#v. run faster and farther than the eye can see / they’ll find you asleep wherever you flee ( deserter. )

[fishermcn]

Smash or Pass + his dearly albeit secretly beloved fox lady .

@vulpesse // sinday shenanigans.

"Dunno a fuckin' thing no more, I don't."

If there's any possible way a man could slip further into the ragged cloak he wears, Sam would be doing just that. There's a twitch of his fingers, a rapid fire tap-tap-tap of his nails against the top of the table, before the bottle's raised yet again... only for the glass to clink emptily when it meets the table again. Beside it Sam's allowed his face to meet the wood, the words drifting up decidedly frustrated. "Come from a bad place, I do. Weren't nothin' pretty back then, certainly not folks. Made do, found things ya liked 'bout them enough to cling together." A sigh sucks the air out of those useless lungs of his, one so deep you could be mistaken for fearing to fall into it. "She ain't that. Too much, almost. Someone outta some storybook, pulled from the pages."

Sharp eyes golden like honey, that shape her mouth takes just before a laugh like bells rings out, those markings etched into her skin that dance with the seasons and shift as though to draw the gaze across her form-- it's all too much, too bloody much, and Sam leans back to press his hands into his tired eyes as though he could squeeze the thought of her out of his thoughts. "... been hunted all m'life. Tried to drown me wearin' pretty faces, singin' in pretty voices. Now'm out here, keepin' company with someone who ain't even hidin' what she is, what she does... yet I'm here just..."

There's a long moment of quiet, followed by the muffled thunk of his forehead against the tabletop again. "Pass. Godsdamn, pass." Even if the sight of her in the mind's eye with claws bared, fangs glistening, and blood dripping down her chin sets every nerve on edge in a way that should've fucking been fear but ain't.

[fishermcn]

nonchalantly furls a single tail around him whilst he is comfortably seated [ ... ] just so she can shamelessly tickle his nose with its fuzzy tip. ʚ^..^ɞ

@vulpesse // company kept with a crooked crow and his broken voice.

And to think, the evening had been almost damn peaceful thus far.

Above them the moon's shining full and bright, hanging just over the clearing and casting pale rays across the tree tops. Seated at the foot of a great oak and further illuminated by the oil lantern's light from where he's hung it on the branch above, Crow's hands seem a blur as they fiddle with the iron innards of a trap spread out before him. Soot-stained fingers twist and tighten bolts into place, fingernails pry and pick at the seams in search of anything too loose, and every so often a knife's blade scrape-scrapes a bit of gunk free before he's exchanging it for another of seemingly endless pieces.

Witness to this time-honored and well practiced maintainance would've been Hayan, clever and cunning for all the fraility of its frame, but the little bastard's slothful nature has long since lulled it to sleep in a messy sprawl across Crow's narrow lap. Every so often its companionship is rewarded with a pause, a considering hum directed at the many gears and springs, and a hand absentmindedly wiped on a once-clean rag before settling on the fox's head. Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch goes the stained hand between the fox's ears before Crow remembers himself with a scoff and returns to his tinkering.

It's as much a peace as he's ever been allowed, no matter the strangeness of his surroundings or the company kept with or without his consent, and the oft-constant tension riddling his slight frame is for once nowhere to be seen.

Fitting then that Ahri comes along to make a right mess of things.

Crow doesn't seem to notice the first pass of the intruding tail, flinty eyes merely narrowing. At the second tickling his cheek there's an annoyed grunt and a distracted, thoughtless swat of a stained hand at the intrusion. It isn't until the final pass that her efforts are rewarded with a twitch, the fur brushing just under his nose causing him to twitch and seize for but a moment-- before he sneezes with a rattling wheeze.

Several things occur within the span of that same moment. Whatever scrap of iron Crow had been holding goes flying off past the treeline, Hayan wakes with a startle that sends it wiggling straight onto the ground with a muffled whump, and that rude tail that had caused the entire upset recieves a freshly greased, sooty hand print from his flailing about.

"Motherfucker..." he manages once the sneezing fit subsides, eyes watering and nose pinched between his fingers. Crow aims a glare her way, ignoring the betrayed look from Hayan for daring to unseat it amidst his bout of sneezing, but whatever black oath he's got on the tip of his tongue freezes there at the sight of the fresh stain dirtying her fur. That irritable spark in his gaze is snuffed out, the tension of his jaw loosens, and the seemingly permanent frown on his thin lips curls at the corners. "You, ya look..."

Then an entirely different fit seizes hold of him, and the shoulders of that ragged Crow begin to shake as he bends in on himself with laughter. It's a raspy, rattling sound that sounds like it's scraping against his throat as it comes out, guttering out inbetween his horrendous coughing but no less amused for it. Tears of an entirely different sort than before build in the corner of his eyes as he cackles himself stupid at the sight of her, savage and alluring spirit of the wilds, mussed up by his own hand.

"Lookin' like a chimney sweep felt ya up! Got frisky on a roof, ya did" Another long wheeze, punctuated by the rattling of starving lungs and bits of laughter slipping inbetween his gasping. Whatever attention had been granted to his prior fixation now scattered who knows where across the clearing is now solely Ahri's, and when he finally regains some small semblance of control over himself Crow offers her a smirk that for once isn't entirely mocking.

"Ain't too bad a look. Don't always gotta look so prim'n soft."

[fishermcn]

🤝?

@schattenmagier // a chance bargain struck that ill-omened night; yet back to back they fight till the dying light // accepting.

i.) simple jobs rarely seem to stay that way for long. get hired by the local slumlord to cut some poor sod's throat? sure. finding out that "poor sod" is actually a fellow footpad and assassin of some renown? annoying but fine, whatever. finding out you were both hired by the same man to kill each other so he could take your respective shares of the city's black market? time out. they may not be friends given the whole nasty little affair, but after stringing up the slumlord by his innards and razing his little corner of the city to the ground they at least acknowledge one another on the street without drawing knives.

ii.) while both ne'er-do-wells share similar proficiencies as criminals, there hasn't been much in the way of tension or competition. when the docks receive a fresh shipment of smuggled goods, it isn't uncommon for sam to hire lilli's services as a mercenary to protect them. when a particularly well-defended target of lilli's has ensconced themselves in a nearby fort, sam's services as an explosives expert make it well worth her coin. while not partners, there's at least recognition of one another's abilities enough to seek out their respective expertise.

iii.) sam's many years of hunting down and being hunted by supernatural entities has left him with a keen eye for things many wouldn't even notice. given lilli's reaction to being flat out asked if her shadow is alive after a few joint efforts, sam hasn't brought it up again... though he likewise has made it no secret that he believes in the existence of such things.

[fishermcn]

@vulpesse asked: 🤝 :)

a chance bargain struck that ill-omened night; yet back to back they fight till the dying light // accepting.

i.) bargaining with strange beings has always been warned against and scolded where sam comes from. but after saving his life from drowned men, undead risen under the command of a being sam personally offended, sam did just that. in exchange for dwelling in her forest and thus under her protection, sam offered her the sea-bitten souls of those who hunt him for her to consume... and eventually his own.

ii.) sam doesn't hunt in her forest. he's always grumbing and muttering something about the animals that live there being "too damn smart" for trapping, yet never seems to try terribly hard to wise up, preferring to fish instead. as a result most of the traps he's set around her forest are for people, meant to hold them until ahri arrives.

iii.) on occasion, sam ventures out to the villages that border the forest, returning often with things he needs for his traps or just to tinker with... and if his slips one of her foxes, hayan, the occasional piece of jerky or biscuit that's his business. so too do certain things "appear" in ahri's abode, perhaps a ribbon or a bell that could've easily fit in a pocket. sam denies any involvement, naturally.

[fishermcn]

🍹 + Never have I ever... said that you cared about someone, when you didn't mean it at all?

drinking with a man damned and soon to be dead // accepting.

There is a long, tense silence. Sam's brow furrows, crooked teeth set against a thin lip and spindly, sooty fingers rap-tap-tapping in an almost contemplative way. For once, the look in his eyes isn't amused in an unkind way or annoyed in his usual one, but confused, his gaze fixed to the table before him.

Then his fingers stop their little dance, and his eyes flicker to the glass jar. Brimming to the top with sweet, oh so sweet alcohol potent enough to give even a dead man a nasty hangover... yet with the tips of his fingers Sam only slides it out of immediate reach with a grumble, leaning back into his chair with a cough and a glance away.

"Never had to. Needed to, I mean. Course lyin' comes easy, but..." Sam fiddles with his own hands, scraping a bit of built up grease and oil from beneath a fingernail before giving that up too. "Only cared 'bout two people. Only room 'nuff for them, I suppose. Never lied to'm 'bout feelin' how I did."

Discomfort radiates from him. He eyes the glass jar again with no small measure of want.

[fishermcn]

🍹 + i have never thought about smooching the local fox lady :)

@vulpesse // drinking with a man damned and soon to be dead // accepting.

There is a jar of something sitting on the table, clear as the freshest water but decidedly worse for the destitute who dare drink of it. Perhaps the murkiness of the jar itself would lend the beverage within its fair share of doubt alone, but confirmation comes the moment the lid loosens free with a pop and the fumes that emerge draw tears instantly with their potency.

Crow, ragged and crooked bird of a man that he is, has the audacity to sigh almost happily even as his own flinty eyes water. Far too laid back, he locks eyes with Ahri even as he draws the hooch to his dry, thin lips... before rasping out a laugh and setting it back down without so much as tasting a drop.

Oh, but how he's longed for a moment such as this! "Don't like them hungry eyes, nor those fangs o'yours." Crow's humor is cut short by a ragged cough or two, but even that lifelong ailment of his can't stifle the mocking edge to that grin of his nor the one filing his taunts so sharply. "Don't trust ya, mostly. Can't. Seen what things like ya do t'most men."

There's a pause then, a clearing of that humor in favor of clear and conscience thought on his part... before he raises a soot-stained hand and offers Ahri a "so-so" gesture.

"Known better lookin' gals anyhow." And that sharp grin returns with another raspy chuckle.

[fishermcn]

Gives Sam a bloody knive :)

@schattenmagier // trinkets and baubles fit for the crow's nest // accepting.

Maybe there isn't honor amongst thieves, but there's usually enough kinship between ne'er-do-wells and cutthroats to understand one another in at least some ways. Cloth masks and cloaks can only obscure so much after all, and for those who've worked together long enough a twitch or a glance can say as much as any layman's shouted oath.

As such, the look Soot sends Lilli's way as she hands him (of all the godsdamned things--) a blood-stained knife could fill a novel with profanities. No telling where or how it got to this point, nor as to just who was unfortunate enough to paint the blade red, but he takes it all the same and just as swiftly tucks it into the ragged confines of his cloak. "If ya tryna pin somethin' on me, might say as much." Fat chance of that, of course, but adding a bit of bite to his already rasped words hopefully sends the message to Lilli.

They've turned a corner then, back out of sight and mind from any patrolling guardsmen and towards one of the filthier taverns, and Soot flicks the dagger back into his grip. Now cleaned from a quick wipe down, it gleams sharply and fits comfortably within his hand, and he grumbles out something that sounds like a very begrudging (and somewhat sarcastic) thanks alongside a few rough coughs.

[fishermcn]

❛ don't you know? you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. ❜

@vulpesse // leave what's sweet as honey to molder and rot; for bitterness will be what our words have wrought // accepting.

"Mhm, 's that right?" Somewhere deep in the heart of this strange forest, far too deep within the treeline to see any hint of something by human hands built and far too stalked by things such as his present company to attempt to blindly stumble through, Crow whittles away at yet another stub of what could one day be a crossbow's bolt. Flinty eyes too fixated on his task, sooty hands ever twitching and finicking over the knife in hand or the bolt-to-be, he seemingly pays little mind to the noises of her arrival; that of feet treading upon soft grass and earth, of the soft chiming of bells looped carefully 'round soft ears, of words too saccharine to be believed offered ever so demurely from something that isn't the maiden it pretends to be.

But there's a tightness to him that betrays the seemingly composed man's nerves. A sudden cut of his grey eyes to her person then back to the work of his hands. A twitch in his fingers for the saw-toothed knife at his hip tamped down only just. Shoulders suddenly locking as if in preparation for a blow that doesn't come. Crow seems worthy of his namesake in these little gestures swallowed down, prepared to fly at the hint of danger... or just as likely to claw back with a croak in his throat.

"Got nothin' left but grit'n vinegar." She's looming over him now, the picture of seeming innocence and modest. Knows better, he does. Saw it when the thing she is underneath it all discarded her mask of geniality and tore apart his pursuers, those Drowned Men that wore the faces of those he once knew. Nothing but a whirlwind of tiooth and claw and blood and seawater, until their rotted innards were splayed beneath the trees and their brine-bitten souls swallowed whole by the same maw that would try to tease him. "Better that way. I hate'm, they hate me. Don't pretend t'be somethin' I ain't."

And that's when Crow finally looks up at her, hands still restless in his lap where he lounges back against the tree. His stare is flat but not accusatory, because isn't it true? He seems to believe so, especially when those stony eyes don't drink in the shape of her so much as anticipate... something. Any sign that this little grace period of hers is at an end.

"That how it works? Bring'm in with those cat eyes, whisper to them sorry fools whatever they want t'hear before pullin' out their hearts?" His scoff dissolves into a coughing fit, the rasp of his breathing harsh as he smothers it into a ragged cloak's sleeve. "Ain't all of us gotta play pretend t'get what we want, fuchsgeist."

[fishermcn]

"tinker" + nefja's massive war axe

@rancxrxus // no gold or silver will suffice for this gift; only the deaths you deliver cruel and swift // accepting.

There's a certain... mhm, sense for people you develop when keeping the company of folk who'll try and take you for everything you're worth with the flip of a coin. It's what kept him alive all those years in the guild despite the best efforts of his "mates" and has continued keeping him going ever since. He's stayed ahead of the lurking monsters that dog his every step and skipped around rat-bastards that try to stiff him in paying for his grim services, and he'll keep staying ahead because he knows what trouble looks like without needing it to announce itself.

It's mighty handy. Saved his skin more than once.

But damn if it isn't absolutely fucking worthless when trouble turns out to be taller than a godsdamned building, walks through the tavern door with all the subtlety of an avalanche, and heads straight for you with the focus of a shark in bloodied water.

Every other cutthroat and ne'er-do-well within ten feet suddenly has someplace better to be, and fuck him if Crow doesn't want to slink off right after them as she's looming over every other patron on her way over. Losing the business and getting all this attention hurts, yeah, but losing his head to what looks like the lovechild of the bloody grim reaper and a mountain-- no, two fucking mountains -- is a far more pressing concern.

By the time she has gotten within ten feet of where he's sitting at the back, the knife under his cloak is bared of its sheath and his leg is tensed to kick over the table. He doesn't have nearly enough explosives for whatever this is, either on him or prepped in his stash, and his mind is racing for a way out before she's... wait. Wait. A battle-axe the size of a small tree is plopped onto the grimy table without so much as a by-your-leave, and Crow can only stare at her as if another head has just sprouted from her hip at the request.

"... you fucking w'me?" He leans back in his chair and cranes his neck further, further, before scowling with a shake of the head and settling his gaze back on her chest instead. All this damn fretting and nerves, only to find out she wants a bit of work done. Godsdammit, he isn't about to put a crick in his neck just to look her full in the face after the trouble she's just given him. "Ain't a fuckin' smith. Want me to spit'n shine it? Weave daisies on th'head?"

That spark of irritation ebbs a bit when a sack of coins joins the battle-axe. It simmers even lower when another few coins join it with an alluring clink-clinking. Three more on top of those and Crow snuffs it entirely with a long, long sigh and a stained hand running over his face. "Fine. Fine. Fine." Those sooty hands reach for the weapon, fingers running over the haft and tracing the mighty axe head with an impatience that slowly settles into earnest attention for the detail put in by whoever forged it. "Doesn't grip well," he murmurs to himself, curling his fingers around the haft. "Might slip in the rain'n snow. Drop it, muddy it, better off leavin' it there." He smothers a cough against his shoulder before moving back to the head, only just tracing the blade's edge lest he cut off his entire bloody hand feeling it out. "Mhm. Sharp, no nicks or bites." A few flicks and scratches of a dirty nail against the iron has him nodding slowly. "Well kept. Sturdy. Might just be able to..."

Crow gnaws on his lip for a moment longer in thought before settling back in his seat, shooting the barkeep and any of those other nosy patrons a dirty look before turning back to... Nepha? Naya? Something like that. "Might have somethin' f'you. Might. Don't expect a bloody miracle." Rising from the table, he jerks his head towards the entrance and knocks a few of the looser coins onto the table for the beer. "Follow me. Ain't carrying that damn thing m'self."

A week passes by, then another and another. It's just a day shy of a month before there's hide or hair seen of him, Crow having waved her off from his campsite after lugging the battle-axe for him with a parting "go wrestle bears or somethin'" while he fooled with the weapon. Without so much as a greeting he's suddenly kicking one of Nepha's tree-trunk legs... only to curse darkly under his breath with a wince after connecting, sucking a breath through his teeth. Might as well have kicked a rock, dammit. "Fuckin' hell... it's ready." Still muttering to himself he leads the way to the campsite with only a slight hobble. "Told you, ain't no smith. Got y'coin's worth though."

Stepping around the small ring of stones he uses for a firepit, he gestures to the battle-axe, where it's leaning against a particularly sturdy tree. From the start, there's a clear intertwining of leather straps that criss-cross one another from six inches below the head down to a few inches before the end of the haft. "Better for gripping. Keep y'from slippin' when gettin' bloody." Beneath the leather straps the wood is darker than it seemed before. Crow kneels down beside it, making a point of tapping on it with the tip of the dirk he loosens from his ankle. "Fine wood, this. Strong. Took to resin better than most." Without blinking he brings the knife point onto the wood and doesn't seem surprised in the slightest at having it snap right off without leaving a scratch. "Much better. Smith had good materials."

Still kneeling, Crow flicks the axe head with a low whistle. "Goes for th'iron too. Wasn't sure it'd work. Thought it might scorch it, but..." He straightens up and returns to Naya, pulling out a large waterskin and handling it with a distinct amount of care and caution. It stinks, to put it mildly, smelling of rotted eggs with equally offensive scents slipping in underneath to make it all the more stomach-churning. Even he's not immune to the smell, if the expression on his face is anything to go off of. "Sulfur. Pitch. Bit o'pine and cedar resin. Couple lime pinches." With a slight jiggle, there's a clear sound of thick sloshing from within. "Pour it on th'blade. Make a spark."

Unsealing it, Crow gets a single drop onto the dead campfire and hands the waterskin to her before jerking his thumb back over his shoulder. "Back. Back up." He himself steps back a good six feet and pats himself down for any sign or symptom of a drop on his clothes before retrieving his tinder box. Fishing out a match, he strikes it twice before it catches light, flickering between his fingers a moment before he sends it sailing into the firepit.

It doesn't explode per se, but the blaze that sprouts from it is significant. It rages like a living thing, writhing within the circle of stones and devouring whatever it can get its fiery claws on.

"A drop." Crow's eyes are narrowed on the fire, and there's a certain tightness to his words and his breathing. "A drop on the blade. No more. Not unless y'want to kill you n'everyone else nearby. Will burn for hours. Smother it with dirt, bury the head." His coughing gets fierce then, and he's lifting up the mask around his throat and waving the black smoke away from them. "... will burn a ways otherwise. A long ways."

Stepping a bit further from the fire, Crow leans back against a tree and shakes his head as if a bit surprised. "No damage though. Like I said, stern stuff. Your iron's good. Better than, even." There's a considering look to him, grey eyes trailing the length of her from foot to toe. "Find me again. Bring more coin. Might be onto something here."

[fishermcn]

@yellowfingcr // x

Were he a man of sterner stuff rather than the wasted mongrel that he actually was, he might not have gone face first into the marsh water. Were he not bones pressing plainly against scarred skin and exhaustion from so many sleepless days, he might've already gotten up, might've already lunged for her throat with knife in hand to pay a wrong for a wrong like men were wont to.

But he was a wasted mongrel, he was skin and bones and exhausted in them, and so into the waters he went with a disgraceful splash.

Flailing, sputtering and coughing on water and curses alike, he manages to scramble back onto unsteady feet after a moment. Caked with mud, thoroughly soaked, he shivers with some amalgamation of chills and anger alike as his assaulter begins to patronize him. As though the slap still stinging his skull and the yellow of her rags burning his eyes were justified for the sake of some rotten crabs.

He'd have made at go at her by now, would've tried to gut her like he might a fish, but the pick at her hip and the crossbow on her back tempered the fury with caution, wariness. Went without saying her sneaking up on him, passing the traps he'd carefully set up barely an hour past. Dangerous one, her.

Didn't mean he wouldn't say his peace though, sneer tugging at the corners of his face in a hateful way. “Fuck off. They're mine. Starving.”

His belly growls as though in agreement, joined by the hissing pop of a pot about ready to boil over. With the fire between him, her, and the squirming bag of crabs they're squabbling over, there isn't much of a chance to make a run for it with the goods in tow.

Fine by him. With a snort and a hack, he spits a nasty glob aiming for her cloak. “No one'll keep a meal from me. 'Specially not a loon like you."

[fishermcn]

@loveardently // x

She’d already been plenty distraction enough while kneeling in the filth of this place, but it’s in the curve of her smile and the ease in which his attention’s drawn to the lines of her face with a mere thoughtless gesture that sets his teeth on edge and raises his hackles to her.  What she wears draped around her shoulders is looser than her ashen robes and warmer than the fire she scrapes and prostrates herself before, and to a man who has only known the chill of the sea in his bones and the company of the dead and drowned it seems a torment; he nearly backs away from her, temper flaring to overcome whatever fear thought to send him running. 

Hers is no enchantment so far as he knows, nor any disguise less than skin deep, but old scars still crawl with the memory of what a weapon beauty could be, and if he’s caught staring at the hint of her teeth it’s for fear of fangs than any undue admiration.  

“Why?” He croaks like the crow he’s long taken for another name, and in the shadows cast by flickering firelight, the tattered edges of his garments and cloak could be mistaken for the frayed feathers of a spindly sort of bird. Irritation and suspicion make his words coarser than they ought to be, but any wounded feelings on her part would concern him none; prying fingers deserved to be broken and troublesome noses twisted, and far less work to crush one’s curiosity than make a cold corpse of them. 

“What’s it to you?”

[fishermcn]

"You should be careful! Touching these plants leaves causes a really painful and itchy rash."

He glances up at her from where he’s kneeling in the underbrush for barely a moment, knife in one hand and a woolen cloth in the other, before dismissing her with a shake of the head. The aforementioned plant seems harmless enough at a glance, a short and thin green thing with narrow leaves and mottled thistles for a bloom, but there’s no sense in taking chances with the rumors he’s heard even before her warning.

“Good. Was hoping you’d say that.” With a quick cut at the stem, he catches the plant with the cloth and quickly bundles it up before stuffing it into his cloak. Rising to his feet, he dusts himself off before shooting her a dirty look.

“Don’t creep up on me. Could’ve gutted you like a fish.” His croaking is topped off by a bit of coughing, smothered by his elbow before he continues, “What do you want?”

[fishermcn]

“How did this happen?”

blood and booze flow in equal measure; what’s the pain to drunken pleasure? // not accepting.

He’s far too absorbed in sifting through the innards of one of his bombs to hear her question at first, black powder and shell casings and all manner of other filthy things strewn about a table in a manner only he can make sense of. Soot stained fingers tap-tapping away distractedly, musings muttered to himself under breath, he’d be the picture of utter focus were it not for the teeth he grits and the way he stiffens whenever he turns a hair too quickly or reaches too far.

He’s scowling down at one of the bandages wrapped around the width of his spindly chest when her words finally manage to reach his ears, and he answers it with a snort. “Fish bit me.” he wheezes, the snark in his reply without much bite. Too tired for it, too worn out from the day’s failure to bother with the effort. “Big fish. Real big.”

He eases back into his chair with a grunt, sucking in a breath and blowing it through clenched teeth. “Bring any whiskey?” 

[fishermcn]

“That isn’t your blood. What did you do?” (- cosmicuncanny) (can assume an encounter with either muse; or both)

@cosmicuncanny​ // a bird ill met by dawn or dusk // not accepting.

He freezes in his tracks at the unexpected question, hands still plunged into the chilly river and gaze kept towards its rippling surface. He’d been kneeling at the edge of a near abandoned dock, one far enough from the town that he’d believed himself safe from any prying eyes that the too crowded tavern and too well watched alleyways held in abundance for strangers such as himself.

A vigilance kept not without good reason, perhaps, but a pain considering the line of work he thought to pursue even without fellow strangers butting in.

Speaking of which… “Mind your business.” He grits out irritably, shaking the cold water from off his hands before rising slowly to his feet, shoulders hunched and back bowed with the force of an untimely cough a moment after. The lantern by his feet cuts through the fog curling over the dock, illuminating the viscous, still dripping stains that have dyed his tattered clothes near black from his narrow arms to his thin chest.

Its flickering flame even reaches far enough to outline some odd shape at the dock’s end, wrapped and tangled as it is in a thick net… but he steps forwards in a way that blocks it from view, the hand falling down to the knife at his waist a clear, if unspoken warning.

“Get gone,” he hisses coarsely. “Don’t trust you none. Draw them out, you will.”

[fishermcn]

tag dump.