Fawn

More info about them below!

Edmund “Steelbeard” Sutton

19, son of Sarita, crewman of The Golden Chariot.

Simultaneously naive and intelligent, Edmund has a way of understanding others’ emotions better than himself. At least, only when it’s incredibly important. We’re talking life or death situations. At 18, Edmund set out on his first voyage, which was cut short when damage to the ship caused the mast to land on him. This incident left the left side of his jaw shattered, and was repaired by an ex-surgeon, using steel plates and bolts. That, along with the fact he can’t grow a real beard, is what earned him the name “Steelbeard”.

Dewey Ross

46, solo sailor.

Lover of riches and master of upselling, Dewey rarely entertains herself with anything unless it’s profitable. 14 was the age at which she began to make a name for herself, becoming known for always finding the most valuable artefacts. Sure, she embellishes the story behind them a little, but that’s just business! Although she does have a particular love for legends. Such as the Little Night shipwreck, for example…

Sativa “Lady of Gold” Sutton

44, mother of Edmund, widower, captain of The Golden Chariot and The Ruby Serpent (Gold Hoarders Emissaries).

Bold and beautiful, the Pirate Legend Sativa hunts for gold not for wealth, but for honour. Every voyage she takes is guaranteed to be successful, earning her a sparkling reputation that attracts emissaries like crows. But she remains loyal—she is also a fan of things that sparkle. The only nick in her armour is her son, whom she is fiercely protective of, and often argues with Dewey, as the fabricating pirate happens to be his role model.

Lancaster “Captain Magus” Marsham

57 (deceased), adoptive father of Pip and Florence, captain of Little Night (Order of Souls emissary).

Once an esteemed Order of Soul’s Pirate Legend, known for his outgoing demeanour, loyal crew and unsinkable ship. Nothing could harm the man—he was untouchable. At least on the surface. Truthfully, the only thing that could harm Lancaster was his own children. Captain Magus found his forever grave at the bottom of the sea, after his ship was strangely targeted by Captain Flameheart—better known as the Servant of the Flame—himself. 

Pip “Mouse” Wheatleigh

12 (deceased), adoptive son of Lancaster, crewman of Little Night.

After becoming an orphan and living out his very early years as a chimney sweeper, Pip decided he was done with cleaning soot, and snuck onto a pirate ship, hoping to be accepted. For weeks, he hid in the pantry, swiping scraps of food here and there. Which, upon his discovery, earned him the nickname Mouse. What a shame it is that the ship in question sank only four years later, taking the boy with it.

Florence “Black Iris” Bradley

24 (deceased), adoptive daughter of Lancaster, crewman of Little Night.

Not much is known about the Pirate Legend Black Iris, as in life she moved with a silent, deadly precision, rarely speaking unless her captain addressed her. At least, that’s how the public saw her. Beneath it all, Florence was a lover of the arts and anything macabre, but specifically, she was a chaser of knowledge. Growing up in a smothering aristocracy makes a woman curious. And for Florence, as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat.

Something lurks out there. Can you feel it calling?

Lexi is a troubled girl, riddled with a rot no pills or institutions can cure, struggling to cope after a traumatic event nearly claimed her life.

Nia is Lexi’s best friend, and is perfect in comparison. But even she has her flaws, her secrets, things that ruin her from the inside. She just hides them better.

Dark things are called to the rotten and ruined.

cw: slight gore, suicidal ideation, verbal abuse

This is ACT 1, CHAPTER TWO of my creepypasta OC origin!

Fog descended upon Twisp that afternoon, heavy and low by the time Lexi hopped off the school bus and began her venture up the hill. Apart from the kids who lived beyond the town's perimeter and had to get dropped off at the welcome sign, Lexi was always the last off. Not that she minded—most of the more rural kids had been bullied so badly they had come together to form one unit, therefore moved as a hive mind, which had decided Lexi was a bus decoration rather than a person. Which she was thankful for, considering she was fairly certain most of them brought their hunting knives with them to school—sometimes even their guns—a fact that made her wonder why their classmates felt so safe harassing them. Then again, she would remind herself, she wasn't sure anyone at her school was very intelligent to begin with. 

This far from the centre of town, where the forest was denser, was never pretty. The road was narrow, so potholed it was more dirt than asphalt, with grass as long as Lexi's legs sticking from the cracks in the sidewalk. Up ahead, where the road stopped, was Lexi's house. Tucked away into the treeline, embraced by towering pines and thick oaks, the property line was hinted at by the erratic and broken wood fence, lined with moss and separated by a modest, squeaky gate. To the left of it, the mailbox, once a handmade beauty, now eaten by rust and termites. Lexi could recall when it was made—12 years ago, before her father left, he had brought some spare wood back from his bottom-of-the-barrel timber job. They had made it together. Now, Lexi left it to rot. 

Glancing to her right, Lexi looked at the large break in the fence, where a parking spot—riddled with pine needles and dead leaves—was overshadowed by the evergreen. In it, quiet and cold, rested a rickety Austin Montego. Her stepfather said it was gold; her mother said it was tuscan. It was neither. It was the ugliest shade of khaki Lexi had ever seen in her life. But its presence, while aesthetically heinous, was also ugly because it meant her stepfather was home. Weight settled in Lexi's gut, heavy and immovable, and she began nibbling on the edge of her nailbed as she turned her attention to the house, which now loomed over her ominously.

Despite not enjoying her house, Lexi had always thought it was beautiful, even though it was small. A two-story on a wooden foundation, with horizontal panelling painted a flaking, dusty blue, modest dark wood windows and a mossy, grey roof. On the left, one side of the house jutted out in a turret fashion, the face hexagonal, each level featuring ornate windows that reached floor to ceiling. The porch was humble, small, with unassuming, wooden guardrails. The front door, however, was anything but. Lexi's father had made it himself—dark oak with elaborate stained glass encircling it, finished with a vintage brass door handle and a dragonfly door knocker. How strange that the entrance to such a place of misery was so beautiful.

Making no effort to be silent—it never mattered, nor worked—Lexi pushed through the gate, the ear-grating squealing of hinges making her grimace, before she clomped up the porch steps and pushed through the front door. Silence met her, and she felt her fate seal. Unlike herself, Lexi's mother was a bright spirit who lived each day as if it were her last—not recklessly, but happily, refusing to let anything dampen her mood. When she got home, she would skip into the living room, choose a record, and play it until she retreated to bed. Always some 80s pop that you were somehow born knowing the words to, or 1970s state-sanctioned Russian hits—quite the contrast.

The house was eerily silent.

Normally, Lexi would camp in her bedroom until she heard the music start, and only then would she descend the stairs. But that car—that hideous, khaki car—had gotten here first. From the top of the stairs, a small 'mrrph!' greeted her, followed by the thump of soft paws on wood. A cat—a black smoke medium-hair tabby—came rushing to greet her, bonking his head between her ankles. 

"Hey, Grimm," Lexi reached down, raking her nails gently down his back, just the way he liked it.

After her attack at the lake, Lexi's father had come to visit her. It was the only time since the divorce he had set foot in Washington, besides picking her up for the summer, before she refused to keep going once she turned 13. When she had woken up, he was there. The weight of his large, life-worn hand in her own had been sickeningly familiar. Once she was fit to return home, he was there too, handing her a kitten with a black bow around its neck. Gifting her Grimm was the only good thing Lexi's father had ever done—but she refused to give him credit for it, nor think about it. Thinking about him always gave her a tight stomach. 

As she reached the stairs, still gnawing on her finger, a voice sliced through the silence. 

"Lexi?" 

Blood spurted into her mouth as Lexi's jaw seized. It coated her tongue, sharp and metallic, and oozed down her finger, soaking into the frayed sleeve of her sweater. Muttering a curse, she sucked on her nailbed, hoping to slow the bleeding.

"Lexi, I'm talking to you."

Saving her finger would have to wait, she thought as she begrudgingly turned around and stared into the living room. Another thing Lexi liked about her home was the layout—Lexi's front door and staircase were in a narrow hallway that, further down, led to the laundry room and back door. To either side of her were large, wide archways, one leading to the kitchen, the other to the living room. So, when in predicaments such as her current one, she could remain on the stairs, in the mouth of safety—a conditioned, even necessary, observation, rather than a purposeful one.

In the living room, craned around to stare at her, sat her stepfather, Randall. While she had been hoping he was upstairs, where she could evade him, she was thoroughly unsurprised to find him, beer in hand, on the couch. Not doing whatever it was that fathers did, like preparing dinner or picking her up from school. Not that it mattered—they were both in agreement that Randall was anything but Lexi's father. It was the only thing they ever could agree on. A fact she was glad for—not agreeing with him, but his status—as while she was not the vain type, she was extremely thankful that her genes were not tainted by his. In other words, both emotionally and physically, Randall was ugly. There was no simpler way to put it, despite how simple he himself was in appearance—with his boring features, sagging face and balding head. 

"Yeah?" Lexi replied blandly.

For a beat, his blue eyes scalded her, as if he was weighing whether or not he should yell at her for her attitude—or lack thereof. Either was an issue for him, depending on his mood. But, instead, he said, "It's bound to rain. Make sure you bring the washing in."

"Alright."

"Scrape the leaves out of the pond and put the cover on the car, too. And remember to shut the damn windows, or you'll drench the kitchen again."

That had been him last time, but Lexi kept that to herself, along with the question as to why he hadn't done any of this himself. Based on the condensation of his beer can and the knowledge that his first stop was always the fridge, Lexi estimated he had been home about an hour. Enough time to shut the windows, at least. With a purse of her lips, Lexi turned on her heels and descended, turning left into the kitchen. It was a pretty room—cottage-style, everything painted olive green, with a vintage refrigerator and a copper sink, paired with a dinner table that seated six. Beautiful, but false. The refrigerator was as pretty as it was faulty and empty, the copper sink was always stained, and the table never housed more than three. Pretty and pointless, much like many things. 

Reaching across the counter, Lexi peered out the window for a moment at the rolling clouds. Static fizzled in the air, the distant thunder barely reaching her ears as it rumbled through the weary house. Thunder was always felt before heard. Pine needles and oak leaves rustled as wind whisked through the open mouth of the window, carrying the woody, damp scent of the impending storm. Lexi paused to take it in, inhaling it deep, until her lungs felt ready to burst, as if the pureness of it could cleanse her rotten insides. Then, as a bead of rain kissed her forehead, she pulled the window shut. 

Once she had ensured the windows were secure—lest the storm ruin Randall's perfect renovations—and the plastic cover had been pulled over that eyesore of a car, Lexi trudged across the garden, to the left of the house. Despite the residence's cramped nature, the property was quite large, though the rundown fence mostly implied its size. It was overrun by towering pines, hungry moss and thick grass—and flowers, in the warmer months, which Randall insisted were weeds. As the trees grew closer to the house, they became sparser, and within their embrace lay a small pond. Green, bordering on sludgy, but a pond nonetheless—home to frogs of all maturity, dragonflies, fish and a single wood duck. A beautiful creature, with scalding red eyes and an iridescent plumage. He had lived on Lexi's property since she was 10, but she had never named him—naming an animal implied ownership, and she was not willing to take away his freedom.

Passing by the lake, Lexi sheltered beneath the evergreen and began picking the clothes off the old, rusty washing line. What Lexi could not say, she made up for in other ways—like laundry. With her mother's, she was gentle and considerate, folding and piling the articles of clothing into a perfect, square tower. But with Randall's, she was careless, grabbing them off the line and throwing them aimlessly towards the basket. Whether or not she missed was up to karma. If the universe decided Randall was to have dirty clothing, then who was Lexi to defy that? Once the line was empty and the basket was full, Lexi heaved it up the back steps, leaving it within the warm embrace of the mudroom, before she turned back to the cold.

The rain had picked up. Small flicks in the wind had become fat droplets, like the storm above was drooling in anticipation before it consumed the little town. Such a fact did not speed up Lexi's movements, however, as she picked up the rusty rake that lay against one of the tree trunks. The mud duck quacked at her approach—which Lexi took as a 'hello'—before he resumed his waddle to his nest beneath the house. During his first autumn on their property, she had broken a hole in the foundation, as seeing him in the rain always made her teary-eyed. That was before Lexi stopped feeling anything at all.

Raking the leaves was much easier than Randall had made it out to be, as the pond was leaf-free in only ten minutes. Bagging it up could wait until they were dry, Lexi decided as she peered at her reflection. Barely visible, with the rain rippling the surface, and the froglets darting to-and-fro. Transfixed, Lexi watched them dance. In a way, she was their protector—every spring, she would collect frogspawn from the lake and bring it to the pond. Randall thought it was to kill the mosquitoes in summer, but in truth, Lexi just liked watching them grow. 

Until five months ago. 

At the nape of her neck, her scar flared, hot and raw. Reaching a hand beneath her wet hair, Lexi ran her finger over the raised skin, checking it was healed. She knew it was, but a part of her—one still stuck back at the lake—still felt as though it was bleeding. The rake slumped against the wet grass, and soon Lexi joined it, despite the rain that now pelted down around her. It seeped through her clothes, sticking to her skin, chills chasing deep into her bones. How she wished it could go further, ravage her body, cure her sickness, rid her brain of pearls. Perhaps she wished it could kill her with it. But Lexi knew that wasn't possible—not even she could manage that. Besides, she had died five months ago, on the bank of that lake. The heart that beat in her chest was not her own, living off of borrowed life, one forced into her hands. 

As rain came down in sheets, dribbling down Lexi's pale face, she closed her eyes. Cold seeped through her, numbing her fingers and toes, biting at her cheeks, aching in her joints. Often, she had wondered if that was what it felt like to die—an impending cold, before it all melted away. Now, she knew that wasn't the case. Death was warm; it was welcoming. It was everything, yet nothing at the same time. It was all Lexi was, and never could be—such untouchable beauty, with its certainty and finality. The only flaw is that Lexi would never get to see herself rot. Skin mottled with decomposition, her father's eyes rendered to mush in her skull, lips ate back into a postmortem snarl. Oh, how much she envied the one who would find her that way. 

"Lexi?"

Her own name, flowered with a faint Russian accent, had Lexi's eyes flying open. It was dark now, an endless night swallowed by thick clouds, lightning fracturing across the black. Wind whipped at her face and whistled through the trees, and Lexi grimly realised that the leaves would surely be back in the pond—Randall would have much to say about that. As she looked up at the quivering trees, Lexi found she was staring at herself—only older and prettier, with thin eyebrows and kind, blue eyes. 

"Hi, Mom," Lexi croaked. 

Lexi's mother—Bonnie—didn't speak, only pressed her lips into a thin line before she bent down to peel her daughter off the ground. Only then did Lexi realise how cold and numb she was, her hair a wet noose around her throat and her clothes drooling with rainwater. How long had she been asleep, despite the storm that raged around her? Thick puddles were left in Lexi's wake as Bonnie led her up the porch, through the front door and into the hall. Music floated from a record player in the living room—ABBA. 

"Bon, the floors—" Randall griped.

"Do you feel sick?" Bonnie ignored him, pressing the back of her hand against Lexi's wet forehead, "Come, let's get you in the bath. Randall, unpack the groceries, will you?"

Randall didn't move, but his nostrils flared as Lexi delivered him a smug look. In the absence of his footsteps, Bonnie turned, furthering her request with an expectant stare. For a moment, Randall hovered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before he sighed like an irritated horse and stomped to the kitchen. Although a horse wasn't necessarily how Lexi would describe Randall normally, comparing him to any creature was so insulting to animals that she considered it a crime against nature. 

Once the sound of paper rustling drifted from the kitchen, Bonnie turned and began peeling Lexi's sweater over her head. Neither spoke as Bonnie collected each sodden article of clothing that Lexi shed, nor when Lexi was left in only her undergarments, her pale skin goosebumped and pulled tight over her bones. When Lexi had first become unsettlingly gaunt, and when Bonnie had begun finding Lexi in odd, dangerous situations, a disturbed concern had always painted her mother's face. Gears would whir behind her scared, powder-blue eyes, attempting to decipher what mental mould was infecting her daughter, and why nothing she did ever seemed to lessen—or at least halt—the spread. But now, as Lexi watched her mother assess her, all that stared back was an expression of accustomed emptiness. 

After a stretch of silence, Bonnie finally felt Lexi's gaze upon her and met it with a smile. Skin creased at the corners of her eyes, souvenirs of past joy, furthering the false narrative that the smile was authentic. Lexi didn't point it out, for both their sakes. 

"Don't worry about the floor," Bonnie reassured her, misreading Lexi's troubled expression, "It's fixable."

The gushing spout of the bath barely silenced the downpour of rain whipping against the window as Bonnie cranked the knobs. To the side, Lexi hovered, as if she were a stranger in her own home. In a way, she was. The bathroom had been another victim of Randall's spontaneous renovations—olive green, much like the kitchen, with a claw-footed tub, a wood-seat toilet, and an undermount sink paired with cottage-style counters. Even at the young age of six, Lexi had suspected Randall wished he could renovate over her too, pull her soul from the house as he gutted it, as if doing so would wipe her from Bonnie's memory. Replacing their family couch with a loveseat was a clear tell. 

Steam fogged the mirror as the bath water began creeping up the porcelain, which was slightly marked with a straight, chistled line twelve inches above the bottom. The limit line, courtesy of Randall. Only the wealthy or the stupid waste their money filling up a bath, he liked to say. Yet past the line it went, and Bonnie made no move to stop it. Lexi wondered if Randall would call her stupid, too, or if that was only something he reserved for children. 

"I'll leave some clothes in the hall," Bonnie moved to leave.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Lexi blurted without thinking, "I fell asleep."

Loose reasoning—who falls asleep in the rain?—and the silence that followed told Lexi that Bonnie knew it too. A silence that remained, as Bonnie did not speak, only reached up to kiss her daughter's forehead before departing. A quiet forgiveness. Apologies weren't ever necessary; Bonnie never got angry with Lexi over anything. Sometimes, Lexi wished she would. Spats with your parents are a key milestone in development—something so common, so normal. Although, Lexi reasoned, she had already had her fair share of parental conflict with her father. Perhaps she should be grateful for her mother's unconditional love, instead of selfishly pondering giving it up for the sake of some normalcy. After all, it wouldn't mean anything—nothing about her was normal, and nothing could change that.

Once satisfied with the water level, Lexi stripped off what was left of her clothing and sank into the steaming bath. A violent shiver rattled her spine as the heat seeped past her skin, chasing the cold from her bones and taking its place. Sliding herself further down the bath's sleek surface, Lexi sank until she was submerged from the mouth down, greedy for more warmth. Even still, she could smell the damp, almost mildewy scent of rain and earth that clung to her hair beneath the suffocating musk of jasmine bath salts. If it was up to her, she'd stay that way—reeking of moss and sticks and wet leaves. It felt raw, familiar, a scent she knew more than herself. 

Abrupt hammering on the bathroom door breached Lexi's tranquillity.

Bubbles erupted from Lexi's lips as she gasped, bath water flooding her defenceless mouth. The muck that had coated her did not taste as good as it smelled. The cold prickled Lexi's wet skin as she reared up, water sloshing as she hacked, fire licking up her throat and down her sinuses. Despite her audible agony, the knocking persisted before finally pausing to allow for a much more grating noise.

"Why's the water still running?" Randall barked through the door.

Lexi glanced at the tap, which was still spurting water, and quickly shut it off. "It's not."

"Don't play games with me. You think we're made of money, huh?" The handle rattled loudly, but Bonnie must have locked it on her way out, as the door didn't budge, "Open this door."

Not today, Lexi thought, not tonight. Normally, for the sake of her mother, Lexi would grit her teeth and cope with whatever tantrum or minuscule issue Randall threw her way. After all, he was never cruel to her—apart from his vocal judgement on her parenting skills. That side of him seemed to be reserved for only Lexi.

Yet, she hadn't had a full, hot bath since her stay at the hospital, and that one had been soured by the prior events. So, she sank back beneath the hot surface defiantly.

"Go away," Lexi called.

Her voice radiated off the tiled walls, sharp and clear. Nothing came back through the door to meet it, yet Lexi knew better than to know he had left. Preliminarily, she inched further into the water, an action that proved to be wise, as after a few moments of anticipation, Randall spoke again. Lower, meaning whatever he was saying, he didn't want Bonnie to hear.

"That's fine. I'll just take it out of your medicine fund, see how far you get without your happy pills. Or maybe I'll just sell your cat." 

By reflex, Lexi replied, and regretted the words the second they passed her lips, "My dad gave him to me. He wouldn't let you."

"Yeah? Where is he then? Oh, right, he isn't here. Because your daddy didn't want you, remember?" 

Lexi slid further into the bath. 

"Didn't even stay when his precious baby girl was dying. Only came to begin with to double-check your pulse."

Then some more, until water licked at her earlobes.

"Not very nice of you to disappoint him, is it? Why don't you do everyone a favour and—"