#avast.starter

he always picked the same spot, at back of the tavern with his cloak on, smoking a pipe and staring at nothing. for a man so used to disappearing he seemed so predictable in his quest to be left alone. well, how much can one disappear being stuck on an island for an unknown amount of time? these small gifts of peace is all he can get.

already in his second ale, the server didn't have to say anything to know what vidar wanted, which he appreciated. he was too tired to speak, even to a server he managed a grunt or even a yes or a no. maybe they've been on land for too long. or maybe his dreams were more active than usual, if he could wish them away he would've done it long ago.

as vidar let out another smoke from his pipe he saw a person standing in front of him, he saw them always towards but didn't react. didn't say anything as they stood in front of him, simply waited.

It had been lucky to find a spot to sit outside of the Devil's Cask. Ptarmigan had wanted to be able to see the sky, he'd say smell the sea but this close to the docs there were a lot of other less pleasant smells that usually hid the salt smell except when the right breeze caught through the streets. The large pirate had found a small stash of tobacco leaves in one of his many pockets and was contentedly chewing on it as he listened to the sounds of the tavern at his back. Sitting on a barrel with one foot kicked up, heel resting on a box, mostly in shadow. His eyes wandered restlessly from the movements in and out of the tavern, to the street, to the slice of sky he could see. The tension in the town was palpable and Ptarmigan was already heartily sick being on land for this long already. But his outward appearance was calm, a picture of relaxation. He felt someone approach and he let out a small sigh, his right hand sliding silently into one of his many pockets, "Don't want no trouble." Before he turned his head.

"escucha, mi amor." dorian began, turning from the bar with two drinks in hand, extending one to his company as he guided them to a table to sit. "whatever it is that's bothering you, it can wait. we must celebrate the small things, and this new..." he gesticulated with his free hand, twirling it in the air with a flair that suggested he was trying to think of the right phrasing. "situación. it's not perfect, but it's better than starving. so tonight, just drink with me. come." he gestured to the seat on the opposite side of the table to him as he perched on the wooden chair, leaning back against it with one arm draped over the back, legs extended as though someone might crawl under them to make a foot rest for him.

Rumors lived in the streets like parasites. Confessions loosely surrendered on the last swig of ale, a merciful breeze off the sea, or the desperation of a dying man. But truth -- truth lived under rocks, between bedsheets, in every word that never made it to the surface after drowning in shame. Truth was treasure, often more sought after than gold and more valuable besides. It was the gunpowder and the blockade. Elusive by nature. Hidden, buried. Anyone inexperienced took up a spade and started digging. But Josephine -- she simply waited for rain to unearth the worms, and coaxed them out with a kiss.

Good practice had proven the worth of boarding elsewhere once in a while when they made port. Though she missed her hammock in the bunk, the rock of the sea putting to rest any weariness of mind or body, she understood the importance of tending to her garden, as it were. Even if it meant sleeping with a knife in hand.

"A private room, please," she murmured to the innkeeper, setting one too many silver pieces into their hand, making sure their skin met in between; an unfailing tactic to secure peace and protection. One could not refuse good service once they felt the touch of warm flesh, and even less so if they were obviously overpaid. "Thank you." The flicker of fire and smell of salt as she walked through the galley and dining room heartened her. Even while her feet did not walk on the Wake, her protection was omnipotent. Rumors fell apart here. Tonight, Josephine would unearth a truth.

the  sound  of  someone  yelling—loud  and  ugly—got  cut  off  quick.  not  with  a  blade,  not  with  a  fist,  just  a  quiet look  from  rhett  carrow  and  a  tilt  of  his  head  toward  the  door.  the  man  got  the  message.

the  bluff  didn’t  do  second  chances.  not  if  you  were  loud  and  wrong.  rhett  didn’t  even  flinch.  didn’t  pause.  he  went  right  back  to  flicking  the  edge  of  his  drink,  eyes  dragging  lazily  across  the  room  like  he  was  half-bored  and  half-starving.

he  looked  good,  which  meant  he  was  in  a  mood.  black shirt  open  just  enough  and  silver  rings  catching  the  light  every  time  he  moved  his  hands.  the  dice  were  already  out  on  the  table—bone  white,  and  never  far  from  him.

“you  can  sit,”  he  said,  not  bothering  to  see  who  walked  in,  “but  don’t  ask  me  if  the  table’s  lucky.  it’s  not.  not  for  you.”  he  looked  up  then,  sharp  grin  cutting  clean  through  the  haze.

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.”

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 faltered—just for a beat—as 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 itself—scarlet 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 shadows—silent 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 eyes—dark, endless, knowing—swept the room once more, daring someone to stop her.