what we live with

but that look on his face. the way his eyes revealed the way his very soul was being carved out. hanna knew that dairo felt it too.

at his question, her hand raised close to his face and moved slowly as if she were stroking the dark strands of this woman's hair around her nimble fingers. her hand stopped just past his shoulder, where she could see the strands fade away. "so beautiful. so... so much sorrow." she muttered with a deeply furrowed brow, as if the words just slipped out without her control. she was still in a daze from this spectre who had visited her.

eyes widen as hanna reaches for his face. dairo doesn't force himself still, simply --- suspends. his breath, his soul. as if he watches from a few paces away, seeing how close hanna's hand lingers, how her fingers weave through the air as if it was hair.

he didn't need hanna's answer. but what else is he to do with this knowledge? how else is he supposed to carry the thought that his mother's spirit followed him even after he abandoned her earthly flesh? no burial, no ceremony, no respect. and still, she guards, whispers the boneteller. and still, even now, he cannot sense his mother's presence.

finally, he breathes, a ragged, broken sound. he blinks, and he's seeing through his own eyes again, leaning toward hanna. his hand takes hers, pulling it away as he tangles their fingers together. "okaasan was beautiful." even with her face blurred in his memory, he knows this of his mother. how, past the child-like haughtiness and antics, he admired how she held herself. this he recalls clearly. and how that pierces his heart.

swallowing, dairo finally breaks hanna's gaze. he forces another deep breath, still holding hanna's hand, trying, trying to ground himself. "she needs to rest, hanna," he whispers. how awful it must have been, to guard him through these decades. "she needs peace."

she couldn't blame kun for being a little apprehensive about letting people in - but it annoyed her none the less. "why do you think i'm here?" she huffed, "i need to gather some things. to organise my own supplies. let me in."

"and the apothecary is still suffering from the aftermath of the blockade. i'm low on most everything, adeola." they're not snapping yet, but kun's patience withers under the heat. still, they take a deep breath, running their hand through their hair. "i need to know what you're here for so i can tell you which smuggler to contact, in case i don't have enough. fair?"

she followed his instruction, stepping aside with him to avoid the busy clamber of people near the marketplace, and shook her head slowly. "no, it's not..." her words were quiet, as if the ghost in him were squeezing her throat closed, begging her not to tell him. like it would pain him to know, like somehow he was being protected by this apparition. hanna was not one to withhold her visions for the sake of money or mystery, but there was a strange feeling that she couldn't shake about this and she wished she hadn't been so compelled to involve herself, because now she felt that she owed him the truth of it.

"i saw... a woman. i felt her." she glanced to her side, hoping no one was eavesdropping. the last thing she needed was the guards alerted for causing a scene in the middle of the streets. "in you. she... she guards you fiercely, i can't see her now, but... you and her are one and the same." cryptic as it was, she knew no other way to express what she saw.

his concern written in the line between his brows, dairo waits. lets hanna take the time needed. he's witnessed this before aboard the harbinger's ship, tucked into the hanna's space. he'll always wait, until she's ready.

and yet --- and yet.

would he have ran, if he knew before what would fall from her lips? belief in the boneteller never faltered, for how often has he paid tribute to the sea for safe passage and silent escapes? there are spirits of all kinds who could alter his fate, and he will listen to each, even if they won't change his mind.

but he doesn't truly listen now. he can't. his thundering heartbeat drowns all other sound. a woman --- in you ---- guards you ---

( she haunts his dreams, always in the corner, the breeze kicking up her hair to cover her face. but when she reaches he wakes with beading sweat and gasping breaths and a hear that breaks all over again. )

the silence hangs heavy. hanna looks at him, and dairo can't tear his gaze away. "this woman --- " his voice cracks. swallowing, he starts again. "this woman . . . how long is her hair?"

Curious how the smell of saving life often resembled that of death itself - bitter herbs, yellowing bones, foreign spices, doused in a thin veil of alcohol. The sound of pestle and mortar, leaves ground into powder, decaying floorboards groaning under her pixie-soft footsteps. Her eye caught the knotted end of a sleeve, dancing by their side like a sail, a lone vessel's colors. A practitioner whose expertise lived by proof, not by coin or faith. Success that thrived in shadow - or, perhaps, was trapped in it. "May I give you a hand with anything?"

"pity. a shame they fell into the trap of both." already, they reach for one set of herbs then another, stalks and petals slipping between fingers. they make a couple rounds, tossing the herbs onto a nearby table as they calculate nausea versus hangover, aches versus exhaustion.

by the time they start at the mortar and pestle, they've relegated the newcomer to the corner of their mind. the sound soothes, a steady rhythm against the reminder of waves and the crown's ships that rest just beyond shore. so entranced in the practice, their head jerks again at the question, gaze snapping to the source.

kun narrows their gaze. was it an insult? an offer dressed to hide a taunt? but as the heat beats harsh on their skin, kun forces their shoulders down, slowly beckoning relief over tension.

"there's a cauldron out front, tucked at the corner of the porch. fill it with water from the well out back and place it above the fire. tend to the flame, if it's out. i need the water hot."

His eyes looked over their box, wondering what was in it. Would it be so hard to plunder it. "You should label it better. Prevents confusion" Bartholomew drifted closer to Kun's belongings.

"i hear it as often as one of them dropping a tentacle at my feet and claiming it from the kraken." they shake their head. "not just a kraken, the kraken. but whatever they claim it is, as long as i have stock ---" they stop, shrug, and mold their face to neutrality. they're still trying to improve inventory after the blockade. but they won't share just how desperate they are for more of those kraken tentacles, no matter how false the origin.

kun shifts, blocking direct view of their box from the other's view. a thin smile stretches across their face. "a label denies you curiosity, me a conversation starter for an offer, and a way to organize who knows and who does not. so, where shall you land? do you recognize most of what lines these walls?"

their irritation doesn't dissipate at dorian's antics. but it weakens nonetheless, propped by the decades they've spent in his orbit. the ships still remain on the horizon, but kun's mind can focus here, on dorian's lips brushing knuckles, and be better for it.

still, they roll their eyes, head following in action. "i'd knock you out before you could take enjoyment in being tied up." the smallest curl of amusement plucks at the corner of their lips, and they pull their hand away, beckoning him to follow into the apothecary.

A faint smile tugged at the corners her mouth, though it carried the weary shadows of the weeks past. “Perhaps both,” she said at last, voice seeped with honesty but softened by something steadier than before. “Though I’m not sure the storm inside me could carry out your command, not tonight. I may not be steady enough yet” Her gaze lifted, following his toward the clouds gathering in the distance, dark and swollen with promise. “The sea has its tempers, and I guess so do I. But…” she exhaled, long and quiet, "the worst of it feels like it’s passing.”

the small smile doesn't change, but his gaze softens as he listens. the crew harbors little doubt over his demeanor; cruelty cannot be a stranger when combating the seas. but for a pirate, dairo possesses a fondness his father would disprove of. perhaps dairo fosters it out of spite. perhaps it's what little he still carries from his mother.

"a good thing, when the winds calm and the storm breaks," he offers. "to put the worst of it behind. to breathe again, until the next time."

when theia reaches for the wheel, he softly hums. rarely does he relinquish his position, commanding in the same place his father did, but he doesn't hoard the power it holds. nor the comfort of it, even if only for a breath.

how quickly that comfort can dissipate.

paranoia rears. the questions waterfall in his mind: what do you mean, are you departing, what stirs your guilt into confession?

but those questions never make it to his tongue. no change in stance, no shift in expression. all he does is tilt his head at theia, and asks the predictable --- the expected --- question. "what are you apologizing for?"

Who: Open to anyone :)

Bartholomew strutted into the apothecary as if he owned the place. Bartholomew was on the hunt for bones or any discarded organs the physicians may have misplaced. he would have preferred to not run into them, but out of all the townsfolk that inhabited Tortuga he found those that were employed at the Sawbone the most tolerable. Perhaps it was the shared love for science. Perhaps it was the shared love for blood and guts.

He picked up a long yellowed bone left carelessly on the self. If only he knew what sort of creature this came from. Legends rode on the waves speaking about goddesses and krakens and mermaids, but Bartholomew was a man of science and firmly believed everything could be explained through scientific means. Bartholomew heard the bell on the door jingle as somebody walked in, not that he cared all that much. He turned to face the person that entered with a disinterested "hmph".

kun re-enters their apothecary with a small crate balanced between hand and hip. it's not surprise that colors their face at the sight of a customer, but wariness. a flash of irritation already flares at the hmph, but they manage to keep their eyes from rolling.

"you're holding the bone of a sea cow." kun walks to the back of the room, setting the crate down before placing a hand on their hip. "more for display than for sale. unless the coin convinces me otherwise, hmm?"

they acknowledge the nod with a blink. courtesy was baseline. expected so it never had to be demanded. the door may never fully close at sawbone, but boundaries are set and kept. they were foged in blood.

the quiet stretches, but their hand does fall. "bad meat or poor decisions?" still a rough edge to their words. but they finally jerk their head for the other to follow. "if it's both, you'll need to wait for me to make a fresh batch."

hanna was perusing the stalls at the shambles, searching for candles and procurements for the casting of her incantations in her little room on the harbinger, the one she still struggled to leave even as it sat stuck anchored in port. even after so many years with vidar, who gave her her freedom, she still couldn't quite break the habit of clipping her own wings and keeping herself caged.

she was just musing about how she would visit the apothecary after, when a figure caught her eye. a woman, moving fast through the crowd, an air about her that sent a chill down hanna's spine and called to her immediately to follow. her pulse began to thud in her ears and her breath hitched as she made chase, through the streets, until eventually she caught up and reached out to touch her shoulder. when she turned, she realised it was no woman at all. it was none other than dairo.

hanna startled, her eyes looking over him, but still she could see that woman. in his eyes, especially, she was there, staring right back at her. it was a most peculiar vision, one that left her frozen on the spot, breathing heavily and staring at dairo as if he had two heads.

nothing caught his eye. strange, for a day in the market to leave him without. few met his gaze in hopes of a deal, and fewer still stood with enough confidence to stir his thoughts of potential connection. doone's warning echoes, a haunting reminder day after day. but dairo keeps slipping through the crowds, mind changing with nearly every breath.

after this, he'll blame a cluttered mind for the way he reacted. a touch at the shoulder --- not a slam, not a stabbing --- and he whirls around, a hand darting to his waist for his knife.

but it's hanna. it's simply hanna.

they mirror one another for a breath. frozen, eyes wide. and then dairo shifts, steadiness rising to the forefront to shove back shock. a flare of concern alights too. "come to the side, hanna," he murmurs. he lifts his hand, but doesn't touch. it hovers over her arm, more guide than chain, as he directs her away from the traffic of the crowd.

only when they are deep into an alleyway, where quiet muffles the noise of the market, does he face her again, hand dropping to the side. "better? or do you need to return to the harbinger?"

Where: The Storm's Eye

The Storm’s Eye had been moored in Tortuga’s harbor, her sails furled but never resting, her crew restless as wolves pacing a cage. At least that's how Doone saw it. None of them were meant for this land life anymore. The docks below churned with the usual chaos, fishmongers shouting, coin clinking, soldiers and dockworkers pretending not to stare too long at pirates. But to Doone it felt wrong. Too quiet in the wrong places, too loud in others. Like the sea before a squall. He leaned against the rail, fingers tapping thrice against the compass at his chest... habit, ward, prayer... and let his eyes sweep the horizon. The omens had been heavy of late: gulls circling at dusk, a blood-colored sunset that had lingered too long, the unnerving stillness of a night without wind. He’d seen signs before storms, before betrayals, before shifts in power, and all of them whispered the same truth that the world was changing. Why else would they still be here?

He'd left the rail and walked to the figure at the aft. The measured tread of boots following him. He stopped not to far from his Captain and his finally spoke. “Harbor’s rotten quiet,” Doone murmured, voice low, steady, eyes still fixed outward. “Blockade’s gone. But the town watches us like we’re already on the gallows. Birds vanish at dawn, then circle again at dusk. Fishermen pulling nets too thin, soldiers drilling too thick. It’s not peace, Captain. It’s the hush before a storm breaks.” He thumbed the scar at his cheek, dry humor cutting through. “And I’ve never trusted still waters.”

Only then did he glance over, green eyes meeting Dairo’s, carrying the weight of the years beside him through storm and fire. “We’ve built the Eye into a legend, but legends draw hunters. We've got our alliances but they won’t be enough if the Crown presses harder. If the townsfolk keep selling names.” His voice dipped lower, meant for the captain’s ears alone. “We’ll need more than the weather on our side this time. More hands. More shadows at our back. More than we’ve trusted before.” Doone straightened from the rail, standing solid, compass tapping once more between his fingers. “Tell me the course, Captain. I’ll see us steer it true. But mark my words... the sea’s shifting. We’ll need more than just her love to keep afloat.”

the crew thrums with impatience. and as much as dairo shapes his demeanor into a calm, collected captain, that same impatience digs under his skin. the crown's ships circle tortuga --- sharks smelling blood. the breakout was lucky; the crown won't suffer the same humiliation again.

nobody can leave. not even the storm's eye can slip past the crown as long as soldiers prowl the coast. the crew must accept the pain of their own irritation. but it will implode. and he must prepare. he must find a way through.

dairo inclines his head before doone even reaches him. a habit formed through years. doone's one of the last witnesses to his rise to captain. dairo's trust will always be hard-won, but doone has earned it over and over and over.

"i agree we need more allies, in both townsfolk and other crews. it's who that troubles me." he sucks at his teeth for a few moments. "approaching either raider's revenge or widow's wake doesn't instill confidence." oathbreaker was out of the question. but it left them between an unknown they could turn into trouble with and a competitor with grudges. "we will need to bring something to the table to convince them against betrayal."

he sighs through his nose, finally facing doone, gaze flicking to the compass for a breath. "any townsfolk you've met that seem amenable?"