#v. hook and harry and hunt they cry / doomed as we are to falter and die ( fisherman. )

[fishermcn]

scorned be the sea's daughters.

Beneath their feet the wooden vessels hum and groan with the din of their quarries' songs, and the gathered Fishermen steady their footing and test the tautness of their ropes, waiting with bated breaths for the tension to break and their hunt to begin in earnest. Hours spent not paddling nor steering but drifting on waters flowing to the whim of the Queen Below, the tainted riverways as much a slave to Her will as the raging sea from which She first dredged Herself from. Nary a breath out of turn is exhaled, nor a twitch of the muscle save for gripping ever more tightly the rigging tying the ragged band of hunters to one another, for all it takes for their quarry to sense them would be an errant ripple... so late is the hour of night and so dark is the evening without the moon that it'd been impossible to say when it was that they've arrived, the shores of the great lake out of sight even as they take to finally stirring the waters with oars to assume positions and lure out their prey.

With such obvious baiting, they were not left waiting for long. The first man is dragged from the boat with a scream he can see but not hear, eyes bulging with terror and mouth agape as he disappears beneath the surface without so much as a splash. The second flails at the touch of clawed hands, lashing out with a shout that's choked with pain, then water as his head cracks against the boatside before joining the first beneath the dark depths. Another joins him, then two more as the beasts seize from amongst the ragged band most unwitting consorts, before their brethren respond-- knives are drawn and flint retrieved, and the midnight's shadows are chased away with the grinding of sparks into torchlight. They flare to life almost at once, illuminating the waters within their wide, loose circle only enough to see the distorted forms writhing just beneath as they dart to and fro. A chorus of their own rises to war with the siren's song, a hail of hellfire unleashed from the iron maws of blunderbusses and rifles, and their prey shake the timbers beneath their feet in rage and pain as their blood paints the water crimson.

Their wooden vessels groan with the sudden swell of the dread song from just below the surface, the brackish waters churning furiously with the fury they've willfully roused, and Samuel Whist breathes in time to every kick of the rifle. Even deafened by beeswax, even with the press of frantic bodies and the trembling of the rowboat, his aim strikes true time and again-- steady, breathe, release, and a Daughter bares pearlescent fangs in a snarl now forever frozen. Steady, breathe, release, and the scales of another are torn like wet paper as a bullet pierces her heart and keeps her from seizing another Fisherman.

Another bullet, another jerk of the rifle, another slain Daughter of the Queen Below, before the waters to his left erupt with sudden violence, hooked claws only just failing to maul his arm but shredding the firearm as though it's mere kindling. In the guttering torchlight her face might've been the picture of beauty, high cheekbones and full lips... yet they part to reveal a maw of shark's teeth to match the cruelty of her blackened eyes as she slithers aboard, and for the cry of the dread song that pours over them from her throat there could be no mistaking her for anything but a monster. Beside him, Grime clutches his head as tears of blood pours from his ruined eyes and Wren slumps forward without so much as a gurgle in death, and Sam's own ears scream from the strain even with the beeswax.

She lunges then, murderous melody still upon her cruel lips, and Sam lashes out with the edge of his saw-toothed knife even as he reaches for the pistol on Wren's corpse. Her spined tail lashes with the force of a rogue wave, flinging Grime into the hungry waters with the muffled snapping of bones and nearly capsizing the rowboat as her claws savage the prow, screaming in rage as a bullet punches a hole clean through her shoulder. Blood and sapphire scales scatter across the boat as another two shots bloody the beast before the Daughter closes the distance, and Sam only just manages to avoid getting his head taken off by her fierce jaws, the pistol knocked from his hand from the sheer strength of her. Another rake of her claws goes just wide of gutting him as he slashes in kind with his own blade, furious red lines drawn across his stomach with sickening ease even as the teeth on his knife wrenches another wail from the Daughter as it flays open hideous wounds along her side.

No way out, though. Her grip is iron as the Daughter seizes Sam on the next swing, wrenching his shoulder out of place before slamming him into the floor of the vessel, the howl of pain in his throat choked to death as the wind's driven from his lungs. Her expression shifts to something more harrowing than hatred as the curtain of her sodden hair obscures any sign or sight of hope, abyssal eyes almost demure in their hunger even as her jaws part and claws clench even tighter where they've bitten into his thin shoulders... before jerking, suddenly, confusion the last thing passing across the beast's face before slumping overtop of him as the thunder of another gunshot peals out faintly.

Wheezing, coughing, Sam scarcely has the strength to shove her off of him nor the moment to try before another boat bumps into his own none-too gently. A rough kick to the Daughter frees him up to take a shuddering wheeze of air before a familiar pair of hands, as calloused and rough as his own, all but heave him back onto his feet and into her chest.

"Carline." His voice is a harsh rasp, and the round of coughing that strikes him probably kills the already quiet affection in his voice.

"Sam." There's relief and concern and about a hundred other things all balled up and gummed up just beneath her thin layer of snark, thankfully. "Little too fresh with me, aren't you?"

"Shut up." He doesn't quite lean into her, but it's a near thing as the minutes pass, his breathing steadying and the coughing fit he'd been fighting tooth and nail dying back down. With a quick squeeze of her hand, he steps back, scanning the remaining vessels and the now calming waters shrewdly even as he starts rooting about for his knife. "Lose anyone?"

"Grim, Hook." He hears more than sees the slight shrug to her shoulders.

"Anyone important?"

"Nah, just bastards. You?"

"Grime... and Wren." He lets a frustrated sigh hiss through his teeth, soot-stained fingers smearing with blood as he tears a rag from Wren's cloak to cover up the corpse's empty eye sockets. "Stupid fuck. Told'm not to skimp on th'wax." His hands linger over Wren's pockets before crossing the dead man's hands over his chest with a shake of the head.

"Shit. Stupid bastard."

Sam feels her fingers just tangle in the tangled mess of his hair as Carline crouches beside him, shoulders just touching. He soaks it in, lets it and the sorrow linger long enough to ache, before shunting it back into its box to deal with later as what little Wren had to his name finds its way onto his person. "Blackhart still kickin'?"

There's a sudden, raucous cheer that echoes across the lake, led by a particularly loud and familiar roar. The dark green of Carline's eyes seem to gleam, the crow's feet accompanying her dry grin making her seem all the more amused. "Seems so."

Sam doesn't even bother giving voice to his thoughts, his flinty eyes saying more black oaths than he possibly could in a single breath as he follows Carline onto her markedly more intact rowboat, the morning light only just signaling the arrival of the day through the thick cover of clouds. With a rope lashed to the old ship, it isn't long before the two of them are paddling properly to join in the supposed success of another hunt.

[fishermcn]

🎈- A memory about a time they were safe and relaxed

the memories like to mock and taunt; his dreams are their favorite haunt // not accepting.

🎈- A memory about a time they were safe and relaxed

Wind’s fierce today, howling across the choppy waters. Rain batters the hull relentlessly, anyone caught outside lucky to get away with only soaked clothes for their troubles and foolishness.

Below deck, sparingly lit by lantern light, he whittles away with his knife a wooden something without clear form. Rough but dexterous hands run over what once was a mere block with purpose, discarded scraps and shavings littering the floor, and there’s a sigh that isn’t his as he goes on and on and on…

“What’ll it be this time?” She asks, lean arms slipping round his neck and bony chin poking into his shoulder just in that way she knows he hates. Knows he hates being watched while he does this too, and he doesn’t need to see her face to know the grin that’ll greet him if he were to look her way. “I liked the pig.”

“Was a cat,” he grouses. She bumps her head into his, mouth bared into a snicker against his neck. He pays her no more mind with words but does lean into the fingers running through his tangled hair, toying with the blonde strands as though delighting in what she doesn’t have herself. 

The boat rocks, sways to and fro where it’s docked, and the storm raging outside is ignored.

[fishermcn]

tag dump.