#fearghal

Did a little banner to add on my Art Fight profile~

He's one of my favorite OC's I've ever made, so thank you so much for requesting him.

Fearghal is very handsome and he knows it. Given this ask he would probably demand that it would be unfair to limit it to just one and I would have to agree. Fearghal passed on his striking black hair to his son, only Fearghal wears it a little longer and braids it up away from his face on the right side to show his tattoos. He thinks those are worth noting too as not only are they works of art in themselves, but the blue-black ink is symbolic of his heritage and the story of his life. Fearghal also has very pretty gray eyes and is quick to smile at whatever amuses him.

more @ravencoverp stuff babey. 

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The cabin boy they called Rhymer had a grand first voyage. The fourth was brilliant as well. By the tenth, the crew had resigned themselves in one way or another to the child as a permanent fixture aboard Horizon. Most didn't mind it by then. A few had even grown fond of the lad. He had quick feet, shut up when you shouted loud enough, and always seemed to find what a person needed and present it to them with those wide, hopeful dark eyes. It was hard to hate something that brought you rum and ensured he was never underfoot.

He helped the quartermaster the most, a young but tired man the crew called Madrádh for his unique wisdom. Madrádh had served on five ships, each of which had sunk, and most refused him passage for fear of curses and bad luck. Captain Fearghal didn't believe in curses, though, or any superstitions. The crew still wore their charms and performed their wards in private after crossing the quartermaster's path. Rhymer thought it was grand and asked for stories nearly twice a week.

Madrádh had lost most of the dexterity in his left hand after one too many injuries to the arm. He compensated well, and still moved quick enough to cut it aboard a Fomoiri ship, but Rhymer took extra special glee in hauling chests or clambering up to snatch things off high shelves before Madrádh had to fumble. All with the wide grin that demanded to be reflected on the faces around it.

Corvan remained singularly doubtful of the boy, which only made little Rhymer more determined to impress him. He jumped with the rest of the crew when the first mate roared. He scrubbed decks without complaint. He learned knots and practiced them in the dark of his bunk, over and over, even though it meant he swayed on his feet the next day and fell asleep in his rations.

When the captain wasn't busy, Rhymer could most likely be found in his shadow. He was, after all, the cabin boy, meant to serve the captain. And this he did happily. Fearghal had granted him a place on a ship and even took moments out of the day to teach him things. Things like plotting a route, planning an attack, how to charm a border guard and slide smuggled goods right under his nose, and best of all—swordplay.

Rhymer adored swordplay more than almost any other activity. He babied the small cutlass given to him from the ship's armory, even though it was plain and old and well-used. Even when not taking lessons with the captain, he could often be found shadow-fencing, adapting to the weight of a blade in place of the sticks he'd once played with. The shores of Mag Mell seemed so far away, but he never felt homesick.

The captain was a kind master. He took care of most things himself, only ordering the boy to fetch a bottle or his boots when he was too busy with other things to manage. In this it felt more like a partnership than a servant to his master. And Rhymer near glowed every time he could be helpful, every time the captain's duties were made more efficient thanks to his actions and the man smiled. More than once the cabin boy was allowed to stay in the captain's quarters when the navigator and Corvan leaned over charts and discussed routes with Fearghal. It was these times that Rhymer stayed very, very quiet, absorbing everything around him.

But when the captain was busy, duty fell to the first mate to find things for the little whelp to do. He'd begun to get sick of it. As eager as Rhymer was to learn and work, there seemed no end to the lad's energy and he had a maddening issue with following orders at their face, always having to do it his own way or in his own time. While life at sea came with intense bursts of activity, much of it was a neutral sort of down time that made the cabin boy restless. And annoying.

“Corv! Corv, look!”

Corvan did not look. He ground his teeth. He was not going to respond to that.

“Cooooooorvan~”

Someone on the deck crew snorted and Corvan considered tossing them over the side for encouraging the gutter rat. Instead he continued rolling silver-edged dried leaves into thin paper. He licked the edge to seal it.

“Corvan! Corvan! Look!”

He was strong enough to endure this. He’d hunted powerful creatures of the deep as a child. He'd marched into the interior of Mag Mell before he'd been full-grown. He'd faced maelstroms without flinching. He'd choked the life from a mutineer and looked dead into the man's eyes the whole time. He'd sat motionless for hours in pouring rain just for the sake of an ambush. He'd stabbed his father to death for fuck's sake.

“CORV!”

“What?!”

The first mate bolted straight up from his slouch against the mast. Even with flaming eyes and a borderline roar under his response, Rhymer only grinned at him, victorious, though a bit upside down at the moment. The brat had slipped his legs into the ratlines on the deck side and now dangled, flailing his arms and smiling like a fool. More than a few of the deck crew chuckled now. Corvan only stared until the boy's grin faded.

“What've I told you to call me?”

“Aw, come on, Corv,” the cabin boy cajoled, still with that sycophantic grin that had charmed everything from gunners to rigging rats. He started to swing a bit in his position, trying and failing to arch far enough to grip the rail. “We're just floating.”

Rather than respond to that, Corvan pocketed his unlit smoke and crossed the space to the lad. He could feel the deck crew tense up like they were one beast. Rhymer didn't share the same extrasensory alertness. He jolted and writhed when Corvan grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt and dragged him down. He also cried out, clearly not adept at disentangling his legs quick enough to avoid injury.

Corvan did not set him down, just kept walking, hauling the boy—now right side up—to the rail to hold him off the side. The cabin boy locked fingers around Corvan's forearm, kicking and squirming, something dark like anger blackening in his eyes even alongside the fear.

“Floating, sailing, or raiding—you'll call me sir.”

“You can't hurt me,” the boy spat.

Struck speechless, Corvan only stared. The brat was right, of course. Tossing him to the mer wasn't something that could be explained away to the captain. Not to mention half the crew was in love with the little prick now. Usually a taste of fear overrode things like logic and got him obedience. It worked on men far older than the urchin now dangling helplessly in his grip.

Rhymer's expression turned smug in the silence and Corvan nearly dropped him on principle. Instead, he pivoted and released him to the deck.

“Make yourself useful. Haul the anchor.”

“By myself?” The boy scrambled to his feet, out of breath and flushed. “That's impossible!”

Without pause or prelude, Corvan grabbed him again, this time by the mess of loose curls on his head and dragged him, yelping, across to the mid-deck. There, at the bottom of the empty spool, the anchor chain linked and disappeared belowdeck where it would eventually thread out the side of the hull and down down down to the sea. The spoked wheel that sat atop the spool had been hand-carved with tentacle patterns and perhaps had once been brightly painted, though now even the gold accents were faded. Horizon was an old, reliable girl, still whip-fast and well-oiled, but her aesthetics had begun to slip beyond restoration.

The whole contraption was taller than the boy by two inches and likely weighed at least four times his scrawny mass. Rhymer gawped at it and then frowned up at Corvan. It might've been called a scowl if not for the note of fear and lostness under the heat of his embarrassed flush. He'd only ever seen teams of four and six strapping career sailors put their shoulders to this wheel to wrap link after link of mighty chain around the winch. Under their power its ascension always sounded like muffled thunder and the anchor soared up out of the water almost as fast as mer could swim.

“Haul the anchor up,” Corvan repeated, releasing him.

“I can't.”

Corvan's eyes narrowed. Every sailor on deck or above it was watching now. Some pretended they weren't, but they all were. One beast. One attentive beast. The boy, at least, could feel their attention. It wasn't the sort he fancied, Corvan could tell. The heat in his cheeks had flushed down over his neck and collarbones and he looked desperately ready to shout or lash out or maybe cry. No, not cry. Too tough for that. He wouldn't cry until later, muffled into his pillow in the dark. Corvan preferred him like this. The black of his eyes seemed so much more honest than that ingratiating smile.

“I gave you an order, boy.”

To his credit, Rhymer at least seemed conscious of that. His eyebrows knotted together and his lips curled in a frown of deep thought. A strain entered his little jaw and throat, a desire to fulfill and succeed contrasting with his own estimations of limits and reality. It all disappeared into a wrathful glare when Corvan failed to even blink at him, as compassionate as a block of granite. Rhymer stomped to the crank wheel. Lifting his hands up above head height to grip one of the spokes, he set his weight.

Before the boy could begin pushing, Corvan leaned over to flip the locking mechanism at the center of the wheel, then stepped back and folded his arms. The boy put his head down and braced his bare feet and pushed from the small of his back up through his shoulders and—to his shock, the wheel budged.

Rhymer's head perked up, tension gone from his face as he began to take slow but steady steps around the pivot of the crank. He looked across his shoulder at the center of the wheel, at the quiet-running machinations and flawless engineering that allowed even the slightest force to be of use. He looked down where the winch met the decking, watching as link after link of dripping chain appeared from beneath the deck and wrapped around its spool in elegant coils. He'd made three complete revolutions before he turned his awed gaze on Corvan.

The first mate had relaxed some in the quiet. Watching the boy work, he'd even gotten a very small smile on his lips. It looked odd, Rhymer thought, like a crack in a wall through which one could see some other place. Corvan's arms remained folded and his voice was as rough and hard as ever.

“Don't tell me something's impossible ever again. Especially not without fucking trying.”

Rather than respond, Rhymer restored his bright grin like a flash of lightning and braced his stringy thighs harder, pushing his steps faster. The click-click-click of the hauled chain quickened and Corvan moved away, unfolding his arms, withdrawing the smoke from his pocket. Like the tide, as he receded others of the crew advanced, circling closer to the boy and making laughing comments or cheering his progress.

Corvan nearly made it to the rail when the bubbling camaraderie behind him exploded into a geyser of panic and terror. Rhymer screamed, his voice shrill and distinguished from the lower shouts and curses of the experienced sailors around him. Too young. Terrified. More than terrified.

The first mate—already spinning, assessing, taking it all in—had a great familiarity with the different screams those with lungs could make. Cries of pain, of alarm, of grief. Most knew these. But there was another scream, one not heard often. One of a creature absolutely convinced it was about to die. And Rhymer was making it now.

The slender tentacle had come up with the anchor chain, threaded within and around the links with near flawless camouflage. Even Corvan, who'd been standing not two feet away when it began to rise, hadn't noticed. But now the finger-thin flexile appendage had whipped away from the chain, waiting until the boy had hauled it all the way up before uncoiling and splitting. It had to be monstrously long to stretch the whole length of the chain and more, the thinness of each flailing limb making it all the more horrifying. Five—no, six different tentacles, whip thin and twice as fast. They'd already latched onto the nearest target—the screaming cabin boy—weaving up to his chest in a tight webbing. A hunter's snare.

Pain had joined Rhymer's shrieking scream. Toxin? Barbs shredding past skin into muscle? Or were the blind snaky arms much stronger than they looked and already begun turning his bones to shards within his body? This seemed horrifyingly likely as the latching web had begun to drag the boy toward the too-small hole the chain had come up through. Back through the way it had come. Back to the sea. Even the boy's scrawny body wouldn't fit through it. Not in one piece. 

Swords were already drawn and hacking by the time Corvan lunged back to the scene. He grabbed the nearest raised arm and almost broke it in his urgency to stop the falling blow, roaring at the rest to hold their weapons and take a fucking step back.

Rhymer had gotten ahold of a spoke on the hauling wheel again, and with the taut tentacles pulling on his lower half, his body now hovered off the deck. His screams had begun to go hoarse and thready. Tears stained dark cheeks and for one paralyzing moment Corvan realized he was a boy. Just a boy. A child who might meet his end right at this very moment, floating on a calm sea. Corvan fumed at his captain, howling words in his mind he wouldn't dare speak to the man's face. 

I told you. I told you.

But the captain was still in his cabin and every eye settled on the first mate. Corvan could feel them all. The crew now stood out of range of the loose, searching tentacles. No one else had been grabbed. They'd moved quick enough under his command, but he had no time to be pleased with it.

Rhymer's screams had begun forming words. Help. Help me.

The crew roiled restless but did not move out of the safe zone, eyes burning into their leader. Occasionally one or two would lean back further or take a swipe at the unseeing feelers. There were more now. Seventeen. Some had reinforced the grip on the boy, writhing and weaving around his legs and waist like a living net. Some groped along his spine and his neck, seeking out what it was that kept their prey anchored. The rest strained to their limit, seeking other targets, hungry for more.

“Boy, listen to me. Rhymer!”

The shout of his name finally silenced the sobbing screams and dark wet eyes peered over one shivering arm to lock onto Corvan's cold steel. The first mate only held the gaze a moment, long enough to be sure the boy's panic peak had passed, before he returned his attention to the searching tentacles.

“Listen to me very carefully. You need to go limp.”

“F-Fuck you.”

“Fine. It's your choice. Do you want to die?”

The boy choked another sob. Madrádh elbowed his way through the press of sailors to just behind Corvan and started to address him. The first mate was not interested. Rhymer was the priority here, not a discussion of his bedside manner in combat situations.

“If you go limp, it will loosen its hold on you but it will move fast. Try to drag you down. Wait as long as you can. The more relaxed the grip, the softer the tissue, the easier to cut.”

“Cut?”

Corvan drew a small curved blade, deadly sharp. The last he'd used it had been on a prey ship captain's eye and gums. It gleamed now, clean and polished and eager for more. He tossed it overhand, hard, and the tip dug into the deck below Rhymer, leaving the handle proffered and ready to grab. The cabin boy peered down at it, eyes wide, but he'd stopped whimpering. His jaw flexed and relaxed.

“You won't get through all of it. Cut as much as you can below your feet. It’s going to react. The grip will come hard again, but it'll be in more pain than you. Sloppy. Keep your left arm up. I'm going to grab your wrist and take care of the rest. Understood?”

“I don't wanna die.” Some of the whimper had returned, trembling his tone. “I don't wanna die, Corv.”

“What have I told you to call me?”

Rhymer only panted, shuddering breaths. His eyes stayed locked on the first mate. Corvan nodded.

“Do it. Now.”

The lad lowered his head, pressing his forehead and his eyes against one shaking thin bicep. Corvan thought for a moment he was just going to keep his deathgrip on the wheel and cry there into his arm until the thing ripped him to shreds, but when Rhymer lifted his head, his expression had gone like stone.

He took a deep breath and let go.

Every soul winced as the sweet cabin boy hit the deck full on his ribs. Something clearly must've cracked or snapped, but he only grunted, right hand lashing out to grab the knife. He missed. The tentacles yanked. He flailed with his left and caught the edge of the blade, slicing open his fingers, but tipping it enough that it toppled and slid into his right on his next grab.

It happened in seconds. Impact with the deck, yanked across it toward the anchorwheel. Rhymer, to his credit, waited until the last possible moment before his foot would've been broken in five places to fit through the chain hole. He rolled to his back and bent at the waist and sliced hard with a cry—this time his scream was rage—almost completely freeing one foot and allowing him to brace the sole of it against the wheelhouse and push, giving him leverage for a second swipe with the flashing knife.

Corvan started moving as soon as Rhymer hit the deck. The periphery tentacles had, as he suspected, begun to retreat toward the central mass, toward the sudden wounding. Easily dodging around one or two agonized spasms, slicing one feeler off with a backhanded swing, ducking under another and spinning, he grabbed Rhymer's free forearm and backpedaled hard.

Madrádh—damn bleeding heart—was the first to lunge forward to grab Corvan's belt and help pull. He got a lash across the face for it and if the tentacle hadn't done it, Corvan might've. His balance upset, he almost fell, almost lost his grip on the slippery blood-slicked thin arm in his fingers. But he held on, hard enough to bruise, and dug his boots and pulled, slashing another mass of thin flicking tentacles that shot out for him with alarming precision. More crew added their weight to the quartermaster and Rhymer cut through the last of the tendrils gripping him and the whole lot of them slung backward across the deck and into the rail.

Even half on his back, Corvan kept pulling, yanking Rhymer out of range of the mutilated attacker. The boy smelled of salty tears and desperate sweat and blood, but he wasn't crying anymore. His fingers clutched Corvan's forearm almost as hard as he'd gripped the boy's own.

Fairly tossing him to Madrádh as he rolled, Corvan got back to his feet and called for fire. Lots of fire. The first few singes of it to the creature of water caused the wounded thing to withdraw, snapping back below deck and along the chain it had hijacked. Even when the gun deck crew below reported it gone, Corvan ordered the anchor unhooked and the whole chain unspooled. They'd burn every inch of it, just to be sure.

And then the good captain emerged.

Corvan was glad for the chaos on the deck, for things to do, focus on, control. It calmed the shake in his hands. That old familiar rage that had flung him at his father as a boy, driven that razor-edged knife into the flesh that had raised him. The captain emerged alone, but that didn't mean someone wasn't hiding out in the cabin. But perhaps he'd just been asleep. Perhaps he'd drank a bit too much and the noise hadn't been enough to rouse him quick enough.

It didn't matter.

“Corvan!”

The first mate gritted his teeth and turned to face Fearghal. He wanted to simply stare, to wait out the man's bewilderment until he was asked specific questions. What had happened. What he'd done to fix it. But even that could seem like a challenge of leadership, and after the near-death fight he'd just had, he wasn't in the mood for another spat.

“Hunter from the deep. Camouflaged on the anchor chain. It got your cabin boy, but we pulled him out intact. I've ordered the chain inspected to be sure it's gone.”

Fearghal stopped listening as soon as he mentioned Rhymer. Corvan actually watched his gaze unfocus and shift off his eyes to behind him, where the ship's healer had begun an investigation of the lad. Corvan did not turn. He studied his captain and it was good everyone had become embroiled in either the boy or the chain because in that moment he looked like the merhunter he'd once been. Calm. Collected. Picking out every little weakness.

“Good work.”

It was all the captain said and it was perfunctory at best. Then he was gone, shouldering past Corvan to the little huddle around Rhymer. Corvan took a deep breath of firesmoke salty air and exhaled. He reached for his pocket to find his fresh-rolled smoke, only to remember he'd dropped it when Rhymer screamed. With a soft curse under his breath, he went below to help pull the chain out into large loops. Something to do.

In the end, Rhymer was fine. He needed new clothes and a new scabbard for his cutlass, but he'd got away with only a few easily-mended cracked ribs and some scratching and bruising. Hours later, you'd never have known he’d almost ended up in several chunks sinking to the Depths. He must've told the story a hundred times by nightfall and the crew just kept feeding him attention in a way that made Corvan's back teeth grind.

Captain Fearghal had taken the lad aside at one point. Corvan didn't care to eavesdrop, but it couldn't have been that stern of a lecture because Rhymer came away from it skipping and beaming. As long as the captain hadn't rewarded the fucking prick for almost dying, Corvan could abide it. It all kept the cabin boy occupied. To the point that Corvan wasn't bothered by him at all until late that evening when the day shift was finishing their evening meal and the night crew were readying themselves for the long quiet dark.

Rhymer found him at the bow, smoking next to his empty plate. Corvan had thankfully already completed his ritual of tossing part of his food off the side. The last thing he wanted was to field a thousand questions about it. The rail came up to Rhymer's chest, so he folded his arms atop it, standing on tiptoes to peer over the side. Still, the talkative lad said nothing, only smiled down at the recently-fed mer still playing in froth coming off Horizon's prow as she sailed. It was a different smile here, in the moonlight. Simple soft joy in place of flashy brilliance.