My Lady Jane + Guildford's curls

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@babyloncurse
My Lady Jane + Guildford's curls

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Jin raised an eyebrow at the manās logic. Strange as it was, he couldnāt entirely argue with it. In fact, heād heard worse justifications over a drink and a lie. Still, taking clothes off a dead manās back felt a step beyond his usual moral flexibility. Then again, these werenāt normal times. If anything they were extremely desperate. So he could understand the predicament, to a degree.Ā
He didnāt 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 wasnāt even sure how long he had been staring until the voice cut through once more.Ā
Jin blinked, taken aback. āNeither, actually,ā he said, his gaze now more focused on Homer. āWhat else has he got?ā His voice was calm, but there was a hint of curiosity and desperation in it.Ā
"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 tradeā 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.
"What is it you've got on you, hmm?"
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 hadnāt yet decided what kind of animal it was. Dirt clung to him like salt to skin. And the coat -- Vasyaās 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 youāre 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 protectionā 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 boneā no different than the vessels along the ports.
"I've called upon the dead, and they do what they always willā moan that the gods are just as absent," He says, folding the collar of the jacket. "That even the good are made to suffer evermore once their hearts go quiet."
where: a tavern when: afternoon with: open (0/4)
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 arenāt enough to pull him from the work that so absorbs him. In fact, he doesnāt look up at all until somebody bumps against his table, jogging his hand and interrupting his notes with a strike from his slate pencil.
āYou might take better care,ā he says evenly, his dark eyes fixed on the one that had disturbed him, āMany are not so forgiving of accidents, these days.ā
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."
His foot is thrown aside to kick said patron, and once more he steadies the table.
open to: @seasxltkisses for esmeralda de souza location: the devil's cask, tortuga.
Homer believes that Esmeralda should come with a warning sign, and convinces himself that the smoke pooling around the tavern is the very omen of her. She is but a flame too wild to tame, and while he knows he was not the first to tryā and far from the lastā he still holds it against her for inviting him to such a dance. Inked fingers slid across the worn wood of the table over the coin sprawled out to settle debts for ale. He lacks the integrity of a man who'd stolen a hundred times in his life if only to make her look at him, to wrinkle that perfect face with aggravation and betrayal. His seat is taken at her side, not just leaning into her space any longer. He intends to stay. "Gold for one of my thoughts?" He asks, but the question is already answered. He brings it to his mouth, biting its edge for the metallic taste to prove its worth. "I think you still miss me."

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open to: @darkhorizcns for anika aishwayra location: the siren's nest, tortuga.
Homer brushes the armor of Anika's hair from her shoulder, winding the dark silk around his palm before letting it spill like black oil down her back. A few strands catch in the rough of his jaw, tethering her to him even if only a momentā or is it him to her? If he could choose the rope in which he'd hang, let it be woven of her sea of ink. A kiss lingers at her neck, the steady beat of her heart under the the thinnest veil of skin. It's slower than his, he knows, and how jealous he is of it. The salt of the day is sweeter than any fruit the shore could offer. "As promised," He murmurs against her, tasting the warmth of her skin in his mouth for one last greedy moment of greed. His fingers slide against their callouses to reveal a hair comb carved from tortoiseshell. The candlelight spills through the softer hues of brown, but casted aside when it crawls over its silver teeth. "Could have traded it for time with you, but I already have what I wantā myself knotted in your thoughts. I present to you the cure."
open to: everyone ! location: the gallows, tortuga.
"You don't have to ask the dead for permission." Instead of sounding like he was informing them, Homer's tone rang out with insistence above all elseā as though he was still hoping for some belief in his claim. "And it's part of an agreement between this lad and the next. Any time something is taken, something is left in it's place. I think a coat is a fair trade. The dead are always cold." It would have been a viable excuse, but the circumstances rob it with even less integrity than what lies between Homer and the frail graves. Dirt is caught in his hair and sits in half moons under his fingernails where he is just barely peering over the edge of the platform. Ropes sway in the wind, just barely grazing over dark curls. The twist of ink on his skin scatters the moonlight that falls over him. There was no such thing as hiding in the darkness here. "Are you going to gawk at me, or go back to where you came from?"
OPEN STARTER
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 whoād trade. Sometimes sheād send them off in small vessels to do what they did best: lure in any ship for the slaughter. The crown wouldnāt 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.Ā
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. āAs long as this place remains open, I will not despair,ā she told the other patrons.
"These times may not be as trying as the lot make it out to seem," Homer says, turning only slightly in her direction. The legend of the shadow that flickers the light in the tavern to a new dance is not lost on him. "Most say the same of seawater, but I suppose we can give into the luxury of aleā or is that only you, Captain?"
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 crackā 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.
Open starter (0/4) where: Dead man's bluff, Red's table
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 falteredājust for a beatāas 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 itselfāscarlet 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 shadowsāsilent 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 eyesādark, endless, knowingāswept the room once more, daring someone to stop her.
āUnless,ā she added lightly, āsomeone hereās still feeling brave enough to lose something more interesting than coin.ā Her smile stayed sweet. But her gaze revealed all that was wicked underneath.
"Coin's for cowards," He breathes into the silence under the clamor of luck lost and won. His voice is like sandpaper and salt, a quiet he taunted for hours and still resented the taste of when he had to bite into his tongue on land. In the shadows underneath a ship he could abide by it, but here? He seemed to make up for it, much to everyone's dismay.
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 silhouetteā 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.
Taylor Swift, The Albatross

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ABOUT HOMER | I love this curse on our house.
BORN WITH TEETH dir. Daniel Evans (London Wyndhamās Theatre ā 13 August to 1 November 2025) āŗāŗāŗ Ncuti Gatwa as Christopher Marlowe āŗāŗāŗ Edward Bluemel as William Shakespeare
EDWARD BLUEMEL in Greta Gerwig
STATUS : CLOSED ā³ @babyloncurse ;; avory
toĀ those,Ā particularlyĀ theĀ innerĀ circleĀ ofĀ theĀ nightĀ court,Ā whoĀ knewĀ theĀ commanderĀ wellĀ enough,Ā knewĀ withoutĀ aĀ wordĀ thatĀ daematiĀ hadĀ noĀ fondĀ feelingsĀ forĀ thisĀ courtĀ norĀ it'sĀ fae.Ā hisĀ featuresĀ remainedĀ impassiveĀ asĀ heĀ studiedĀ theirĀ hostsĀ andĀ theĀ reptilesĀ hoveringĀ aboveĀ them,Ā andĀ wholeĀ thoseĀ aroundĀ him,Ā forĀ theĀ mostĀ part,Ā remainedĀ awestruckĀ orĀ farĀ tooĀ curiousĀ forĀ theirĀ ownĀ good,Ā kaloreĀ wasĀ notĀ fooledĀ withĀ theseĀ lands.Ā itĀ wasĀ onlyĀ aĀ matterĀ ofĀ timeĀ theyĀ mayĀ attackĀ orĀ farĀ worse,Ā givenĀ whatĀ heĀ hadĀ gatheredĀ inĀ theirĀ shortĀ timeĀ here,Ā andĀ theĀ natureĀ ofĀ theirĀ veryĀ creator,Ā theĀ commanderĀ couldĀ notĀ leaveĀ anythingĀ toĀ chance. hisĀ gazeĀ tracksĀ theirĀ emissaryĀ justĀ awhileĀ beforeĀ sunsetĀ -Ā formerĀ humanĀ turnedĀ fae,Ā forĀ aĀ timeĀ kaloreĀ heldĀ aĀ deepĀ distasteĀ forĀ theĀ man,Ā moreĀ soĀ whenĀ heĀ hadĀ joinedĀ theirĀ innerĀ circle.Ā theĀ deamatiĀ shouldĀ notĀ beĀ soĀ surprisedĀ givenĀ howĀ thatĀ theirĀ highĀ lordĀ hadĀ littleĀ mindĀ toĀ runĀ aĀ courtĀ orĀ appointĀ theĀ innerĀ circleĀ members.Ā overtimeĀ hisĀ innerĀ circleĀ hadĀ provenĀ themselves,Ā oneĀ byĀ one.Ā still,Ā kaloreĀ oftenĀ wonderedĀ whatĀ theirĀ courtĀ couldĀ beĀ ifĀ theirĀ idiotĀ highĀ rulerĀ wasĀ notĀ onĀ theĀ seat.Ā fates,Ā wouldĀ heĀ wouldĀ haveĀ transformedĀ theirĀ courtĀ furtherĀ intoĀ hadĀ kalĀ theĀ chanceĀ toĀ beĀ onĀ theĀ highĀ seat.Ā hisĀ highĀ lordĀ wasĀ nowhereĀ toĀ beĀ seen,Ā butĀ thatĀ wasĀ notĀ aĀ surpriseĀ either,Ā theĀ commanderĀ hadĀ longĀ learnedĀ heĀ muchĀ preferredĀ toĀ highĀ thanĀ toĀ beĀ ofĀ use. withĀ hisĀ personalĀ spiesĀ alreadyĀ onĀ theĀ workĀ ofĀ diggingĀ outĀ anythingĀ imperativeĀ ofĀ thisĀ soĀ calledĀ duskĀ court,Ā itĀ wouldĀ notĀ beĀ longĀ beforeĀ theĀ daematiĀ uncoveredĀ theseĀ secretsĀ ofĀ thisĀ unknownĀ land.Ā hisĀ moodĀ certainlyĀ remainedĀ lessĀ thanĀ pleasantĀ ofĀ hisĀ missingĀ giftsĀ thatĀ hadĀ notĀ yetĀ returnedĀ toĀ him.Ā theĀ commander'sĀ loomingĀ frameĀ settlesĀ notĀ tooĀ farĀ fromĀ avory,Ā onyxĀ huesĀ glancingĀ aroundĀ theirĀ surroundings,Ā heĀ foundĀ thatĀ ignoringĀ theĀ screechingĀ retilesĀ provedĀ aĀ farĀ moreĀ difficultĀ task.Ā "wereĀ youĀ beĀ ableĀ toĀ uncoverĀ muchĀ fromĀ theirĀ emissary?"Ā theĀ commanderĀ inquires,Ā aĀ glassĀ ofĀ whiskyĀ inĀ hisĀ hand,Ā itsĀ tasteĀ questionableĀ butĀ itĀ wouldĀ doĀ it'sĀ jobĀ forĀ now.
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.
"Though, I'm not quite sure this isn't the first time this has happened. After all, aside from their reptilian friends, they do not contrast us vastly enough. We might as well gather who are our friends, and enemies," He muses. "Fae are not like men, but the unknown is a fear across all creatures. Sooner or later, the brilliance of this court will turn to brass. But who's to say we won't return just as easily as we were brought hereā or will it take an effort we have yet to consider?"
how i would beg, medusa, for her to look at me, and midas, for his golden clutch / all of this would ruin me / but at least i would be seen and touched.
fatima aamer bilal, from moony moonless skyās āhow can i escape my mind?ā

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closed starter for @babyloncurse
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?" .
"Without much rhyme or reason, I presume," Avory nodded, frustration with current circumstances more apparent this time around. While he had grown accustomed to the constant jaunts between courts, they had been completed with purpose. This held a complexity he had yet to make peace with. Too easily he fell in love with the unknown, and out of it just as quickly when it's luster was corrupted with the agony of his court. "While I do enjoy a sparkling disaster, I prefer to remain the observer. This is proving that we are all in the thick of it. What has your nobility taken of it?"
@babyloncurse ... eden & avory.
theĀ Ā oneĀ Ā placeĀ Ā thatĀ Ā broughtĀ Ā edenĀ Ā joy,Ā Ā andĀ Ā comfort,Ā Ā inĀ Ā thisĀ Ā strangeĀ Ā placeĀ Ā wasĀ Ā theĀ Ā gardens.Ā Ā itĀ Ā remindedĀ Ā herĀ Ā ofĀ Ā home,Ā Ā especially,Ā Ā atĀ Ā highĀ Ā noonĀ Ā withĀ Ā theĀ Ā sunĀ Ā highĀ Ā inĀ Ā theĀ Ā skyĀ Ā andĀ Ā itsĀ Ā raysĀ Ā beamĀ Ā downĀ Ā atĀ Ā her.Ā Ā thereĀ Ā isn'tĀ Ā nearlyĀ Ā enoughĀ Ā flowersĀ Ā butĀ Ā stillĀ Ā itĀ Ā wasĀ Ā enough.Ā Ā theĀ Ā recoveringĀ Ā faeĀ Ā openedĀ Ā herĀ Ā eyesĀ Ā hearingĀ Ā theĀ Ā pebblesĀ Ā shift.Ā Ā sheĀ Ā openedĀ Ā herĀ Ā darkĀ Ā huesĀ Ā andĀ Ā turnĀ Ā toĀ Ā theĀ Ā man.Ā Ā "duskĀ Ā orĀ Ā night?"Ā Ā sheĀ Ā asked,Ā Ā movingĀ Ā herĀ Ā handĀ Ā upĀ Ā toĀ Ā shieldĀ Ā theĀ Ā sun.Ā Ā "itĀ Ā isĀ Ā hardĀ Ā toĀ Ā tellĀ Ā whoĀ Ā youĀ Ā belongĀ Ā 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.
The other's assumption was nearly perfect. To be exorcised of the remnants of the day court put her in his favor too quickly, and he entertains their evocation. "Night, but not without effort. Though you're quite a creature to study, as well. I don't believe it's the day court. Might I assume you're from a place far more brighter than this court has to offer?"