Some say her mother was sea witch, leading ships into their demise in the depths of the inky black sea where her father laid in wait, a leviathan swallowing them whole. Celandine never refuted those claims, not even when they hung from the gallows due to acts of piracy. Bystanders said she was lucky, that the drowned daughter, the girl who spoke in storms was spared by the crown. All it did was turn her frostbitten.
Celandine, named for the flower that grows in the shadow, color of gilded doubloons and poison of the worst kind was taught to survive by her mother and father on the bows of a ship. With ease, she could navigate the seas by staring at the stars and nick an enemy’s neck with a cutlass at the flick of her wrist. She was bred of salt and lightening but her fate was foretold as ruin by a harbinger of death and destruction. Celandine never understood what the boy told her until she saw them swinging, their silhouettes waltzing in the afternoon sun.
Survival meant keeping no home and no cause that she believed in other than her own preservation. The name of her kin protected her, kept her in the good graces of captains of other ships and with her earned fidelity, she twisted the knives in further. A bounty on a pirate’s head sustained her, gave her something to continue on this path. No one questioned it. After all, what was a lifetime of loyalty with no one to share it with.
She steals from shrines, trades secrets for safe passage from port to port. Her ship allegiances are fleeting as time goes on and stays on land to sell false hope in a bottle. Now, settled in Tortuga for the last year, Celandine sells bits and bobs: counterfeit maps that offer no routes, false talismans to ward off the creatures of the deep, trinkets that give good fortune to those who desire it. All to keep herself afloat. Only how long before she finds herself at the bottom of Davy Jones’ locker?
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there was little chance that nya could find anything that could be used as medical supplies for sawbone in the shambles but she had to try, maybe she could excuse what little she still had for them or try to help those who were looking sick as much as she could outside what little sawbone provided. as she walked around, her heart broke at the sight of people on the streets, she stopped by a few trying to make sure they were physically okay before moving on.
to her surprise she saw cela, still by her stall. "cela." she greeted, walking towards her. nya always found her trinkets to be the most beautiful she has ever seen and even bought some from time to time, mostly for her home. "any trinkets that will bring our luck around?" she asked gently, giving cela a smile despite their hardship.
Celandine's hands worked deftly as she tied the worn crimson thread around the charm that she had pocketed from an unnamed grave. It was another trinket she could sell to wayward pirates and townsfolk boasting about it's ability to bring luck to even those with the worst of it. Soon this entire island would need it if they were going to survive.
A familiar, friendly voice spoke out and a small rare smile graced her face as she found Nya's gentle eyes, "haven't you heard, they all do," it was a soft taunt that no one else would understand but her. If there was anyone on this godforsaken island that Cela could call a friend, she could be the closest one.
"You've been pushing yourself, haven't you?" Not an accusation, but a small bit of concern for the healer found itself at the edges of her mind, "it's only going to get worse..." a warning, she hoped her friend would heed.
Lebas was not new to hunger. But it had been an all together different thing when he’d been a boy. Now his toned muscles and his work demanded more sustenance. Sweaty and lightheaded after hammering away at the forge, he sat in front of Brimstone, a cup of water at his lips that he was sipping slowly.
He looked up when someone neared the building, his muscles tensing. “If you need anything new? We’re low on supplies, mostly doing repairs right now.”
Celandine trudged between stone edifices under the cover of night. Soon, desperation would settle in over the island. The inhabitants could handle poverty and deplorable conditions, but starvation would cause even the most docile of people to turn feral. She had seen it once before at sea: it had been horrific.
The impending doom had turned everyone suspicious and she needed her dagger to be perfect, just in case. "My dagger is dull and broken," she pulled the blade out of her satchel, showing it to him, "I was hoping I could trade you for something we all need right now." Celandine had stockpiled food, just in case of a crisis.
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 else— 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?"
He had a face she recognized, only now with more creases etched along the bone. Did he recognize her in the same way? No, perhaps not.
"I come here to remember," She paused. "No, commune with them," the gallows were a haunted site, one that only held despair and sorrow, yet she had felt home as she stood beside the bodies of those who had been taken too early from this earthly plane. It didn't matter: they would continue to stalk the land of the living unable to move on. Did she have a hand in any of their deaths?
Bags of trinkets underneath her arm as she stepped forward, muddied boots tapping against the weathered stone, "you barter with them as you're on their ledger," she muttered. "The dead have no use for coats, they only deal in grief and guilt, Homer" his name slipped off her tongue like poison.
"If you're waiting for me to leave, you'll be sorely disappointed," she murmured, stepping towards the shrine the living left behind for their poor souls and grabbed a small trinket from it, a small sentiment of love for the fallen. As Homer had said, the dead had no use for it and the citizens of this hellish island would soon starve. If she could 'bewitch' the bauble, sell it to desperate pirates, then maybe she could avoid the starvation for a little while.
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