#jo!starter

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 groan of the gallows rang louder than any canonfire.

Executions played out with militant precision. A row of three, lined up like sacks of flour. Swift and sure. Bound, hooded, strung, fell. Remove. Next three. Repeat. With each set (like chess, fallen pieces, knights and rooks shattered), her body shook fiercer, a leaf against a hurricane. And their king, the redheaded chief, a man with unbreakable spirit and infallible strength - destroyed as simply as any other bag of flesh and bones. A light snuffed out in a moment. Bound. Hooded. It wasn't the finality of the chapter that made Jo want to slam the book shut - it was the ease with which life was removed. Surgical, instant. Disposable.

Jo steeled herself against the sounds. The smells began to waft toward the hilltop where she stood, camouflaged by trees and stone. The heat from the smoldering wreckage traveled miles to reach her face. Sweat gathered at the line of her brow, competing only with the tears that cut pristine lines through the dirt on her cheeks. And through it all, her ears picked up the faint sound of footfalls through the grass, and she turned to find who had joined the watch. "Terror is just theatre, isn't it," her voice came mangled through wrought wire in her throat. "They say acts of violence against a criminal opposition cannot be criminal themselves. So what does that make them?"