I WILL BE KING.

Her chuckling was quiet, punctuated with a quite snort while she winked at the Captain. “Aye, yah ain’t wrong!” Monette paused, fluttering a hand over her heart. “Keep it up an’ yah’ll make m’ blush! Bet yah flatter all th’ pretty tavern lasses,ay? “ She teased before snickering along with the tell-tale protest of the stool, that was a dangerous noise though it had weather far worse things. 

It was those little looks and gazes that amused the tavern proprietor too often, some people found it unsettling or rude. She liked it, but as someone who enjoyed a little attention. A few seconds extra of being eyed up was nothing at all.  Smiling broadly there was a small puff in pride from her before shaking her head.

“An’ what’d we do without yah? Boys’ll probably be throwin’ hits an’ hooks  market t’ shore.” She admitted with a laugh, Bilgewater was a rowdy place but that made it more interesting. Kept the populace on their toes.

Monette’s tongue clicks and moves away from the counter, a hand fluttering against her chest. “Yah are too much, ain’t had this much flatterin’ since some lub from th’ mainland tried t’ buy m’ out. Though yah got a lil’ more knack with it than he did.” It also helped that the compliments weren’t disingenuous too.

Letting her head tilt back to look at the rafter after Gangplank’s request was made Monette faced a slightly difficult challenge. The Captain had surely sampled his fair share of ales, rums and spirits. So finding something new might be easier said than done, but she did have a few contenders. “Don’t like t’ make it easy but I can’t say nah t’ somthin’ like tha’.”  At least she could have a chance to test these on someone new.

Fixing her eyes back to Gangplank she could only bark out a few laughs, her gaze sliding to the man who froze stiff between the two. The man said nothing, eyes darting back to Monette, Gangplank then back to the woman. He seemed ready to speak but she narrowed her eyes, smile becoming too saccharine for someone born and bred in Bilgewater. 

“I think yah’ll be jus’ fine, don’t yah?” Her focus shifted back to the Captain, the man gave a final few glance between them only to let his gaze fixated to the tankard before him.

     Oh, Gangplank has missed Bilgewater. No other place has the same filthy atmosphere, the scent of alcohol, sweat, and blood so firmly embedded into the air, the women. 

     Monette and her tavern are a fine example of everything that makes Bilgewater what it is, and Gangplank relishes it. Everyone in the city is strong, resourceful, a survivor in one way or another. Some have silver tongues, able to escape any situation through charisma and confidence alone. Others were born fighting, cutting and shooting their way through life. Still others are like Monette, cunning, clever, able to use their wiles to conceal a greater threat.

     ...And some poor, poor few souls who clearly don’t belong in the city at all. Gangplank gives the shaky man to his left an appraising look, letting out a disgusted sigh at the sight. 

     Still, the man had clearly already felt enough shame for the evening, so Gangplank turned his attention back to Monette, electing to allow the fool to wallow in his misery.

A note of hesitation graced this girl’s brow as she lowered her hand slowly. “Apologies,” she muttered. “I guess… I guess I’m a little on edge, and hazy of mind at the moment.”

It took a moment for her to steady her breathing. He reminded her of many men she’d shed blood to fight to purge from the countrysides of her homeland. But in Bilgewater, his ilk ran rampant, and it was just another thing she’d need to get used to if she were to live here.

She rubbed a hand across the skin around her patched eye, scratching idly to steady her focus. “Yes, Illaoi has been very kind to me since I arrived a couple of weeks ago. I would have never guessed it of her, or anyone here, really, but that shows what I know. She saved me from the most recent Harrowing, and for that I’m in her debt, for what it’s worth. More often ‘an not, she’s talking nonsense I barely understand, but she means well.”

If this man knew Illaoi, hell, if this man feared Illaoi, Quinn had little to worry about, introducing herself.

“My name is Quinn.”

@reaverking​

     Upon mention of the word Harrowing, Gangplank failed to suppress a grimace. It was the first year Bilgewater had undergone the, well, harrowing event without Gangplank at the city’s helm, and loathe as he was to admit it, the city had done far better against the Shadow Isles this year under Fortune’s leadership than it ever had under his own.

     Though most still assumed him dead, his legacy had taken quite the blow that night. 

     The reminder of his supposed death wrenched Gangplank out of the past, sending his thoughts hurtling back to the present. 

     He was supposed to be dead. He couldn’t exactly go around telling every stranger he met his name, could he? But this girl -- Quinn -- was likely spending quite a bit of time at Illaoi’s temple, which meant she would find out the truth one way or another eventually.

     Risky. It was very, very risky.

     “Gangplank,” he finally responded, curious if the name would draw any reaction. “Y’mighta heard of me.” 

She watches his eyes shifts and knows what he’s thinking. He’s looking to see how quickly he can get his crew’s attention. She shifts the gun in her hand just slightly, enough to let him know she can pull that trigger faster than he can call for assistance.

“ ‘Preciate the offer, Boris, but I’m going to have to decline.” She says coyly, unruffled by his idle threats. If he’d felt he had a shot at getting his men’s attention without dying he would have already done so. “If you’re willing to take that risk though, by all means, I’ll just dispatch you the efficient way.” She wanted information, sure, but she was not stupid enough to put her life in too much danger to get it. There were always other methods if it came down to it.

He’s still looking around, shifting…She notices that his attention isn’t fully on her. Red flags go off in Sarah’s head. If someone has a gun pointed at you, they have your attention…Unless they have something else planned. He was either waiting on backup that knew she was here, or he was going to make a run for it. 

Sarah doesn’t move her head, not wanting to give him that split second. In the shadows of the rafters, her eyes glance to the side quickly, pinpointing the exits she can take if things go bad. The way she came is still open, and she saw some exit points in that hall. If she jumps down, the hallway isn’t far. She remembers all the doors she saw on her way in (though there weren’t many). 

She gives the pirate a skeptical look, her lip twitching up with impatience. “Don’t play games, Boris. You know what I’m after.” It was no secret that her first and foremost goal was to kill Gangplank…again. There was nothing else he could offer her. He was stalling. She needed to end this quickly. 

It’s only a few moments before she realizes exactly why he’s stalling. She hears him before she sees him…His voice cutting through the air around her like cannon-fire booming in the distance. It sends a chill through her bones that turns her skin to ice, rendering her motionless for a solid three seconds. She’s hearing things…She has to be. He can’t be here, she would have known if he was here. 

Her eyes move first, darting to the side as her head slowly turns in suit. A short distance away, she sees him standing there, that sickening grin peeking out from his beard. Her entire visage changes. Gone is the smooth, calm confidence bordering on arrogance. The look in her eyes has turned to cold murder, her teeth clenched and lips pressed in a silent rage. 

It takes every fiber of control in her body not to turn her pistol and fire at his face right there. She can see his hand on his pistol. He’s a quick shot too. Her gun is not aimed anywhere in his direction. But he’s cocky enough to stand there without drawing it on her, to try and goad her into trying. She won’t grant him that victory…Even if he did dare to address her by her first name…To mock her for not killing him the first time.

Sarah inhales, forcing her body into whatever control she can manage. She can’t afford to be reckless now: This was not according to plan. He’d caught her off guard. She had to be careful…Painfully careful in this predicament. Gangplank had the upper hand here, and she wasn’t mentally prepared for it. She blinks, and her expression changes once again. She won’t let him see how much of an effect his presence had on her state of mind… Though…he’d likely already seen. 

“You’ve certainly looked better.” She sneers, voice lined with venom as she dares to slowly straighten her posture. She dares a look to the hall down below. Where is Rafen? A rhetorical questions she mentally asks herself. So long as he hasn’t been caught, things could still go her way. But she had to acknowledge the fact that once he realized Gangplank was there, he might try to call for a retreat if she ends up in a situation she can’t get out of. 

She wouldn’t let it come to that. Not when he was right here…In her sights…One shot between the eyes, that’s all it would take…She’s a good shot…she knows where the exit is. It would be unceremonious, but… How quickly can I move…?

Her trigger finger itches, but she doesn’t move the gun away from Boris yet. Don’t do anything rash…He wouldn’t be standing there if he thought I could kill him… Though Sarah had never doubted her own abilities…He’d survived one of her attempts to murder him before…She couldn’t risk that again… She had to acknowledge the high possibility that she’d walked into his trap this time.

“Did you crawl out of that watery abyss just to see my face when I put a bullet in your skull?”

     “You wound me, Sarah!” Gangplank calls, repeating her name with a self-satisfied malice. He hasn’t missed the single crack in her confidence, and the pleasure of getting to her, even for a single moment, is enough to override the rage in his throat. 

     It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When Fortune is over there, pistol in hand, empty air dividing them, she still has a chance to escape. She’s high up, far too high for anyone to rush and attack her, even in a warehouse full of her enemies, and it grates at Gangplank. If she escapes -- and she won’t, she won’t -- but if she does, she’ll have a damn good idea of where to start searching for Gangplank. She’ll know what he looks like these days, down one arm and still suffering from the burns endured.

     She’ll be able to set all of Bilgewater chasing after him.

     He can’t think like that, though. He needs to concentrate on this victory, offer another snide sneer and figure out how to dispose of her. If Gangplank draws his pistol, Fortune will draw hers and put a bullet right through his temple. Both will be dead, but that isn’t good enough.

     She needs to die, he needs to live.

     Boris is down below, his men visible out of the corner of Gangplank’s eye. 

     If Gangplank draws enough attention to the confrontation going on up above them, then maybe Boris will do the right thing and shut every exit to the warehouse, find whatever rats snuck in here alongside Fortune, and ensure her death.

     ...That would mean trusting Boris to do something intelligent, however, and Gangplank has his doubts that will happen. He might send a man up to Fortune, dooming him, or he might find himself with a bullet in his skull the second he tries to move.

     It would mean a moment of distraction from Fortune, though, which would give Gangplank the opportunity to shoot her in the chest. Even if it didn’t kill her, the shock might be enough to send her stumbling down through the air and onto the ground, where her bones would shatter with a sickening crack and she would be gone.

     Not as satisfying as thrusting a blade between two ribs and into her heart, but there is far too much at risk to let her leave this place alive. 

     “I crawled out of that watery abyss,” Gangplank begins, louder this time, “to take my city back, and I’ll be damned if some red-headed little girl playing pretend is goin’ to stop me.”

     He might be speaking loudly enough, but with the distance between them and the floor below, Fortune is sure to suspect him of being up to something. He needs to latch onto that crack in her facade, beat down upon it until her confidence shatters and she does something stupid, like wasting her time to give Gangplank a reply.

     “Besides, I’d rather not suffer the irony of dying from a bullet shot out of a pair of guns originally meant for me.” He’d almost forgotten the day, the memory blurring amongst the hundreds of other people he’d slaughtered in those days, but Gangplank had done his research on the woman who’d taken everything from him, and he did remember the rage in his heart upon being denied those twin pistols. 

     If anything would be jarring enough to force Fortune back into fear’s waiting hands, it would have to be the memory of her mother. 

     “Did you think I’d forgotten her?” He had, but Fortune doesn’t need to know that. “That kind, sweet face, a bullet through her forehead and blood drippin’ down her cheekbones?” 

     He can only hope that Fortune wanted to live enough that his taunts and the sound of Boris inching towards his men below them wouldn’t be enough to convince her to send a bullet piercing through his skull.

     She knows that she would die if she did. She must, and she must want to live enough to not want to risk that.

     “The guns in your hands killed her, you know. Do you think you’re any better than me? Do you think she’d be proud of the person her daughter has become? Oh, sure, you kill ‘bad’ people, but you’re still a killer like anyone else. You sent this city spiralling into a gang war, probably killed more men than I through that alone, forget about all those you’ve personally shot.”

     Gangplank takes a heavy breath, raising the pistol when he hears feet shuffling and gasps from below. 

The small Demacian woman staggered slightly as she bumped into something. Ever since she’d arrived in Bilgewater, she’d not been the most aware of her surroundings, and had been struggling to avoid running into things, and while today was a small blessing she was sober, her head had still been down. Illaoi might be upset about that one, mildly, at least, but improvements were improvements and the Buhru priestess had little argument over that.

She raised her head to apologize, when he spoke to her. He was a hulking man, compared to her, and he looked frustrated to be stopped by someone so small both in metaphor to his eyes and in a literal sense, which set the former scout bristling immediately. Tall and imposing, he likely was the sort of man to command the attention of the room, but Quinn had seen taller men and faced scarier for certainty.

“Whose?” For a moment, she was confused by his question. She knew her low Demacian accented common stuck out like a sore thumb in Bilgewater. Few Demacians ever frequented its docks. “I’m… perhaps what you might call a ‘student’ of Buhru. A little more like that priestess’s pet project.”

Something about him seemed to rub her wrong, and she found her hand drifting to the grip of the crossbow in the holster on her thigh.

@reaverking

     “Pet project, eh?” Gangplank raised an eyebrow, curious about the wording. He’d spent a significant amount of time with Illaoi over the years, but he had never fully understood everything to do with Buhru and Nagakabouros. He’d grown up on Bilgewater, prayed to the Bearded Lady like anyone else, and there’d been plenty a time that Illaoi had explained her religion when the two of them were both younger and more foolish, but he didn’t live it, didn’t breathe it like she did. 

     Why would she need a student? A project? Didn’t those of the Serpent Isles detest outsiders?

     Hells, he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter, either. What did matter was the this pet project of a girl’s tense demeanour. Upon noting her hand’s movement, Gangplank’s other eyebrow rose to match the first.

SAVVY? // this is a pirate blog yes im fuckin accepting

“Survival is nothing without a purpose,” Gangplank growled. If there was anything he’d learned from the experience of having his damned ship blown up by that damned bitch and nearly dying, it was that. 

Before, he’d been surviving, maintaining Bilgewater and ensuring it remained under his control, but never searching for anything more. He’d been a king in name alone, solely because that happened to be the title he’d ripped from his father’s hands. 

He’d been stagnant.

How disgustingly abhorrent.

(Illaoi was getting to him, wasn’t she?)

     By the seas depths, Illaoi is a force to be reckoned with. Every time Gangplank left a conversation with her, he somehow felt all at once a thousand times stronger and like a five year old child. Damned sea witch.

     For all the curses he had and would continue to spit in her direction, he kept coming back, asking for her help. He respected her, had even loved her, once. 

     Damn her. Damn her and her stinkin’ god.

     Gangplank pushed the door behind him closed, hearing it shut with a shuddering thud.

     Illaoi’s prayer and supposedly wise sayings didn’t matter. She’d finally agreed to help him (even if she’d literally kicked a man who’d very nearly just been blown up, first), Okao was on his side, and soon enough, Bilgewater and the sea would truly be his. He just needed to--

SAVVY? // this is a pirate blog yes im fuckin accepting

     “A Noxian would think that, wouldn’t they?” Gangplank comments, eyeing the assassin. “Cruelty isn’t a matter of perspective. Whether it’s justified is. See--”

     He sits down, placing his hands behind him and leaning into them. “--If one o’ my men acts out, risks ruinin’ the stability of how I run things, I take them to my quarters, see. I might get another crewman to help me tie the man down, and then I’ll take his bones and carve a pretty little picture into them. Anyone would consider the act in itself cruel, but you’d be hard-pressed to find a man who’d think it unjust.” 

     Gangplank smiles, the expression every bit as monstrous as the act described. “If I were to reach out and grab your arm, splinter your brittle bones into a thousand little pieces, however, that wouldn’t be just. Entertainin’? Of course, but cruelty must have purpose.”

      He shakes his head, chuckling softly to himself.

To say that one loved a good slaughter fleet haul was like proclaiming a love of good rum, women or whatever caught your fancy. 

It was a fact of life, a truth of Bilgewater.

Monette DuBois was a woman who loved and benefited from these things and it made life good. Now with a full tavern of rowdy folks to throw krakken and serpents her way for a good time, had her happier than a pack of wharfrats on slaughter docks. Luck was on The Weeping Queen’s side with enough help to ease the burden of running back and forth to fill tankards with rum, ale and other spirits. 

An attempt at a smile was currently occupying her face, slightly narrowed eyes fixate on a man trying with limited success to keep her attentions solely on him. Perhaps if he had more to offer than a pilfered story paired with desperation would have helped his cause. Any chance unfortunately had dipped to bottom barrel once Monette perked up to her name being called out. 

“Well now!” She drawls while standing just a hair straighter and gave Gangplank a real smile, partly because that was her manners and a small token of thanks for livening things up. “Been thinkin’ yah been forgettin’ ‘bout lil’ m’.” Like that was even possible, Monette DuBois made an impression.

     Gangplank laughs, a loud, hearty noise that almost gets drowned out amongst the orchestra of drunks. “Don’t think anyone in Bilgewater could forget about you,” he replies, grabbing a stool and setting himself atop it. A distinct creak follows, but he opts to ignore it, instead resting both his forearms on the bar and letting his gaze linger on Monette a touch too long. “It’s just been busy. Hard to keep a city like this one in line, eh?”

He offers another smile, then shifts in his seat.“Anyways, I’m glad to see business has been goin’ well. ‘Course, it’s not exactly a surprise -- you’ve got the best ale this side o’ Bilgewater -- but it’s good to see.”

     His gaze drifts, looking over the glasses of alcohol held in everyone’s hands. “Speakin’ of which--” Gangplank gives Monette a pointed stare, raising an eyebrow. “--I need a drink. Something strong, something I haven’t ordered before. ‘Sides those two little requirements, I don’t care what -- I’ve gotten a bit bored of the stuff on the ship, see. And--”

    It’s as rowdy as ever in the tavern, dozens and dozens of Bilgewater residents slamming glasses on wooden tables, erupting into arguments with one another, and letting out loud, hearty laughs at some perverse joke or another.

    Gangplank is thankful for it. In a bar this full, even his hulking presence blends into the masses of patrons drifting in and out of the bar. Some might stare at him and offer a hushed whisper to their friends, “Do you think that’s— No, it couldn’t be—” but most are far too drunk to care, even if they do recognise him.

     “What is glory?” Gangplank repeats, an inscrutable expression on his face. He pauses for a long moment, considering the question.

     “Glory can be many things. Glory may be fleetin’, like the brief satisfaction felt upon spying an enemies’ ship blown up, believing them to be dead in the water. It might be the tales spread far and wide of an abhorrent, callous king who takes no prisoners and gives no quarter. Some might say glory doesn’t exist without adoration, while others might say it can’t possibly exist without fear right by its side.”

SAVVY? // this is a pirate blog yes im fuckin accepting

    Gangplank stares, revulsion evident in every wrinkle on his wearied face.

    “Did the black mist come early this year?” He asks, blinking in hopes the demonic being before him will disappear. Stress can cause hallucinations — surely the frustration of trying to regain his former power has gotten to him.

    When it is evident that the glowing green thing isn’t, in fact, going to simply disappear, he lets out a heavy sigh. “You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to if you think I care about that girl. Kill her, torture her, give her spirit immortal agony for all I care. Hells, I’ll do it m’self if you’d like. She means nothin’ to me.”

    A beat.

Okay, maybe the “nice evening” comment was too much. There was a span of silence where Talon wondered if he was going to draw a gun out and shoot him right then and there – and he was just deciding which kneecap to start with. 

His smile was flat, which did little to unnerve Talon; as cliche as it might’ve been, he’d seen dead eyes and smiles like that for his entire life. 

He spread his hands out wide and shrugged. “I can’t recall.” 

Then Talon’s eyes gave a flash. Yeah, like this man gave a shit about whoever-his-name. He just didn’t like other people stepping on his toes. Well, Talon could understand that, at least. 

“Don’t be so hard on me,” Talon said. “A man tends to get antsy when someone has sent someone as intimidating as that one to follow you around all day.” 

     It was as though this killer wanted Gangplank to pull out his cutlass and stick it in his gut. He couldn’t recall? Gangplank was about to take a distinct blow to his reputation, and the reason behind it was that he couldn’t recall? 

     He frowned.

     This bastard deserved nothing less than a cutlass to the gut, but Gangplank wanted information.

     He couldn’t get that information if the source was dead, could he? Punishing the whelp or buying him off and killing whoever had sent him could happen later, as could figuring out how in the seven seas he was supposed to make up the blow to his reputation.

     --Later.

@reaverking

The heart of Ionia’s dock. Numerous murmurs of trade being passed around, and groups of ship crew members joyfully singing as they enter a tavern. Fèng was only here for the fresh catch from the sea, for fish was something she fancied. While carrying a large fish wrapped up in paper, the woman’s gaze was stuck on the largest ship loaded at the quay. It was foreign looking compared to the smaller and nearly identical ships and boats around. Was someone of importance there? Her curiousity grew as she edged closer to the boat now.

     Gangplank stood on the ship, looking down at the bustling docks, his arms crossed and his expression neutral.

     For once, not a thing seemed out of place. The cargo was being hauled onto the ship without a hitch, moving from one crewman’s arm’s to the next’s with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. No arguments had brewed, nobody seemed too upset, nothing seemed off--

     --Except for the girl staring at it all. Gangplank gave one last glance towards his men, then stepped onto the creaky makeshift stairs connecting the ship to the dock.