Sea shanty allegedly sung aboard the Mercy, captained by the Watcher of Caed Nua. While some attribute authorship to Kana Rua, it is worth noting that the fact of his presence aboard the Mercy is hotly debated, and, while Rua has authored several works centered around the Watcher, this particular song does not match his usual writing style. Most likely, the shanty was the product of collaborative songwriting by the crew, to which, if he was indeed present, the Rauataian chanter may have contributed.
Come gather 'round lads and lasses,
Let's hear a familiar tune,
Where under the colors of Mercy she sails,
She sails, oh the Watchful moon!
Haul, haul away —
She sails, oh the Watchful moon!
Her light, it once shone in darkness,
Her wrists won't forget the wounds;
And now at all shackles and shacklers she strikes,
She strikes, the defiant moon!
Haul, haul away —
She strikes, the defiant moon!
Her thoughts, they are sharp as daggers
And brighter than sun at noon;
With her cipher mind, she fights for the kind,
She fights, the defender moon!
Haul, haul away —
She fights, the defender moon!
Oh, she escaped Ondra's clutches
And came back with Berath's boon;
Now under the colors of Mercy she sails,
She sails, the undying moon!
Haul, haul away —
She sails, the undying moon!
hi @queen-scribbles!!! I was your Secret St. Waidwen this year. happy New Year!!! I hope you like the Emiri sea shanty o7
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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost | artwork by @capn-twitchery (full pieces: Jonah and Grace / Jonah in the snow / scarymode) | "reflection" by @capn-twitchery (unposted) | "defrosting" by @herearedragons (unposted) | "to sleep, perchance to dream" by herearedragons | Fish In A Birdcage — Rule #31 - Calamity | Jonah - definition and meaning (Wordnik)
if you were in the oneshot or read Flint's writeup, you'll notice how badly we went off script almost immediately. that's because I planned for a more stealth/skill check-oriented playstyle and my beautiful players ended up leaning way more towards RP and got the NPCs they were supposed to avoid on their side. which, to be fair, made for a really fun story. I have no complaints.
I'm a little sad we didn't get to do a Grand Foiling of the rival team, but that's ok because we hit one of the other parts I was really excited for: hacking the Correspondence door using (fully improv'd by the players!) Touching Love Stories. I started really struggling to keep focus by the time we got there because I had to make decisions on a Bunch of unexpected things at once, but the players did so good on that that it literally revived me. I caught the vibe of oh okay. this is a story about love and connection, actually (as every story in London is), so the resolution of this is going to hinge on the fact that the party has befriended Sunny and also that none of them but the Commander actually want the honey.
funnily enough, even with the going off script, we still hit most of the player-specific story beats.
also funnily enough, I ended up having the rival group pull the "make the other party believe we'd already entered so they open the door for us" trick on the main party rather than the other way around, the Revolutionary having messed with the door to make it seem as though it had been unlocked once already.
fellow GMs: you are very welcome to use this! this was written with specifically Drakona Lore and my player group in mind, but I'd love to know if anyone ends up taking inspiration or recycling specific parts of this for their own game. please. tell me. together we can create more rat crime.
thank you @viric-dreams @joshbii @backpack-mug @t6fs and @adozentothedawn for playing!!! also shoutout to @capn-twitchery, who had to drop out of the oneshot last minute due to The Sun being absolutely evil, but was a part of All Of This coming together! and THANK YOU to @curiouslavellan for helping me write this thing and also contributing writing for Iffy's bedroom description and letter to Sunny
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me when I finally get to the part of the timeloop AU where time starts looping so I get to reuse lines and it's both thematic and saves me a lot of work: >:)
1700 words of detective kissing the strong as fuck ice mummy under the cut👍
(Jonah is @capn-twitchery's)
The first time they kiss you, you are scared —
The first time you kiss it, you are scared.
They are close. You do not wish to hurt them. You had gotten used to their proximity, by now, but this is the first time you allow their hand so close to your teeth. Even now, you have to suppress the urge to make a low warning noise as their fingers brush over your beard, their fingertips instantly stained crimson.
You sit together. With its permission, you are testing a boundary; he fears that he may bite you against his will, and you would like to put that fear to rest, if you can.
You rest your hand over the side of its face first, a familiar shiver running through the length of your arm when its cold weight leans against you ever so slightly.
You smile.
You are reasonably wary, but not afraid. Not yet. That which scares you will happen later.
You shift your hand a bit, closer to its mouth. You are distantly aware of him watching you; your own gaze, for some reason, becomes fixed on the blood glistening around his mouth.
It is startlingly warm. Every other part of Jonah is cold, but not this.
You do not feel him breathe, nor do you see the familiar foggy wisps rising from his mouth. You know, by now, that it is not a necessity; you suppose he has chosen not to.
You move your — now bloodstained — hand again, cradling the side of its jaw. You let your thumb rest right over one of the fangs poking out from under its upper lip. The sharp point presses against your skin ever so lightly without breaking it.
You hold your breath, brace yourself, ready to fight against the urge. Ready to push them away at a moment's notice, to run if you need to; you'll not hurt them, no matter what.
When something stirs in you, you take it for a sign of danger at first. You tense to bring yourself to move — and then realize, strangely, that you do not need to. Not to run, at least. You need to — you want — what — what is it? What is it?
Their thumb rests over the side of your mouth, gentle, and their hand cups your face, and you could close your eyes and lean into it if you wanted to; you would have, if not for the threat, for the need to be alert to yourself.
They trace the curve of your fang, faintly try the point, but it is barely a push; far from enough to hurt them.
Something in your chest aches; the wound in your side echoes it with dull throbbing.
You have not hurt them. You haven't. Have you? Will you?
Their hand is warm. Every pain in your skin and bone is made stronger by the proximity of it, your body straining at the promise of rest.
You have not hurt them.
You lean into their hand, gently push against it, trying to catch the warmth even though you know you can't; wishing there had been more, wishing you knew how to make it so, and at once grateful for just the faint trace of it.
Their hand moves with you, adjusting. Their thumb traces a bloody line from the corner of your mouth to the side of your cheek; you can feel the warm liquid smear. You want them to put it back where it was before; to feel the soft press of their skin against your teeth — not to bite, but to be held, to be made safe by their caution.
You close your eyes, and a soft noise escapes you.
You remain fixed in place for a long moment; when you finally open your eyes and meet theirs, you find them hesitant.
"Jonah," they say, unusually quiet. "Would you... like to be kissed?"
You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth. Or, well, you don't quite regret, but you are very, very scared.
Of yourself, mostly. Of how easily you found this sentence poised on the tip of your tongue, as if it had been waiting there for a long time.
The black creature eyes staring back at you are not Grace's, but the face they are set in is. It is his uniform, his wounds, if reopened and mirrored; his voice, though ragged and monotone, replying to you.
There is a long pause before it does.
"...Would you?"
By God, what have you done.
Why did you say it? What was it? You cannot explain. It was simply — it was close, and so — so — you haven't the words for it. Just the weight of it leaning against your hand, and the press of its fang as it holds its breath, and how utterly careful it is with you, gentle, gentle, wrecked and starving as it is.
You don't wish an entanglement with you upon Jonah any more than you wish it upon Grace, had he even been open to it. You are charming, and pleasant, and very selfish, and at times cruel; you would pull your own heart from your chest before you see either of them hurt in the way you’d hurt others.
And yet you asked, acting on some foolish hope that — that it might. Are not all things possible, in dreams? Have you not proven it so, by getting close to him when nothing else could?
…Could there not exist, at least here, an affection that hurts no one?
They smile. It is a frail, wavering smile.
"Well, I — figured it might be. Scientifically beneficial?"
You do not understand. This doesn't necessarily upset you; they say things you do not understand often. You do not mind, as long as you are able to communicate truly important matters to each other.
Their apparent distress, however, concerns you. They would have liked to kiss your counterpart, you are aware; you hope they do not mean to do themself some strange harm by suggesting it to you instead.
"…How so?"
“Well… One could test the, ah, the difference in — “
You huff out a sigh; the sentence falls unfinished. Truly, what are you saying? What are you trying to obscure?
You have no good answers. Whatever you will say next will be the beginning of talking yourself out of this endeavor.
It watches you, waiting for a response.
You lean forward and kiss it, instead.
Their mouth presses against yours.
It is warm. For a moment, it is all you can think of. The sensation is stronger than pain, stronger than hunger; those are not gone, gnawing on you still, but you could not act on it even if you wanted to. Your mind is immobilized, overwhelmed by the heat of their breath.
It isn’t painful. You do not have words for what it is.
It is a strange feeling. It is cold and breathless, the blood on its face the phantom of a fresh kill. You feel as though you are kissing a corpse.
But a corpse does not part his lips for you; does not tilt his head to meet you, awkwardly, at the right angle.
The kiss tastes of iron. Blood is on its lips, its teeth; inevitably it is on your tongue as well. You swallow some of it unwittingly, drinking warm blood from its cold mouth.
The strangeness of it all overtakes your attention. A blessing, you find; it puts any stray thoughts of Grace from your mind. It is only you and Jonah, in that moment, and you try to convince yourself it would have been the same had he worn the face of any other man.
You break away before long, not wanting to overstay your welcome. Brief as it was, it takes you a moment to find your breath again; another to swallow your heart pounding in your throat and bring yourself to smile, then to speak.
“Well? How did it feel?”
The question finds you terribly lost.
They know, surely, how it feels. They had kissed many people — you have seen it — they must know better than you how to describe it.
But still, they asked.
You comb through your inherited memories for anything that might fit. Grace had kissed others in the past also. An awkward attempt with the woman he was to marry, his friend; a scripted kiss in a play performed with other Navy men, dressed as a woman, a thing of levity and nothing more. None of it is even remotely similar; a strange, desperate frustration creeps in at the realization. You have little to measure your own world by but the experience of the man who created you; what are you to do when it falls short?
You think back to the kiss. What did it feel like?
In the end, you manage just one word, but it is not untrue.
“Soft,” it says quietly, and does not elaborate further.
Before you can say anything in turn, it notes:
“This is not for research.”
You can’t help but smile, though in a somewhat defeated manner.
“No,” you admit. “No, it is not."
“…Did it hurt you?”
You think for a moment; assess the pounding of your heart, the taste of iron still on your lips, the turning of your stomach. The way you have to clasp your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking.
“No,” you say. “I quite enjoyed it.”
You hesitate.
“Did it hurt you?”
“It did not.”
“Well, good,” you say with a slight laugh; it trembles more than you’d like.
There is blood on their mouth, now. A lock of hair is stuck to the side of their face, stained red; they do not seem to notice.
They are silent for a time, fidgeting with their hands. They are thinking. You let them.
You’d best leave it at that, you know. No harm done, both of you safe; the ideal outcome. Why risk ruining it?
But your hands won’t stop shaking, and not for the cold.
The words fight their way out, eventually.
“…Would you like to be kissed again?”
You stare at them for a moment.
Its answer escapes alongside a cloud of chilly breath.
