters

Poll 3: SatouShio (Satou Matsuzaka x Shio Koube), Happy Sugar Life VS YukiSaku (Yukito Tsukishiro x Sakura Kinomoto), Cardcaptor Sakura

Poll 4: Bwen (Ben Tennyson x Gwen Tennyson), Ben 10 VS Gregray (Gregory Edgeworth x Raymond Shields), Ace Attorney

This is the line-up for round 1, let's see who you all vote for to move forward into Round 2! Remember, propaganda is encouraged! Have fun voting, everyone! Our inbox is also open for propaganda - Mod Satou

[blacknovelist]

(sky) pirates

I love the redbills. I love leofard. I love the sky pirates. I love mine and my friends' WOL. That's it that's all I got today for yall today.

(set nebulouly during the Shadows of Mhach raid series, but no spoilers past the presence of the Redbills. As always, G'avan is a friend's WOL— Feri'um is mine.)

[AO3]

The heroes have been a common face round the Parrock, as of late...

Now, Leofard knew better than to have a particular expectation of someone before he's met them. Why, just look at himself— charming rogue, leader of the Redbills, ragamuffin of Ishgard, the list went on. He was all that the stories liked to tell, sure, but he was also a lot the stories tended to miss, and woe be it for him to judge others the same way he and his crew could be, on the occasion.

That said, well. On one hand, there was taking the rumor-mill with a grain of salt. On the other...

"You know, when I was doing my searching for the vaunted "Warriors of Light"," he began, "I remember wondering to myself: what is it a hero does with their free time? I figured the answer was something more along the lines of, oh, I don't know, punching outlaws and helping kittens out of trees or something that fills your schedule up right quicklike."

G'avan nodded from where she lounged on the grass, tail curled comfortably around her. "Fair assumptions. I wouldn't pass up the chance to end a few bandits."

"I do work at a soup kitchen down in the Foundation sometimes," Feri'um offered from beside her, eyes shifting away from the cooking fire. "If that's closer to what you had in mind."

"Oh, well, it's good to see I haven't lost all of my touch then." The captain snorted and leaned against a nearby post. "Don't take this the wrong way, I'm not hankering to get you out if you're not gumming up any of the workday, and there's worse company to have over— but why are you still here? Instead of off doing the… about half-dozen other things I imagine you could be up to? You know, when I said I'd call once we figured the next step out— which we are working on— I promise I was trying to be thoughtful for once."

"You, thoughtful?" Their chef, Guianna, let out a hefty guffaw from where she stood over the massive simmering pot. It looked delectable, and Leofard spared a moment to mourn the wind blowing away from him rather than toward. "Captain, you're a reasonable man most of the time, but you're also so shoved up your sense of adventure you'd eat boot leather and gold coins if I let you. I'll grant you've got your moments, but I don't think there's space for too much of thinking anywhere in your quarters. Not even on top of the chairs."

G'avan and Feri'um both sputtered into laughter, along with the handful of other Redbills in earshot, and Leofard pressed a hand to his chest.

"I'm wounded! Do I not split our shares and help keep our operations running? Those are the words of somebody who's already given up on a holiday bonus if I've ever heard it."

"Don't you dare!" She brandished the stew-covered spoon in his direction and scowled playfully at his grin. "You don't even pay us outside of loot shares, cut my quarter and I'll cut you!" Then she turned back to her work with a sniff. "Oi, Fer', come try this. I ain't so refined as all your fancy seasonings, but your tastebuds at least function enough for an opinion."

The au ra dutifully shuffled over and took knee next to the chef and her pot, accepting the proffered spoon with grace. G'avan watched, ears twitching, barely restrained longing in her eyes.

"May I try some too?" She asked, just shy of pleading. Guianna made a show of tapping her chin in thought even as Feri'um dipped and held one of the spare spoons aloft, ready to pass it over.

"I suppose you're alright too, Gav. But just a bite!" The cook waved, and G'avan took the spoonful eagerly. Then the cook gestured for someone to pass her the pepper and gave the pot another swirl. "Gotta leave something for the rest of the vultures, after all."

"You never let me try dinner before the bell." Leofard crossed his arms. "And the nicknames already? If I didn't know any better, I'd call favoritism."

"They are your honored hero guests, captain!" She chirped back. "Somethin' somethin' hospitality, you know how it is. Also if you think I ain't gonna milk seasoning tips from someone who done budget cooks good enough for bluebloods on the constant, you're nuts."

"I'm happy to be of service," Feri'um mumbled around the utensil. "Have you considered an egg in here, by the way? Any kind. Not for the whole thing, but breaking the yolk in a single bowl would probably taste fantastic."

"That depends on if anyone's felt like riling up an anzu or twelve recently. We don't run intogastornis as much, they tend to linger a bit too close to that camp for tastes."

"I can go check the Parrock's stock then, if you like." Feri'um tilted their head. "Just point me, I'll take count."

A completely innocent and on-brand offer to the captain's ears, but Guianna scowled something fierce. "Don't think I don't know what you're scheming." The quavering ladle-point came out, this time directed at the pale-horned hero. "I won't take it! Nice as your things may be, a sky pirate's got their pride! You even THINK of giving me some of your stock, local or not, and I'm gonna run you outta here myself."

"Oh, she's got you read, Feri," G'avan said. They spared her a glare that didn't so much as earn a blink as she turned to Guianna and stage-whispered; "They've been trying to pawn off an excess of eggs they accidentally gathered for days now, it's hilarious."

"AV!" The plaintive cry was joined by an intensified glare harsh enough to make a voidsent shudder, but G'avan just cackled.

"What? It's true!"

Leofard let out a bark of laughter. "Sounds to me like you ought to cut out that middle man and just start throwing the damn things at anyone who'll catch them, my friend." He paused. "Maybe also at some folks who won't, if you catch my drift. Depends on if you're feeling metaphorical or literal."

"I've got half a mind for who to aim at." Their hand inched towards the bag on their hip— the one Leofard had never seen them touch in the battlefield and that, in hindsight, must carry all their food. G'avan's ears shot up as she sprang from lounging to a crouch, tail swaying.

"You wouldn't dare." She narrowed her eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, Feri'um lay their hand over the opening of their bag. The miqo'te let out a near-silent hiss, and Guianna hefted the nearby pot lid.

"You even think of throwing anything in my direction and you can skip out on tonight's dinner!"

"Mmhm," they said absently. All their focus was on G'avan and vice versa, the miqo'te slowly circling away from the little cooking area. Other Redbills paused in their work (or lack thereof) to watch the two heroes stand off, chatter and bets flying through the air, and Leofard snorted.

"Don't fall off the edge, now," he said, straightening up. "Have fun, don't maul each other too badly, so on so on."

"No promises," both chimed. And then Feri'um grinned and lunged, foodstuffs forewent, and both tumbled in a storm of limbs and a chorus of cheering. The captain spared a moment to laugh before he turned to return to his quarters.

Adventurers. Of course they'd fit right in.

[the-good-ship-ragamuffin]

Captains log, day 108. Deckhand Paisley is using the drinking water to bathe. Threw in brig. Third offense. Starship Ragamuffin has traveled 3.5 light-years from the Aurora Nebula and will dock at Andromeda 5 in three weeks, if crew does not mutiny first

[sheepwithspecs]

i'm really in a slump and having a hard time writing right now because i've sort of lost passion for it but i did want to share something i had written for the CarvRhos arranged marriage au bc i still think it's a cute scene of Rhoswen reading to the Sirens' children... idk when the fic will be released now but i don't want it to go to waste so enjoy

__

Fun fact Aubrix and Zori were two OCs that were going to be in a oneshot but it was never made so they just exist in the nebulous concept of "i know who they are but my readers won't" unfortunately

-Aubrix is a 10 yo half-Hyur, half-Elezen whose goal is to honor his auntie captain by killing Carvallain one day

-Zori is a 6 yo Miqote that uses her cute baby fangs to draw blood (bad habit of biting first and asking questions later)

“N’ as they rode up the mountain path, one o’ them—erm—” Rhoswen scowled down at the tome on her lap, lips pursed in annoyance as she tried to puzzle out the word. The page swam before her weary eyes, elegant letters dissolving into meaningless squiggles on the faded parchment. “M… Majestic beasts came swoopin’ down from the ‘eavens. The boy’s chocobo reared up in fright, sending the boy tumblin’ down the mountainside to his n… his ni….”

“Nigh-certain demise,” whispered Aubrix sleepily, his small head pillowed against her shoulder.

“To his nigh-certain demise,” she repeated firmly, turning the page with a barely suppressed huff. The Boy and the Dragon Gay had become a recent favorite amongst the many younglings who called the Missing Member home. For days on end they’d been begging her to read it aloud, never once minding the fact that even the youngest of the brood could read circles around their “Aunt Rhoswen”. Now, having finally surrendered to their incessant cries, she was left picking her way through the Coerthan tale word by godsforsaken word.

As a general rule, most of the Sirens did not waste idle time worrying about where their children were at any given moment. Most of the younglings lived in the tavern, the bastard children of Sirnes who had no clue—nor care—who the father might be. Others, like Aubrix, were born of Sirens who had chosen to wed for one reason or another, and lived in the city proper. It was assumed that if they weren’t at someone’s home, they were in the tavern; if they weren’t there, they were wading in the shallows, or wandering the marketplace, or pestering the Skylift workers for a free ride up the Descent.

Together they made up a large group of unruly ragamuffins that, for the most part, could look after themselves. The rest of the crew worked as collective eyes and ears, with everyone from the lowest deckhand to the Rhoswen herself keeping watch over the little brats as though they were her own flesh and blood. A force to be reckoned with, they had a keen understanding of how to wheedle anything they wanted out of an unsuspecting victim… including their own captain.

In truth, Rhoswen did not mind reading the occasional fairie story, even if it took valuable time out of her busy schedule. Though she constantly cursed her own softheartedness wherever the scheming little bastards were concerned, she could not bear to see their hopes dashed by her own misgivings. The majority of her life had been spent in illiteracy, only able to recognize those seven distinct letters that made up her given name. She had taught herself to read as a deckhand, collecting scraps of parchment from every plundered ship and painstakingly tracing them by lamplight long after the others had retired to their bunks. Despite her best efforts, she was still forced to sound out all but the simplest of words, her clumsy tongue tripping over the syllables.

It was for this every reason that she had insisted all children born to Siren mothers would learn to read and write. The mismatched bunch huddled around her on the threadbare coverlets were much better equipped to handle the world than their own mothers would ever be, safe from corrupt guards bearing false warrants or conniving merchants with dubiously worded contracts. Though they might hem and haw over their slates, she could rest easy in the fact that they would thank her one day for the efforts she took to secure their education.  

“N’ the gods saw fit to spare his life, if only m… meagerly so. As he lay there, battered n’ broken, all manner o’ foul beasts drew near—” The heavy ocean winds rattled the shutters, moaning eerily in as it swept through the Aftcastle and whistled in the eaves. The children nestled around her like so many chicks in a nest, the eldest reading along over her shoulders while the littlest ones dozed on her lap. They shivered with trepidation as the illustrated shadows on the accompanying page, hulking and half-hidden by the leafy undergrowth as they crept towards where the wounded boy lay in the foreground.

“He’s gonna be okay, aye?” Zori asked with a yawn that seemed to split her face in two, chubby fists rubbing at her eyes. Her feline ears, overlarge for her small stature, flattened as she studied the illustration with clear concern in her bright gaze. This was hardly the first time that any of the children had heard the tale, but they seemed to enjoy the pretense of asking questions as though it were brand new.

“Turn the page, n’ we’ll see what happens.” Had it been left up to her, the boy would have broken his neck at the bottom of the mountain and saved her the trouble of reading the rest. But of course a child’s fairie story would never end on such a sour note.

There was a collective sigh of admiration as they caught sight of the dragon illustration on the next page. The sinuous creature was painted so that its scales seemed to shimmer in the lamplight. Iridescent flames erupted from its gaping maw to frame the border of the text. Rhoswen had never seen a dragon before in her life, and certainly had no plans to go searching for one. Still, even she had to admit that the creature did seem rather formidable, if not majestic.

“Just as the boy was makin’ his peace with the Twelve, another dragon—”

“Cap’n?”

[glapplebloom]

This is going to be a long series of reviews...

This takes place after the Free Comic Book Day issue, as she executes her plan: Her Five Friends will lead an expedition to other countries not explored in the series proper to spread the word of Friendship. Each one is chosen by their team leader and let’s see which ones picks who and which makes sense.

Team Rainbow Dash has Captain Celaneo, Spitfire, Lyra and Bon Bon. So Dash picked Wonderbolt Head Captain, a Pirate Captain, and two secret agents. It makes absolute sense that she would pick these people.

Team Rarity has Big Mac, Maud Pie and Mage Meadowbrook. It is questionable for a Friendship Expedition but as a group it is balanced. You got two powerful fighters, one with a huge knowledge of geology, and a healer in Made.

Team Flutterpie (since Fluttershy doesn’t want to lead) has Discord, Trixie and Capper. I can see Caper since they’re going to his hometown established in the comics and Discord because Fluttershy, but why Trixie? She does have a pre-establish relationship with Discord on the show and Capper in the comics, so maybe that?

And Team Applejack, our focus in this episode, has Tempest Shadow, Rockhoof and Zecora. Like Rarity, you got two strong fighters and a healer. In a combat sense, I like this team the most. Funny. Outside Tempest they would be members of my Super Friends. Neat little world. And they’re heading to Zecora’s homeland.

Then Zecora goes off. She doesn’t like the idea and angrily screams at Applejack for bringing her to a situation she didn’t want to. Applejack is upset but Zecora scolds her since she didn’t know the situation and could possibly bring Zecora to a dangerous place without knowing. Even comparing it to a situation where she were to bring AJ’s Mother without taking her feelings into account.

She makes a point but honestly this feels like it comes out of nowhere. Neither the show or the comics established she had an issue with her hometown. There’s another issue, but I’ll save that for later. And finally, we got two pages where not only is Zecora mean, but Applejack was about to say something that sounded iffy, so no one looked good.

Luckily Applejack apologizes and is willing to let Zecora go and Zecora is willing to go since it's for the greater good. Team AJ has to take a week-long boat ride with Captain Cranky and his 1st Mate Ragamuffin. AJ and Rockhoof can’t understand his accent. Three events happened on the way there.

First, a storm arrived and everyone but one stood inside. Tempest Shadow decided to fight the storm and she won. Second, Pirate Dogs tried to invade but Steve Magnet was there all along to help. And Narwhals created holes but Rockhoof took care of the leaks since it means his shovel was useful.

After the week, we make it to Zebrat and meet Marini. And we met Marini. And it is here that we establish that Zebras’ don’t rhyme. It’s just a Zecora thing. Meanwhile, not only does the Journal of the Two Sisters establish that Zebras do rhyme (and live in the Everfree Forest), Braze from the Rainbow Dash Chapter book also rhymes. 

Yeah, in my continuity I established Zecora’s rhyming because she learned from the Leshy but I did that because I wanted to establish something new (and failed at it). IDW is using this to establish that Zecora wanted to learn about magic and only rhymed because she heard this was better for spells. That’s really dumb.

Still, Zecora is not having a good time and when her other friends from her past showed up, she ran off. I’ll give my thoughts on them next time but for now, this is starting off rocky. Let’s start with the positives: The Artwork is still great. Lots of fun drawings. And the idea of having a Friendship Expedition is a good idea. A great way to have a new story and have interactions with characters who could use more.

But the whole Zecora thing is hard to sit through. First being angry with nothing to establish why. Then being okay with it. Then again back to not being good with it. And now finding out the thing that makes the idea of meeting other Zebras interesting was only a Zecora thing. They don’t rhyme. They don’t do magic. They are just Earth Ponies (alongside Kelpies and Abada) with stripes. 

What’s with IDW not wanting their Zebras to rhyme? This is also a thing in recent books. It's like when they found out they can make their own stories, they went “YAY! We can make Zebras who don’t rhyme!” It really takes away the interest of them being Zebras. And this issue will continue in the next three issues so the rewrite will happen after that.