*𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢nd

Jin raised an eyebrow at the man’s logic. Strange as it was, he couldn’t entirely argue with it. In fact, he’d heard worse justifications over a drink and a lie. Still, taking clothes off a dead man’s back felt a step beyond his usual moral flexibility. Then again, these weren’t normal times. If anything they were extremely desperate. So he could understand the predicament, to a degree. 

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, watching Homer, eyes tracking the twist of rope, the ink catching moonlight, the dirt on his skin. His mind spun in quiet circles, weighing ethics against survival. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been staring until the voice cut through once more. 

"A gold tooth, a silver brooch but it may be iron, and a shirt that is better use as a cheesecloth with the holes in it," He says, shuffling through the pockets of the man to find nothing but sand. Narrowed and pointed hazel hues are thrown in the other's direction, and he waits before standing back upright. "But whatever you take, you have to leave something in return that is worth what you've taken. It is a trade— not robbery."

Though, Homer hadn't exactly followed those rules with such devotion that he spoke now. He believed maybe that had been the sour of some of his luck. There was some hope that he had been able to get a reversal of fortune with debts paid to the fates, and protection runes he'd found stronger than the former.

THEY DON'T STEP INTO THE GRAVEYARD SO MUCH AS BLEED THROUGH IT; silent, slow, like mist curling through bones. Their frame appeared at the edge of the gallows, a crooked silhouette wrapped in worn leathers and dangling charms made of teeth, glass beads, and brittle animal bones. The moon caught the whites of their eyes, wide, unblinking.

Their talismans rattled once, then still. They stare at Homer, crouched over the grave like carrion that hadn’t yet decided what kind of animal it was. Dirt clung to him like salt to skin. And the coat -- Vasya’s eyes landed on it with something close to revulsion.

"You're touching them," they say blankly, voice hoarse and low, full of disbelief, anger, dread. "God's below. No salt. No coin. No iron by the threshold. And you dare make trade like you’re haggling fish?" Vasya took a step closer, heel grinding bone-dry grass into the dirt. Their fingers twitch toward one of the charms on their hip -- a ring of crow bones, wrapped tight with red string. "You don't know what you've called." Their voice is clear, not with fear, but the deep tremor of conviction. And then, for good measure, a mumbled, "Stupid man."

"You lot always think there is only one form of protection— trinkets and herbs. I've known more men drowned by the talisman on their neck than saved by it, and your handful of salt is nothing when you sink to the bottom," He spat, a roll of his eyes that he knows cannot be seen. The aggravation, at the very least, is laced into his voice. "I've made my bargains, Vasya. At least on this side of the veil, I do not have to break my bones for such superstitions."

Perhaps it was the defiance of a young boy that still lived in him, better senses diluted too long ago to ever be fostered into something better. Sensibilities be damned with their dull edge that had never nurtured into something wiser.

Hand on his chest, he wipes the dirt to reveal the scar that appears almost too intricate to be a mistake even from afar. A knot of runes, and not the only set, sit top the softest tremble underneath his skin. No talisman could ever bind him to luck than what was carved and tattooed into his flesh. He was made of a hundred pacts, permanent sigils that were written into bone— no different than the vessels along the ports.

Sitting alone in the corner of the tavern, Etienne seems entirely unaware of the chaos unfolding all around him. A fight has broken out, tempers doubtless excited by an excess of drink and a lack of food, but the shouting and swearing and scuffling of boots across the floorboards aren’t enough to pull him from the work that so absorbs him. In fact, he doesn’t look up at all until somebody bumps against his table, jogging his hand and interrupting his notes with a strike from his slate pencil.

Homer's reprieve from the brawl will be short lived, he knows that, but he cannot help but answer when any word is pointed towards him. He steadies the table as much as he can after he's thrown against it by slamming it back down into the pavement below. Pinning it under his weight, crawling into this company like one of the sirens he tells himself are friends, he's almost posed to belong to an entirely different scene.

"It may have been fate," He says, a notorious line to any who have committed him to memory. "Your line there is a bit too curved compared to the real thing, and that wasn't the fault of the drunken patronage tonight."

The salt of the ocean felt more constricting as the wind blew in upon the empty vessels within the bay of Tortuga. The ongoing siege upon their resources had led to hunger, which led to either people turning violent or beaten down.

Ginika had always been more prone to the first rather than the latter. She was a survivor. It was necessary given that she had a whole crew to keep in line and to protect from the attitude of the locals. She kept them aboard mostly, only sending out some to find them more supplies - or anyone who’d trade. Sometimes she’d send them off in small vessels to do what they did best: lure in any ship for the slaughter. The crown wouldn’t best her that easily.

She made sure to show herself around Tortuga whenever she could. A layer of powder on her face to ensure the bags under her eyes were less visible, one of her best dresses on, a look that kept most at a distance. Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. Or. My. Crew. clear in her eyes. 

She sent the one that had accompanied her onwards and made her way into the tavern, looking at the sign that said the kitchen was closed, ordering herself a glass of ale. “As long as this place remains open, I will not despair,” she told the other patrons.

His voice is too soft to be a threat, and it's kicked to silence against the card that turns over against the wood of the table with a crack— Queen of Swords. How utterly fitting, and Homer wonders if it may just be fate after all instead of his sticky fingers. It's cracked and faded, worn down from too many pockets its been pushed inside of and too many storms its been shielded against.

A smile dares to cross his mouth, but it's only a tricking twitch.

"Dressed like that, I'd beg to differ. We tend to paint ourselves more desperately as we wish to be perceived when doubt comes in," He points out, but its fleeting. His gaze falls back into his cup and against the array of cards laid out in front of him, intent on being forgotten all over again.

The scent of spiced rum clung thick to the rafters, curling with the ghost of smoke and sweat. Laughter rolled like thunder, drunk and desperate, but it faltered—just for a beat—as the final coin clinked to the center of the table. It was one of the rare occasions she found herself at the head of the table, dealing instead of hosting. With quite a few patrons having flocked to the occasion to try and see if they were luckier this evening than Lady Luck herself.

Ruolan rose from her chair like the curtain lifting on a final act, and with practiced ease, climbed up to sit on the table itself—scarlet silk catching the lanternlight like fresh blood. The cards had already been cleared. The man across from her slumped in disbelief, pockets turned out, soul already halfway sold.

"And there it is," she purred, "the last deal of the night. The house thanks you… for your generosity." A sly smile. A half-mad gleam. She tilted her head and flicked her fingers toward the shadows—silent signal for a fresh dealer to step in. The new dealer held out his hand to assist her assent , graceful as a falling card, gathering her spoils with the dignity of a queen and the cunning of a fox. Her eyes—dark, endless, knowing—swept the room once more, daring someone to stop her.

He studies her, though any unsuspecting soul would have thought he was lovesick. Hazel hues brush over every detail but he can't help note the outline of her silhouette— a dancing flame just barely wrapped in silk, and when she was still, as sharp as a dagger. A man less certain would have bowed to her, but Homer looked for absolute even if he had to will it so.

Pulling a chain from underneath his collar, black ink threatens to taunt the eye with something more sinister until a flash of gold. The chain glints against the candlelight. The pearls, however, remain flush against his skin despite their whispers that they are too delicate to be worn by someone like him.

"This belonged to a woman who taught me the right way to love," He smirked, finger lingering on it a moment too long to feign sentiment. The story of this chain and its pendant was beyond him, a relic buried and forgotten with some old bastard less than six feet under when the tide brought him back to land. "Oh, how rewarding her lessons were. Surely made me the man I am today. I didn't have the heart to throw it to sea with her ashes. If you're after something more than the purse you slip into your pocket, I may have an offer.

STATUS : CLOSED ⟳ @babyloncurse ;; avory

In this land, the fae that had fostered a complex and harmonious structure were no better than moths to a flame. Too easily they gave into the impulse of curiosity, Avory believed, and he knew it would easily provide a miracle or a curse. His very being, his presence in this realm, was evident of the fortune of better luck. Has many chances did they carry still aligned to their favor?

"Not enough to satisfy your dysphoria," He announces. It is not without effort that Avory has made his own inquiries between different courts, but these dragonkeepers are as stunned and stunted as they are. "They aren't quite sure what's happened, but I'm making efforts to do what I can with what little they do provide."

After a breath, he gives into the concern he can see ripple over the surface. He has enough faith to believe it's not only his own thought, and he delivers it with a casualty that glazes over the haunting of the sentiment.

adjusting to a new court was nothing new to the female. having already moved from the summer court where she grew up to the dawn court where her father was from. admittedly she wasn't as prepared for this one. leaving the winter court she had time to say goodbye. this was abrupt, however she had hopes that maybe she'd meet people that she knew of as well as new people here. "avory, you find yourself here as well?" the brunette asked the other. "i would assume that means that all of the courts are here?" .

the   one   place   that   brought   eden   joy,   and   comfort,   in   this   strange   place   was   the   gardens.   it   reminded   her   of   home,   especially,   at   high   noon   with   the   sun   high   in   the   sky   and   its   rays   beam   down   at   her.   there   isn't   nearly   enough   flowers   but   still   it   was   enough.   the   recovering   fae   opened   her   eyes   hearing   the   pebbles   shift.   she   opened   her   dark   hues   and   turn   to   the   man.   "dusk   or   night?"   she   asked,   moving   her   hand   up   to   shield   the   sun.   "it   is   hard   to   tell   who   you   belong   to."

There were pieces of Avory that didn't quite belong together, fragments that could have too easily been claimed by a different nature. His crown of hair turned to gold under the sun, but just as easily was stripped to a pale luster in the night. Lips, bitten from impatience on his accord or another's, bloomed blush against pale skin. Even the way he moved was carefully crafted to appease the sway of any court.