#karsteth

That voice. Constant. It was constant. She did not want to open her eyes. She did not want to see him again.

“Not keepin’ y’up, am I?”

There was no escaping it, and she knew that. She opened her eyes and slowly tilted her head to face him.

Karsteth - or rather, the vision of Karsteth - stood in front of her. He looked as he had when she saw him on the Lily, as he had when she saw him at Havenblaze before this cursed war started. He had his same cut figure, straight and stubbled jaw, broad chest, rough hands, sun-kissed skin littered with scars, and braided chestnut hair. However, there was no longer any eyepatch. The left side of his face was as she remembered with the fel-taint glow blazing, but the right side of his face…. There was a gnarled scar in the shape of a hand over the eye and brow, and in place of an eye that would match his other, there was something amber and red in color.

The first time he appeared to her in the cell - the third time he appeared to her overall - she had been startled. Her breathing had been short and shallow and fast. She had pressed back against the wall to try and shrink away. She did not even remember what he said to her, if anything.

By this point, she had grown accustomed to his ‘visits’. And it made it hard to place the year, the surroundings…. Was she in an Alliance-held cell? Or was she in the brig of the White Widow?

“Go away,” she said.

“It’s been ten days, bitch,” he said in that low, gravel voice. He raised his brows and leveled the mismatching gaze to her. “Someone shoulda come by now if yer so fuckin’ high up, ‘Fleet Commander’.”

“Go away,” she repeated.

When he moved, there was no sound. No click of his boots against the cold, damp stone floor. But nonetheless, he stepped forward and lowered himself to a squat in front of her. “I’ve seen men that ain’t slept. Yer gonna break sooner or later. Do they--”

“Go away--”

“--know why yer bein’ such a fuckin’ easy prisoner?” He glanced over his shoulder. Her watch was on patrol and she was lone. They would be back soon enough. “Haven’t even needed to torture ya.”

Esme closed her eyes. “Go away.”

Karsteth looked back to her and though he smirked, there was no conceit or joy or condescension that reached his eyes. “Yer fuck of a magician ain’t here to keep me away now. I’ll stay however long I want.”

He could not touch her. She knew that by this point. If he had been able to, he would have. But even so, she flinched when he moved closer. Flinched. She was a Sunward of the Sunguard. She had faced War Gods and necromancers and old god-fueled monstrosities...yet the man in front of her terrified her more than all of them put together. She was reduced to the young girl on a ship without a mother or a father, only a will to survive.

“Did ye think y’could kill my men and get away with it?” he asked, and she could hear the familiar raise as his rage began to burn in his chest. “Did ye think I wouldn’t--...” But he paused and took a deep breath. “No. Not here. Not yet.”

Esme opened her eyes to look at him. She wanted the guards to return. He was gone whenever they were there. She did not care that they were Alliance. She cared that they kept him at bay, however he was managing to appear to her. Magic, Faervell had said. Whatever it was, she hated it.

“When I get my hands on ya….” Karsteth reached out a hand and she flinched again. He could not touch her, but he made the motion of it - as though he meant to caress her cheek, or an errant strand of greasy, orange hair. It was enough for her to send a cold chill to the base of her stomach.

“Go away,” she repeated again, and her voice cracked. She was crumbling. She could feel it. For over a century, she had been unbreakable, but she felt the fractures forming, bigger than ever.

No doubt, he could hear it in her voice. He smirked and after a few agonizing moments, withdrew his hand from her. He stood and glanced over his shoulder.

An echo of plated footsteps. The guards.

“Looks like our time is up. At least for another few hours.”

Esme met his gaze when he turned back down to her. She wanted to spit on him. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to run away, but there was nowhere to go. She was without a ship, without a fleet, without anything. She was in a cell. She was trapped.

“Try not to fall asleep before I come back, bitch,” he taunted, and without so much as a flicker or a breeze, he was gone.

She stared at the emptiness he left behind. She did not even hear the guards speak when they arrived, ignorant of the visitor their prisoner had moments before. At least she had an answer to her question. He had said it.

Ten days.

It had been ten days.

...Or had it been longer? Shorter? Time blended and blurred, twisted and weaved, and Esme Sunshard was left confused and unknowing…. All she knew was what was in front of her, and even that was up for question….

As soon as Karsteth’s boots hit the surf, he knew she heard him. He allowed his men the privilege if taking up the longboat and securing it. They knew how to make camp. They didn’t need his guidance to do so, and Vinny knew he had business elsewhere. With a small sack at his side, he trudged up the beach and into the thick woods of the isle.

He did not bother shouting her name aloud this time. The witch knew. She always did. His presence was call enough; and the presence of the thing at his side. He knew she’d come to lay claim on it, whether he bellowed her name or not.

And so when he reached a clearing within the trees, a stump perfect for a table and bathed in moonlight, he set the sack down and waited. He waited for her shadow to slip through the trees, and he did so in silence.

She appeared in a whirl of shadows; they skittered uneasily around her, natural things born of treeshade and the lees of stone. She made them real, and so unnatural, and it was all from vanity. Drunk on her deals, drunk on power, she stepped into the clearing in only the robe of feathers, linen and skin-soft hide.

"My Captain," she breathed, eyes wild and kaleidoscopic. "You have it." There was no question in her, and on bare feet she approached him. The shadows fled as she was cast into the moonlight, and her unnaturalness seemed to diminish some, in the pure light of the twin orbs.

He stood near, but not too close and not too far. He watched Dasia as though she was liquid pouring out of the trees and earth itself. He kept his gaze on her as she made her way closer. With a nod, he gestured towards the sack.

"Aye, I got it. Doesn't look much like an eye, but it glowed as ye said."

He noted the wild look in her eyes and squinted slightly.

"Why's this so important to ye?"

Drunk on power and promise, Dasia laughed merrily and clapped her hands together. "Oh, what a delight. It was of course easy for you, what could the Nightmare offer for you to fear?" Nothing, the word whispered through winds that caught in her loose hair. Nothing to fear from nightmare...

Stepping closer, she reached towards the sack. "Ohhh there we are." She did not make to answer. "You wished to be unseen, and you found me what I needed; what the nightmare makes of an pure, untainted eye. However did I accomplish anything without you," She breathed the last, finally turning her gaze back to meet his eyes, lips parted with delight.

Karsteth watched Dasia closely. There was a twitch, a want to grab her arm before she grabbed the sack without payment first, but they knew each other well enough, and he had nothing to fear from her - rather, she had everything to fear from him. She knew what happened when he was double crossed.

"Ye probably got some other fucks to do yer biddin' but they didn't do a good enough job."

Her laughter was true at his words, and she took the sack greedily, not even stepping back while she opened it to discover-- a clasp, a feather, a shimmer of metal. Whatever it looked like, as soon as her fingers brushed it, she knew.

She knew.

"You never disappoint, sweetest." The words were not meant for Karsteth; her thumb stroked the shimmering center, and the object in her hand changed; a rotted eye, for a moment, then, a small heart the size of a birds, and then again the brooch. Greed, striking and raw, showed in Dasia's features, and it remained as she brought her gaze up to Karsteth.

The item shimmered and vanished in her hands, but that was because she needed them both. As though desperate, she slid her hands to Karsteth's jaw and pulled his face to hers, pressing her lips to his in a searing, hungry kiss. Magic swelled between them, something infinite and dark, and it seemed to flow from her into him, catching where mouths parted and sinking into him.

He could feel it; it was like a cloak, a heavy but comfortable weight. One he could remove-- the edges where there in his mind, he could see the shape of the magic she gave him.

Her hands only dropped from his face to take his hand, and from her fingers to his she slid a ring; wooden, etched with black onyx and what seemed living smoke. Hiding, made physical and real.

Karsteth squinted at the lack of an answer to his initial question, but he did not resist when he felt her hands, both so cold and yet so hot they burned. He did not resist when the kiss was placed hungrily against him. He was caught off guard, but not unpleasantly so. His shoulders stiffened and then laxed at the heavy cloak placed upon his shoulders.

She pulled away and he lingered, if only for a moment. But then his gaze dropped to his rough and calloused hands. The ring she gave him was crude at first glance, but then he caught a wisp of black, a glimmer of a black ember. It was more than meets the eye, and without her telling him, he knew what it could do. It was more than what they had bargained for. He asked to be hidden, yet this would give more.

His mismatched gaze flicked to Dasia's own and he reached behind her to grab hold a generous mass of her hair. He held her tightly and pulled her forward, lowering his mouth to crash against hers. It was another kiss, twice as hungry and twice as hard.

She met his ferocity with her own, feeding into his desire; she would capitulate to his passion only because it was delicious when he was the victor, the raw and violent power of him. Dasia only shifted to breathe him in, lips dragging over his scarred cheekbone as she whispered.

Like a spell, the words revealed her works, and this gift-- a true gift, with no price or deal. "Unseen to all but her, you can make her suffer as she has earned, as she was made to." No other had she granted such favors; no other had fathered more than one son. But Karsteth bled power, thoughts and mind shaped ruthless and cut-throat; he had been more valuable than hundreds of her other petitioners, the fools that took her deals.

Karsteth was worthy, had brought back the one hope she thought lost, and this gift would not be her last; oh no. "Her death and misery shall be your crucible; I promise this blessing to you, Captain Dusktide." Her whisper in his ear was thick as her dark, ash-stained hands slid over his chest.

"Break her, kill her, and keep her heart; so long as you bear that withered phoenix' spark, you shall never die."

Dasia spoke of suffering at first, and truly, the thought of that red haired bitch - with her defiant gaze and face that was so much like her mother's -...the thought of her under his boot once more, suffering, terrified, and trapped. He felt heat rise in his belly, his gaze gripping Dasia's hair even harder at the thought.

Oh, he would break her. Oh, he would kill her. And if the witch was telling him to keep her heart in exchange for  that....

He brought down a hard kiss against Dasia's lips once more and shoved her back against the tree stump. He tasted of whiskey, power, lust, and hatred. He pulled from the kiss with a bite that nearly drew blood from Dasia and growled with a low voice, rough with gravel.

"Our deal is fuckin' settled then."

She smiled, feeling the shape of the eye between her fingers. "Our deals are settled. Enjoy your gifts." Dasia slid arms around him, pulled him closer, shadows rising to strain against the moonlight. "My Captain." He would see, and be unseen; a blessing offered, but not without recompense. No, she would make sure he left her with blessings of her own.

Part I | Part II | Part III

Esme took in a sharp breath, stirred from her emotional solitude. With a glance to Trinivar, a rare and small smile pressed to her lips. She cleared her throat and shook her head as she spoke quietly to her trusted second. “Hardly. I have never been more here. Ready. I have been preparing for this day for a year.”

“You’re not meant for the land.”

“No. No, I do not suppose I am.”

The two exchanged rare smiles once more. It felt a though they had never smiled so much, felt so light, so ready, so excited. Of course, they were not going for a joy ride at all. They were going to sail for blood, to finish Esme’s work little by little.

“You’re sure that land of yours’ll be alright while you’re gone?” Trinivar asked with a teasing tone to his voice.

Esme scoffed. “Embertree is finally cleansed. People are moving in faster than they were before. And those that helped save the land are settling in, all in the corners. It will have never been safer. Faervell is comfortable as well. Whatever needs my attention while I am at sea, he knows how to manage.”

Trinivar’s gaze slid to Esme briefly. He watched her for a moment. There was a time when he would argue or make a snide comment against the felmancer. He never did approve of her decision to place trust in him. He had made it clear that he thought Faervell was a distraction.

But no argument came. Rather, he nodded and reached over to tentatively place a rough, callused hand on Esme’s shoulder.

She turned to Trinivar, understanding the silent acceptance well enough. She reached up to place her own hand over his and took in a deep breath.

“Are you ready?”

“Been ready and waitin’ for you for quite some time now, Cap’n.”

As the two offered small, secret smiles to one another once more, Trinivar took in a deep breath and shouted over the banter of the crew.

“LOOK LIVELY, MEN! CAP’N ON DECK!”

Cheers. They cheered at the call. Esme felt something tug at her heart and she had to swallow it down before it swallowed her.

There was such a warmth that enveloped her as she climbed the gangplank. Her boots clicked against the wood deck. She nodded to the smiling faces of her men and to the tips of their hats. She waved aside the stray comments (Glad to have ya back, Cap’n - Good morn, Cap’n - Missed havin’ ya, Cap’n), but each one sent another strike through her heart.

For a woman that rejected the idea of ‘home’, she had returned to it. She was home.

Climbing up to the helm itself, she slid her hand along the polished wood. Each and every imperfection she knew by heart, and to see each and every one again…. She took in a deep and shuddering breath. To call the smile on her face rare would be a lie on that day. She smiled with the warmth that she felt and looked to the crew.

The lot of them had an understanding. Since the day she sat with them and told them of her truth, of her past, they held a bond. It was a bond she felt so strongly; a bond they all felt.

Her voice cut through the air, and settled into place like the missing piece of a puzzle that had been incomplete for far too long: “Alright, men! Do not just sit there and stare! We have work to do! Raise anchor and make way!”

The men never complained before, but work was work and neither did they celebrate. But with Esme’s order, the crew looked happy to have her sharp-as-daggers tone, and carried out their jobs without complaint and with a small jump in their step. It was only a matter of time before the anchor was cranked up, the ropes were pulled back, and the sails began to unfurl.

Arenaia, the helmsman, stood proudly beside Esme, relinquishing her position for as long as the captain needed. Esme was keenly aware of the other woman’s large grin, and though her cheeks began to burn a bright pink, she made no conscious motion to let Arenaia know of her awareness. Rather, she focused on coaxing the frigate out from Shallowbrook’s docks.

“The kid’ll be sorry he missed seeing you before you set off,” Trinivar said, climbing the ladder to take his place on Esme’s other side. He nodded to Arenaia, who gave the second a lazy salute first.

“Lucien?” Esme inquired. She did not need to. She knew who Trinivar met. Regardless of Lucien’s age, he was always referred to as a sort of child by Trinivar. Everyone was a child to him. “I will see him well enough when we return with the bounty. Perhaps we will even see him on the sea as we head out. The course is set for for Northrend, aye? Borean?”

Trinivar nodded. “Aye, Cap’n.”

He glanced up as calls regarding a ship coming into port along the portside reached his ears. So went the traffic of an anchorage, and Shallowbrook was starting to regain the business it once boasted.

“There was one good thing about you bein’ restless and landlocked; you did enough work on trackin’ these bastards down to last you a lifetime. We got it all planned out and ready.”

Esme’s lips pulled into yet another small smirk as she huffed. The sound was close to a laugh, close to a scoff, but not quite either. She took a breath, prepared to answer, but it all happened so fast. There was no time.

Another call of a ship coming up close.

A crack.

A number of cracks.

Thunder.

The whistle of cannons.

The ear-piercing explosions.

Splinters of wood.

Clouds of smoke and dust.

Shouts.

Screams.

A war horn.

Esme had instinctively crouched and she felt the collective weight of Trinivar and Arenaia, as both had shielded her. She pushed them off and raised herself to her feet. She shouted over the crew’s panicked and angry and pained cries, “We have barely left port! Have Kul Tirans--”

But the hypothesis was ripped from her before she could finish. Her face paled and her eyes grew wide.

Along the portside, at long range for fire, was the ship that had haunted her. It was the ship that had chased her, that had plagued her dreams and twisted them to nightmares, that had held her captive for nearly a century.

The White Widow.

She heard the faint shout to hurry their reload and Esme shook herself out of her shock and fear. As she hoisted herself to the railing, Arenaia took the helm and Trinivar rushed down to be with the men.

“TO ARMS!! READY THE CANNONS!! PIRATES ON THE PORT SIDE!! PREPARE TO TURN--”

She faltered. There was so much blood on the deck. Gods, there was so much blood. They had been caught unawares in their home port. Many of her men were wounded. Feilyn. Octavia. Yungai. Vothe.

“--TURN--!!”

Again, her words were ripped from her. There was another line of cracks and the foreboding whistle. The side of the Widow’s Bane splintered again. Wood went flying. A scream tore through and pain shot through her left side. Her body was thrown and she hit the starboard railing hard enough to jostle her head.

It sounded as though hands were cupped over her ears. Her mind was hazy. She looked up and saw her helm gone. Arenaia was in pieces, torn apart by a sure shot by a cannon. When Esme looked down, she saw her arm had splinters of wood from shoulder to wrist.

Arenaia.

I think he was a good choice, if I say so myself, Cap’n.

Arenaia was dead.

There was no time for mourning.

Swiftly, Esme reached up with her right hand and pulled herself up. Trinivar was shouting, but she could shout louder.

“READY THE GUNS NOW!!”

Trinivar called back, “ON THE MARK, CAP’N!”

Esme’s voice tore from her throat with a desperation she did not wish to admit: “FIRE!!”

The cannons returned fire into the White Widow, but before she could watch if the damage was worth while, a loud SNAP broke through the deck. She turned, just in time to see the base of the mainmast crack.

No.

Up in the crow’s nest, Trynis - one of her mages - tried desperately to turn his ice below to patch what was broken, but it was too late. The mast tilted and then fell, sending Trynis into the water and crushing men on the quarterdeck.

No no no.

The Widow’s Bane was built for speed, but without the mast, they were stuck. Without the helm, they were stuck. There was no escape.

With the cries of her men in her ears, she did not even hear herself call for a reload. She knew what men were alive were doing what they could, but her gaze went across the sea.

And Karsteth stared back.

She could not see much of him, but she did not need to. That man stalked every corner of her mind. He had burned his imprint there. A mere glimpse of his dark hair blowing in the wind was all she needed. She could imagine his twisted smirk well enough, his piercing gaze. She could almost hear him right beside her: Bitch.

She would not be frozen with fear. She turned and hurried down the ladder. There was no helm to man. Slipping on blood on the deck, she gestured a hand wildly to the side. “GET THE FIRE MAGES AND BURN THAT RIGGING. FREE US OF THE MAST AND SHOVE IT OVERBOARD! WE NEED TO LEAD HIM BACK TOWARDS THE FORT! THERE ARE GUNS IN PORT!”

Aye, she had told Vaelrin that installing cannons along Shallowbrook’s coast would benefit to keep troublesome ships at bay. The situation at hand was not what she expected, but there was time for that later.

As her orders were carried out on the top deck, she rushed below to take inventory of the carnage there. Large holes peppered the sides of her ship, some cannons held in place where the gunports used to be. Men were crushed by cannons that had come loose, while some were dead or dying. But those still alive were reloading - and she was there to shout to them.

“FIRE! BLOW THEM OUT OF THE WATER!”

Invigorated by their captain being closer, the men shouted along with her and fired - but so did the White Widow.

Esme was blown back and with a loud clunk, her head smacked against a cannon that had come loose behind her. She saw bright flashes, but maintained her consciousness. It would take more than that, and she had adrenaline pumping in her blood to help.

Both ships took a beating, but Esme was outgunned and now most certainly outmanned. She heard the familiar sound of gurgling below and felt the ground shift beneath her. Her ship was sinking slowly but surely. And were they to take another round, it would happen faster.

So many were dead around her. So many familiar faces.

Her breathing quickened.

No.

No no. This was not how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to return to sea. She was supposed to find Karsteth. She was supposed to end him. Not the other way around. How did he even find her? How did they get--

This had to be a nightmare.

This had to be false.

This had to be fake.

Where was Trinivar?

Where--

She braced herself as she heard another line of cracks. And another line. And another line. But no-- they were too distant to be of the White Widow. Those were not the guns of a frigate. And no further onslaught came.

“IT’S THE LILY!”

“THE LILY!!”

Rather than rush to the top deck, Esme staggered and made way for the hole in the side of the Widow’s Bane. It was dangerous if another attack was made, but she cared not. And when she saw the large warship that was the Bloody Lily, she choked a gasp of relief.

Lucien must have just gotten there. He must have seen--

It was not important.

Turning from the hole, she went to rush for as many of her men as she could.

Another crack.

An explosion.

Esme flung forward and everything went black.

When she woke, it was to salt water in her throat and sand in her mouth. She coughed and sputtered. She tasted blood and sea. The pull of the tide surrounded her and she groaned at the hard ground below and the throbbing pain throughout her body. She could not move her right arm, but she could push herself up with her left, albeit painfully. Some wood must have still been in the wounds.

She was on the shore. A cursory and dizzy glance up offered her a sight of a gun tower. She was in Shallowbrook. How long had she been out? How had she made it to the shore?

Her ship.

Her crew.

Karsteth.

Fear gripped her and she turned swiftly towards the sea. The White Widow was gone. The Lily was anchored not far out.

And the Widow’s Bane…

Smoke filled the sky and the Widow’s Bane jutted out of the water. Sunken, but in water too shallow to fully engulf it. It appeared as though men - alive and dead - were being hauled onto the Lily.

There was no telling how many had survived, nor how many were drifting through the water as she had. But as she looked up and down the shore, she could not help but release a shuddering gasp.

A few bodies were washed ashore as she had been. Some bloodier than others. But all recognizable.

She hated the whimper that escaped her as she tried desperately to stand. She had to get to them. Her crew, she had to see if they were alive.

Glad to have ya back, Cap’n.

She stumbled, her legs wobbling and weak and in pain. There was a sharp jolt through her thigh.

Good morn, Cap’n.

She could not even make it to the first man. Dropping to her knees, she caught herself with one hand and tried to steady her breathing, but to no avail.

Missed havin’ ya, Cap’n.

The voices of her crew were in her mind like an echo, but one was clearer. One was in the present.

“We got a surv-- It’s the Captain!! Get Dawnsinger!! It’s the Captain!!”

She did not care to look up to see who it was as her body collapsed once more on the shore. She could not think of anything but the blood on the deck, the sound of her men screaming. The sight of her ship beneath the water.

Her home.

In all her years - one hundred and twenty-five or so - Esme could not remember the last time she shed a tear before then.

In the comfort of his quarters on the White Widow, Karsteth smiled. Even though the vision was silent, it was as though he could hear her quiet, breathy sobbing. It was a sound he had only had the pleasure of hearing a few times in their years together. She was always so stubborn and extremely practiced at keeping such weakness down and to herself.

He relished her breaking.

But it was not the time for such things. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he no longer saw Esme, nor Embertree. He saw his quarters, his ship, and a door that Vinny had left slightly ajar. With an irritable sigh, he stood. When he strutted over, he knocked over an empty whiskey bottle and sent it clunking to the floor before it rolled beneath his desk. He peered outside to check that everything was in order.

The White Widow was docked in Booty Bay for restocking and to allow the men to spend their gold, be it on booze, a quick fuck down at the Randy Jones, or a longer fuck at the Oasis. A few remained to watch over the ship and laze about on deck. Who knew where Vinny was – probably at the Randy. He shut his door firmly, turned, and stalked back to his desk. On the way, he snatched up a red vial that glowed with an eerie tinge of blood.

Drink this, and follow the tracks of white light amidst the red; you will find what remains of…something I need. Something I cannot get. Use it where your ship is docked against safe harbor, but no step you will need to take.

As Karsteth settled himself back down in his chair, he inspected the vial closely. Gods only knew what the fuck Dasia put into it, or what it would feel like, or what it would taste like. And her request was a vague as ever.  

An eye lost in the Nightmare. It will glow. It won’t appear like an eye. I do not know what shape it has in the Nightmare, now that it has been there so long, but it will glow and stand out against the wilds.

Take the vial. Go into the Nightmare. Find something that glows. An eye but not an eye. Bring it back. Of course she was fucking vague about how to get out of the Nightmare, but he could figure that out himself. What mattered was that he needed this, and in exchange, that bitch would be unable to track him. He would find her first. He would attack her again. And she would regret running away, much less trying to fuck with him after.

Nobody made a fool of him.

With a warm bubble of rage in the pit of his stomach, Karsteth tilted his head back and downed the vial in one go. It tasted of nothing, which was the most strange. The liquid was thick on his tongue, and then evaporated, rushing down his throat and filling his body – stomach, lungs, veins, everything. He felt a wild pulse that sent a shiver through his body. He sputtered and coughed and hacked, closing his eyes and pounding on his chest.

And when all was clear, he opened his eyes to red.

His quarters were just as they should be. Empty bottles, papers, the bed unmade, his lunch half eaten. He reached out a leg and even touched the fallen bottle from before with his foot. Everything was just as it should be, but everything was with a red haze. He turned to look towards the windows, but they were blocked with something dark.

“No time to fuckin’ waste,” he said to himself.

“—to fuckin’ waste. –uckin’ waste. –aste.” It was a strange echo that his voice held, but it was an echo that he dismissed.

Grabbing up his quiver, he tossed it onto his back, snatched up his bow, and yanked the door open. As he expected, he was alone. But he did not expect the twisted vines of black and red that clutched onto his ship so very tightly. They looked as though they had come from the waters and grown straight into this Nightmare version of The White Widow. A glance upwards showed a sky of red with drab, grey clouds that swirled over something in the far, far distance.  

He made his way slowly to a chunk of vine that had taken the place of a gangplank, and stood still. All of Booty Bay was in a similar state. No people. Red. Vines overgrown, penetrating the old, wooden buildings that stacked on top of one another in a haphazard, disorderly fashion. Parts of the dock were gone entirely in favor of fallen trees or built-up rubble. It was a ghost town with no ghosts, only nightmares. But he was not looking for nightmares, he was looking for something. Something that would glow.

A glimmer caught his eye to the left. He turned swiftly. At first, there was nothing but the familiar path up to the cave that would then lead out. At first, there was nothing—and then another glimmer. Another shine.

A glow.

Karsteth immediately set to work. His pace was swift, but not a run. It was strange being in a place so familiar and yet so different. He had just been to Booty Bay in the past few months, yet the Nightmare twisted it in such a way that made him feel like it had been centuries, if not eons. Every step up the rickety path up towards the cave that separated Booty Bay from the rest of Stranglethorn Vale was echoed. It was enough that twice, he stopped to turn and see if someone was following behind him. If the footsteps were not just echoes, but another person entirely.

But there was no one. He was alone in this Nightmare.

Every so often, he would see a glimmer that told him he was on the right path. It was as Dasia said: whatever it was, that eye, it did not belong and so it called to be found. He was prepared for it to be not so easy, but he still hoped it would be quick no matter what. He had no desire to take too doddle. He wanted to be in, be out, and be done with it.

As he made his way through the hall-like cave, he stopped again and turned quickly – so quickly that his chestnut hair swung over one shoulder. His hand was on his bow, ready. He had heard a second set of footsteps. He swore it.

“Who the fuck is there?!” he shouted, his voice echoing with the Nightmare, but also from the cave.

“—uck is there?! –Is there?! –ere?!...”

It was as though his own voice was mocking him, teasing him. When he received no response, he scoffed and turned…but he swung his bow down and kept it in one hand.

He took a deep breath in once he was on the other side of the cave, once he was at the edge of the jungle. The air hummed with dark magic and smelled like blood and soil. It was all still so familiar to him, and when he considered the ultimate reason he was there, there was a thought that settled into his mind. Bitter humor and suspicion danced together as he contemplated the possibilities, and when he saw the glimmer to his left, through the trees and vines and towards the coast, he could not help but laugh.

“Ye’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

“—uckin’ kiddin’ me. –kiddin’ me. –in’ me.…”

Karsteth shook his head, glanced over his shoulder, and followed the glow. Not that he needed it to lead him anymore. He knew exactly where it was taking him. It was a mockery, a twist, a vine on time itself, and a hit to his ego that he had been enraged over. Yes, no longer did he follow the glimmer and glint of light - it followed him as he stocked his way through the jungle foliage, over the black and red vines that twisted through the ground. He was going to the beach.

He was going to where he had been stolen from a decade or two previously. It was where he had buried a stash of his shares from his centuries of pirating. It was where that fucking bitch had dug it all up and taken it with her when she ran away. Through the jungle, to the beach, up and towards a bent over palm tree. In the Nightmare, the palm tree was overgrown with thick, black vines, but it was there all the same.

And beneath it, resting perfectly in the dark sand was something the glowed.

Karsteth did not immediately approach. He had to stand for a moment. He had to laugh. He did not know whether it was Dasia’s doing, or something bigger than her. But the irony was unmistakable. He lost something there before, now he found something. Both times, both things were stolen one way or another. This time he was doing the stealing.

“Well I’ll fuckin’ be,” he murmured.”

“Well I’ll fuckin’ be.”

It was no echo.

But neither had he been unprepared.

It happened in the blink of an eye. He raised his bow with one hand. His other hand grabbed an arrow. His bow was strung. The arrow flew. Then a second. Then a third. It happened in a blur, and the eye-but-not-an-eye glowed with vivid intensity. Grains of sand vibrated along the beach, blowing away from the object for a few seconds.

And then it stopped.

Karsteth’s prey came into his vision and he had to squint.

He saw himself, skin splotched with the same black and red as the vines that plagued the Nightmare. In place of one green eye and one white eye, he had one black eye and one red eye. Three arrows were deep in his chest and a bow was in his hand – a bow that dropped from a slackened grip. He smirked as blood pooled in the corners of his mouth. Without leaving the real Karsteth – the truth Karsteth’s gaze, he dropped to his knees.

“Yer me,” Karsteth said.

“I’m me,” the Nightmare said.

“Yer in my fuckin’ way.”

“She’s in my fuckin’ way.”

Karsteth paused. He took a step towards himself. Looking down on the twisted reflection, he reached down for an arrow.

The Nightmare grabbed Karsteth’s hand and yanked him closer.

“Make that fuckin’ bitch pay.”

Karsteth stared back and gave a harsh yank of one arrow. He ripped it free and watched as what could be described as ‘life’ disappeared from the Nightmare’s eyes.

“I’ll make that fuckin’ bitch pay.”

He ripped the other two arrows loose from the body. There was no sense in wasting ammunition. Slipping them back into place in his quiver, he went back to the object. No longer did it glow, and he was able to bend down to snatch it up.

It was a pin with a green gem set in a gold backing and a spray of purple and green feathers. It was a useless trinket, a piece of jewelry, but it had been glowing. Who was he to decide what the Nightmare made an eye look like. And who could say why it chose such a shape. But a pin it was, and into his pocket it went.

The journey back to the ship was easy. No longer did an echo follow him. He no longer felt the itch of someone lingering behind him, watching him. He had almost grown used to the overgrown vines and the red, red haze.

He climbed back onto his ship, turned towards his quarters, and closed the door behind him. Slipping his bow and arrow off of his person, he let them rest where they had been before he left. He took the pin out of his pocket and turned it over in his hand before he settled back down in his chair. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes.

And when he opened them, he was back.

Part I | Part II | Part III

He sees a woman with hair as bright as a sunset. She is struggling to stay awake. He has watched her work for hours straight. He watched as she struggled to find the ink in her quill. He watched as she cursed her inability to write appropriately even after so many years. He watched her attention stray to the tall windows. He watched her scratch her signature on letter after letter. He watched her swap one candle for another. He watched her lose herself in thought and fiddle with the ring on her finger. He watched her start work again. And now he watches her fight against the pull of sleep.

His hands grip the armrests of his chair. His nails dig into the wood.

The woman startles from nearly dozing off. She looks up. She blushes. She says something and stands, quickly tucking the documents into a tight pile. She places a paperweight in the shape of a phoenix on top of the stack and waves a hand dismissively. She is arguing and shaking her head. She is rounding the desk. She is passing an older woman that has her hands on her hips and a disappointed. Wherever she is, it is in a place of old glamour. It has tall ceilings, ornate moldings, wide windows, and long hallways.

But he is not looking at the fucking house. He is looking at her.

Her hair is longer now than he remembers. Her eyes are a duller green. Her skin is still sun-kissed, but the freckles dusting her nose are more prominent. She looks taller. She looks larger, somehow. She had always been a fucking bitch that couldn’t keep her eyes down. She had always kept her chin up. She had always looked at him with hate, with fear, with a want to slit his throat. He reveled in it.

His nails scratch at the chair. He can feel a burning in his core. She killed his men. She might as well have taken his eye. She—

The door swings open and a goblin bursts in with his voice raised. “Oi, Cap’n! It’s wettah out there than a Booty Bay hookah’s cunt!”

Instantly, the woman is gone. It is just him and his second. He is infuriated for a second, but that second soon passes. He releases the armrests of his chair.

“The men out there, they’s wonderin’ when—”

“When the storm passes, make way for Quel’Thalas.”

The goblin pauses. “Ahh…Cap’n, y’sure that’s such a good idea? We got some news ‘bout that crazy bitch of a warchief. Laid a city down and the place is crawlin’ with Alliance. It’ll be—”

“All the better. Use the chaos. But make fucking way for Quel’Thalas.”

The goblin knows that tone. He knows that look. He doesn’t need to see that look from two real eyes to know what it means. He knows better.

“Aye, Cap’n! I’ll – ahh…shit, back out in the rain?” Before he can receive an answer, the goblin is already leaving. “Okay, okay, okay! CREW!! WE’RE MAKIN’ WAY FOR QUEL’THALAS ONCE THIS STORM PASSES!! FINISH JOIKIN’ YOSELVES OFF BY THEN!!”

The door slams and he is alone.

Outside, the storm blows, the sails billow, the waves crash, the rain pounds, and the ship sways.

Inside, he watches her once more.

Her home had grown smoky with the burning of offerings, and so when she felt the call to sea-soaked climes, she took it. It was simple to her-- when certain clients called, and with such need, she came. There were deals to make, things to win... and she had been hoping to hear this voice through the shady betweenplaces. 

When Dasia' feet touched the sand, though, she gasped softly, full lips parted to taste the air, the mist, the blood thick in both.

Kindred, she felt. Kin and kith alike. Welcome home, the land said. Where you belong. Amethyst-bright eyes flashed over the rocky outcroppings, the thin trees for this blasted and small islet, and she shivered with delight. She took a step, and almost lost her footing. Her magic, so well heeled for centuries, raced and dragged at her leashes, bright and eager for the hunt. She knew this place then, and her laughter filled the wave-wracked wind.

"Oh, my Captain, you always know the best places for our dalliances." She replied to him, her bare feet light on the soaked leaflitter. "My heart sings."

There was a distant call for more tar. The repairs were getting started in full swing, but Karsteth made not even a glance up. He knew where his ship was, he knew what it needed, he knew what his crew was doing...and his crew knew better than to dally. Thankfully, where his ship was wounded, he was not. 

“Cut yer weird shit, Dasia,” he said, as gruffly as ever. “We ain’t here for a lover’s triste. Y’know that well enough. Guessin’ ye even know why I called ye here.”

She hummed softly, eyes tracing over the man's features. He may not want her now, but her appreciation for him was certainly not purely professional and it showed in the smile that curled her lips. "To business then, my Captain." There was always special emphasis on that title; she had helped him secure it, and maintain it-- a possessive shade that lingered when she spoke it. 

"I know what the winds tell me; that you engaged and were so close to your goal that the blood was all but on your lips... when it again, was snatched back."

She tossed her wine-dark hair and stepped forward. "I also know she lived, and that your work is far from done, and that you need something to help you keep your shadow close and tucked neat between your boots, so as not to tip your hand to any." She stepped around him, eyes trailing from his features to his shoulders, circling the man while we words would wrap them in a thick mist.

Soon, even the sounds of his ship seemed to fade in the murk, and the scent of copper permeated, combining with the seasalt and the scent of dried herbs that clung to the witch.

"In short, you wish to make another deal, and my Captain, I am very happy to oblige."

Karsteth looked unimpressed at her 'guess'. With a deep breath in, he ran a callused hand over his face and scratched at his scruff-ridden chin. He unhitched his bow from his back, swung it to rest against a nearby rock, and sat himself down. With a wide spread of his legs, he rest his arms across his lap.

"In short, aye. I want another fuckin' deal." 

He turned his eye - nay, his eyes - up to the witch. One green and wispy with the taint of fel. One all different colors and teeming with her own magic. 

"She had a fuckin' war ship. I could sit around all day and wonder how the fuck that lil' bitch got a war ship, but it won't do me any fuckin' good. I didn't kill her, I know that much. And if she's been huntin' me'n'mine, she'll know I'm comin' next time. So I wanna make sure she doesn't. I want her fuckin' blind."

"You want more than just one girl blind." Dasia corrected, her voice almost chiding. "She hunts you now, but you know that as soon as word rises that the White Widow was wounded, there will be other sharks chasing the chum in the waters." She clucked her tongue to teeth softly. "I know your enemies are many because they are sniffing after anything that will bring them an edge... even seeking witches." 

There was always the risk he would grow violent with her, of course; she liked it, he was chaos made man and she loved that he was one of the few who could end her, wholly, upsetting so many years of planning. Still, she wanted him to know-- she was courted by others, and had not given them nearly as much as she had given Karsteth.

No other had given her two sons, despite the firsts faults. "I have not bothered with them, but they seek anyway." She finished her circling and stood before him, arms crossed beneath her heavy bosom, hip thrust out becomingly. "I will make you a deal to blind them all; they would need to have their soles on your deck to know where you are."

Leaning down, she purred softly to him. "Imagine, Karsteth, lord of the waters... unseen. By any foe. Arrive like mist over the shore, disperse just as invisibly." She closed the distance, stepped up to where he was seated, and recklessly slid her hand over his unscarred cheek. "I could make you this way."

“Who the fuck else is lookin’ for me?” He all but growled, watching her come closer but keeping his hands safely down, dangling between his legs casually. He was a predator and knew another predator when he saw one. He knew better than to take his eyes off of her. 

Without waiting for a response (it didn’t matter, after all, they’d all be dead sooner or later and he had a more pressing matter to handle), he scoffed with a whiskey-scented breath. He leaned back and gestures loosely to the witch in front of him. 

“That’s why I’m fuckin’ here, Dasia. What d’ye need this time? Some rubies, some fuckin’ flour, and the cock of a general or some weird shit as usual? Name yer price.”

As he leaned back, her hand was drawn away, and she clucked. "Other captains, other pirates. You make no friends with your white flag." She shook her head as though sadly, but he could still see her smile. "They circle, but I will help you evade."

She opened her hands to him, and in them red mist swirled. "I need very little this time; hiding is what me and mine are very very good at." Dasia purred and in her palms grew a small stone vial. "Drink this, and follow the tracks of white light amidst the red; you will find what remains of... something I need. Something I cannot get."

Dasia's voice softened, a serious note growing in the dulcet tones. "Use it where your ship is docked against safe harbor, but no step you will need to take. Get me the glowing fragment, and I will make you invisible to all your enemies. I have the stones and bones and things I need to hide you, all I ask is for this one thing; an eye lost in the Nightmare."

Karsteth arched a long brow at her words. She was a woman of deals and didn’t give anything freely. Whatever she required must be valuable enough. She must have been desperate enough. But he wasn’t going to question it and ruin an upper hand. The two had their dance. He would stick with it. 

“Glowin’ remains of what exactly?” He asked, looking to the mist and then the vial as it materialized. “Ye said an eye? How am I supposed to know where the fuck it is in all this place yer sendin’ me?”

"It will glow." She said it with surety. "It doesn't belong there, and the Nightmare is trying to consume it and it is not being consumed. You have the... easy part, it has been moved part of the way to the edge of Nightmare, and just needs the last steps to bring it back to the world of living and breathing."

The danger, of course, was that he would smell enough of her or just enough of life to bring the things that hunter Nightmare to hunt. But she could not traverse those lands for this item; she could not touch it, while within the Nightmare. Her deals had been clear, no matter how she chafed against them these many years later. 

Simpering, she pitched her voice softer. "It won't appear like an eye. I do not know what shape it has in the Nightmare, now that it has been there so long, but it will glow and stand out against the wilds."

Karsteth's attention dipped down to the vial in Dasia's hands. His tongue ran along his teeth again and he leaned back - not just for comfort's sake, but to sit taller, straighter.

"So, ye don't know what the fuck it looks like. Might not look like an eye. But it'll glow. And it'll be fairly fuckin' close to wherever the fuck I dock my ship. But if I take this shit ye got, find the glowin' piece'a'shit, and get it to ye, then ye'll see to it that that fuckin' bitch won't see me comin'. That she won't be able to find me."

Dasia's eyes met his. "I will make it worth your efforts. I want this eye, and you want to be unseen. A trade made by fates, yes? Steal an eye and steal sight with it." She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

If he had not called her, she would have sought him-- or sent one of her other debted dealmakers into the Nightmare. She needed this, and the sooner she had it... the sooner she could begin. Things were unfolding, becoming, far quicker than she had hoped. If Karsteth could obtain this...

"I will do exactly as you say; bring it, and you will move over waters unknown and unseen, until you so choose to be seen." Her tone grew serious, and she leaned in, eyeing his features once more with clear evaluation.

"Do we have a deal?"

As Dasia leaned in, his eyes dipped down briefly to the humorless smile. It was business, and he knew that. But it was something else, and he knew that too. He couldn't shake the feeling that she was fucking him over somehow. He knew she wasn't telling him the whole story, but he didn't give a fuck about what all of these eyes, tongues, secrets, blood, and stones were for. And yet....

Rather than offer her a gruff, verbal answer, he reached up and forcefully grabbed a fistful of dark, wild hair. Tugging her down, he smashed his lips against hers for a hard and open mouthed kiss. There was a sort of hunger to it, one that came from the sheer power of both of them being in such a close space. But he had also not had a whore for nearly a month. 

Releasing her with a bite of her lip and a taste of blood, he made a grab for the vial and tried to stand all at once.

"Aye, we have a deal."

The potion grabbed from her hands, Dasia let herself fall back a step after the rough assent. With a toss of her hair to right the mussed locks, she reached up to touch her bleeding lip with a smile. Chaos made man indeed; she was never caught so unawares as she was with him. Hunger and demand in him was always met with a surge of her own, and she had not the time to delve into such now. Yet, her smile was as genuine as a witches ever could be, and there was smug satisfaction in her words.

"Sealed with a kiss, then." Her fingertip traced in pink, she made a symbol in the air that seemed to trail fire briefly, before burning up-- and in the burning, so too did the mists finally fade. "I would linger for... further amusements, but this spell is in need of reagents, and I have perfect faith you will return to me soon with what I have requested; I would not keep my Captain waiting." There was a note of resignation in the words; she would have enjoyed a dalliance, but he had been right when he said this was no place for a tryst.

"And I don't have any time to waste," he said easily. 

Slipping the vial away on his person, he watched Dasia for a moment longer. He had seen the fire well enough, but he knew better than to question such things with the witch. There was no purpose in it. He would not get a straight answer. And neither did the answer matter. 

"I'll get whatchye need and bring it back here. With the seas as stormy as they are and the fuckin' trolls fightin' the Kul Tirans, they won't come near here. Right under their fuckin' noses."

He already started to leave, but stopped and glanced back at Dasia. "Ye will be here when I fuckin' need it, aye? Or are ye gonna pull some creepy shit and materialize on my ship when I got the eye?"

Her laughter was bright. "Here is well enough; I promised the riding of rough waters to another, I will be here on land for you to find." Dasia took a step away, not bothering to leave Karsteth with a linger glance-- she had what she wanted, and promise of his return.

Maybe they might have time then, maybe not, but she had smarting lips and heat to remember him by and that was enough.

As her gaze slid over the rock, she glanced to the mainland as well, and lifted a hand-- marks, inky and dark appeared on the skin in a rush as she felt the wind that blew from it, and the scent of magics that swirled within. "Oh, I will be here." Her smile grew sharp as she stepped between shadows of a tree, and seemed to disappear, only her words remaining. "Afterall, you brought me exactly where I need to be."

Karsteth watched as she stepped forward. He saw the blow of the breeze, and then he saw the shadows encompass her until she was not but an echo of her voice. He took in a deep breath of the ancient-scented land and sea - the blood and rotten earth of it all. 

"Right where ye need to fuckin' be," he murmured, repeating her sentiments. With a shake of his head, he turned fully and announced himself as he headed back to the White Widow, as the voices and sounds reached his ears once more.

"Get ready to make way, men! We're leavin' within the hour, repairs done or not!"

Part I | Part II | Part III

Naked from long, silver-threaded dark hair to ashen, cracking feet, she swayed slowly. Feathers coiled in her grey, wild locks alongside scales, hooked talons wreathed around her lips a macabre belt that trailed into the dead fire. Paint-- or ichor-- swirled over curves and muscle.

At her feet, three stones. At her feet, three deals made. 

Her son had worked so hard shaping them, from the materials she had sought for on her own. What she would receive would fill the frames, become them in the magics of fire and blood and feather, and then... he would have his eyes. It would be perfect. It would be a deal completed once again.

In the cradle of a tree trunk, a baby burbled. The boy's dark hair was just starting to grow, soft and round features still shaping into any familiar pattern. The likeness, around the eye though... was unique.

Dasia took a talon from her belt, and cut a line down her palm. Raising it high, the embers exploded around her-- a gout of flame consuming.

And then, as soon as it was done, she stepped away-- pristine, the paint and gore cleaned of her body, the grey once more washed away to dark and silky locks.

Picking up the baby and a thin wrap, Dasia clucked softly at him. "Ohhh my little precious child, do you know your father is coming? Let us wait for him, yes, just here."

It was no small feat to gather up everything the witch had asked for, and neither was it a small effort to bring it all with him to those shit hole woods - too close to the city for his comfort. But there he was. Smelling of sweat, blood, and the sea. No Vinny, no mutt - just him. 

Karsteth heaved with him a chest strapped to his back. Even for one as strong and as toned as he, there was still considerable strain on his face. Through trees and up hills he journeyed, all until he reached that familiar caravan and the familiar witch in front of it. 

No lust reflected in his eyes upon seeing naked flesh. He had had her before. Twice, as a matter of fact. And the sounds of cooing from a baby told him that the proof of the last fuck wasn't too far. 

He couldn't care less.

Approaching the caravan and the fire that warmed it, he gave no greeting. Rather, he grunted and heaved the chest over his shoulder. It landed on the ground with a heavy thud, dirt pluming out from beneath it. Standing straight, he threw the rope's end across the chest and looked the witch square in the eye with the one he had left.

"Dasia."

The witch smiled, tying off the shawl around her waist. It scraped the leaf litter, but she did not mind. "Karsteth." Her voice was smoky, rich, promising desires but perhaps lying as well. It was hard to tell with witches if they were pretending lust, or making mockery.

However, the coy and smug expression faded at the sight of the chest. Her eyes widened, and she took a step forward despite herself. Power radiated from the place, dark and thick as sap. "You have brought me what I need, then."

She looked up to him once more, excitement in her eyes almost... hungry. "You have completed your part of the deal."

"Yeah, I fuckin' did," he said dismissively.

The pirate turned and sat at the fire, across from Dasia, across from the gifts he bore. His singular gaze drifted to a few critters on sticks, overcooked and charred, but as she cared not for the litter of leaves, neither did he care for a burnt skin. Grabbing one of the 'meals' without asking, he brought it to his mouth and ripped into it. In place of the bitch that traveled so often with him, he was the beast this night.

"Look through and check. My mother's jawbone. My crew's blood. A secret of a dead man. A liar's tongue. Three fuckin' eyes - a whore, a holy man, and a beggar. Hair of a virgin. Amethyst, rock salt, and your fuckin' amber with a bee and everything."

He paused long enough to rip into the critter, stringy, dried-out meat dangling momentarily from his mouth before he sucked it up.

"Check through."

Dropping to knees before the chest, Dasia did not hesitate to open it. Knees against the loam, her fingers traced the metal latches, savoring. In the wood was death. So, so much death. The secret cost she had not needed to ask, for he would deliver without even being told. 

Finally she closed on the clasp, lips parted as she slowly opened it. Within... the loot.

It was not organized. Karsteth was not a meticulous man. The heaped things were rife with rot and the curdled blood, and she minded none of it. Sinking hands into the chest, she reached for bone, for organ, for rock and salt and all she needed. 

Amethyst she rolled through fingers, and nearly purred. Ohhh that was a death, one rich with meaning. The bone-- another needless death, interrupting the cycle, the flow. She ran through the list over and over again in her mind, finding each item. Blood given or stolen, eyes, secrets and--

Her fingers closed on the locks of hair.

Dasia straightened up, eyes wide, lips curled cruelly-- something electrified her skin, turned dark eyes pale purple in an instant. Breath coming heavy for a moment, she coiled the locks around her fingers, forcing a bemused expression.

"You are as good as your deals, Karsteth." She purred, standing. The orange curls still twisted in her hands. "You have brought me all I asked for, and... and more." A laugh bubbled through her lips. "Ohhhh yes. This is good. You have brought me all I need." She lifted the hair and let the dim firelight play over it. “You will get your eye."

Karsteth watched Dasia inspect the loot as he ripped another strip of dried-out meat from the critter's carcass. His one eye leveled on the witch, nude save for a sash, and the look on her face did not go unnoticed. He took another bite, then another, then another, and finally tossed the remains into the fire. There hadn't been much meat anyway.

Stretching one leg out and bending the other at the knee, he let an arm relax over his thigh.

"I better fuckin' get the eye. And I want it now." She waited for a moment, a heavy, silent moment, and then added, "What else are ye willin' to give me?"

She lifted the curls up, watching the light play on them further, entranced for another moment. "With these? You will see your enemies for true. Know them-- where they are. What they do. Always, at a whim. Know them, find them, name them for you, all at a glance!" Her voice was colored with delighted laughter. 

With these I can make you an eye that surpasses all others. All my craft, all the skill that these magics can muster, will go into your eye, Karsteth Dusktide." Her cheeks burned with a heat that was manic, and she brought close the curls, pressing them against her lower lip. "Ohhh yes, this is good news for you, Captain, and poor tidings for your enemies."

Letting her hand drop, she moved back towards the chest. "And let us see it formed, this perfect sight... but one small, small deal."

Taking the ingredients from them, she separated what she would need now, and what would come later. The eyes, the amber, amethyst and salt, the blood. The rest she gathered into the sash, and took to the space across from the fire. A bare stone had been scraped clear for her to stand on, and the price was laid there. Instead, she took the ingredients and the forms from the fire.

"Tell me of the maiden who gave you this hair, and I will make this eye for you... and give you your choice of curse, to lay upon one enemy who has been found with your sight. A true-name curse, a blood curse."

Oh, her excitement had not gone unnoticed. His eye was unwavering on her at this point. Even as he reached for his flask and brought it up to his lips, he kept watching her. The description of the eye cause the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, but he would not allow that to show on his face - not to her. He would not grant her that power, not when he had something so similar.

He let her speak, but as she offered him a deal, he leaned forward. "This 'maiden' yer askin' about. The virgin. She means somethin'. That hair means somethin'. Why."

The thrill of what was to come had her in thrall; Dasia was breathless with exhilaration, almost giggling as she spoke. "It does, it does Captain Karsteth, it means a line unbroken, it means a promise fulfilled... it means a chance not lost, oh she was so clever but cleverness cannot hide from fate little Aeya." She stroked the curls with her thumb as the flame played on their shining surface, the reflection in her pale eyes burning and bright. "I know not how you came by this... but it was luckier for you than the girl you stole it from. And I know she yet lives I can feel it still, oh blessings of blessings." 

Her grasp tightened, and several of the strands began to strain against her flesh, snapping delicately in the sooty air. "You have bought yourself the very best eye, the very best magic, the very best spell Dusktide." Some part of her wanted caution, to speak with care--but the magics had her twisted; the things chattered in her ears, made her eyes shift with barely-seen kaleidoscopic magics. What Karsteth offered was more than the key to his own deal, but... to chances thought lost. It was too perfect. 

Her magic-addled sight turned once more to him, and she canted her head. "It means you get the best version possible of this deal, as... payment for the quality of material you bring." Her voice was a purr. "Will you take my newest offer?"

Karsteth regarded Dasia with a keen interest veiled expertly behind a mask of scruff and an uncaring eye. The way that she was speaking and acting, he had rarely if ever seen the witch so happy, and while it does not concern him - what did he give a fuck - it did interest him. His attention shifted to the orange curl twisted within Dasia's fingers, his own ears perking at her question.

He shifted on the tree trunk, adjusting his legs to spread wider. He swung his bow off of his back and rest it next to him before draping both arms across either thigh. Leaning forward, towards the warmth of the crackling flames of the fire, he tilted his head back in consideration. 

"If this hair, this person means so much, what else are ye willin' to offer? What makes that hair so important than the other shit?"

Dasia paused. 

Sliding the hair into her palm, she looked Karsteth over with keen and not wholly-sane eyes. Despite the relaxed posture, the careless words, she could feel his interest rising just as her own had upon sight of the hair. It could be dangerous, she knew, to work with a man like Karsteth. She was old (older than old) and yet men like him still knew how to stoke fear. Where will was strong, magic could not even bend. "Oh, if only..."

Yet... Opportunity flooded in where once had been nothing more than a deal. He could be useful; had proven such many times over. "Mm. I told you, before, when I had promised three eyes to do the work, that I could not make perfection without the right reagents." She had thought he would fail; instead... "You brought me something very rare, and precious; tel'dorei hair." She lifted the locks higher, so he could inspect. 

"We don't have many, these days, and fewer of us with magic. But you found one." Not lies-- none of it was lies, she was sure of it. "A runner, a reader, a seeker, a weaver. Whatever she was, she is of the blood, and so... her hair is worth so much more. Which is why I offer such a curse to you now-- it would be worth my time, to know where others of my ilk linger. Witches do so like to know what witches do."

Karsteth knew Dasia's speech well enough. At least, he thought he did. His gaze remained unwavering from the witch as he asked five simple words, his voice low like gravel and tasting of the promise of blood.

"What's she worth to ye?"

What is she worth?

He had no idea.

Dasia did not let the breath that caught in her throat show; no, she would give him enough to show her interest, but not what this mean in full. Not that this... girl, this virgin, was Aeyanti's daughter, the last of--

"More to me alive than dead." She spoke quietly, with sing song. "Oh, she's worth the lives of half a dozen of my people here-- If you were... some other creature, I'd spill their entrails at your feet now." Dasia's sight was light. "It's unfortunate you are a man, then, because what you want might not be so simple. " Placing the reagents down carefully in a row, she began to organize what she would need for the spell; her own materials, and those the pirate had brought.

As she worked, she spoke. "Let us be fair Karsteth, you know how little I ask for, in return for my magics. Strange items, yes, but not gold-- not kingdoms. Yet, for her? You could ask of me much, and I would give gladly. Any woman you desire, any trophy you could chase-- the luck of the devil himself, even. If you could bring me more than hair."

He considered that offer and considered it heavily. Wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue, her scratched at the scruff on his neck and allowed his one-eyed gaze to finally drift back to the fire. Dancing flames caught his attention as he spoke absent-mindedly. 

"I got my own fuckin' hunt to do first," he said. "But afterwards, if this eye works as it fuckin' well should.... Maybe we can make a deal."

He looked to Dasia at that. "Ye love yer fuckin' deals, after all. And she's just some brat. For now, I'll take the fuckin' deal ye offer. What d'ye wanna know about the bitch? We can talk while ye work." At that, he nodded his chin down to what she was currently doing.

The three baubles drawn from the ashes, Dasia began her work. "Ohh, where she was, what she did-- if she showed magics, if she made deals, what you took and how you took it. Speak of what you saw, and the curse is yours to cast as you will." 

Her hands were quick, and clever; the eyes slid into the etched casings, the old, ichorous blood oozing no bother. She remained unbothered as she took the stones... and pushed them deep into the rotting tissues of stolen eyes. Without a word, the fire in the pit seemed to grow once more, a low and hazy flame that was more heat than flicker. 

"You may speak, but needs must my words are saved for... other things." She tossed a coil of hair off her chest and took up the rest of the reagents... barely willing to let go of the hair. She could use it for her own purposes, better than all of Karsteth's deals... but, he was a clever hunter.

She could give him this, keeping just enough for herself, and get the girl if only she was patient. And Dasia was very patient.

With bare hands, the woman reached into the fire for the wood ash, pouring it through her fingers and over the trio of orbs. There was a strange... twist in magics barely perceptible, and she smiled. When she spoke next, though, it was not words. Not words Karsteth understood. Singsong and low, they seemed to be made for other creatures, whose lips and mouths were larger, more suited for teeth.

Karsteth watched with mild interest, his ears perked to see if he understood any of the 'words' the witch spoke. Offering her a moment to start, he took in a breath and reached for his flask at his hip. The taste of whiskey was a burning one that only succeeded in making his voice harsher, rock-against-rock and full of poison as always.

"Seen her before. Young bitch, on the fatter side. Short curly hair. She had been actin' as a bartender down in Booty Bay first time I met her. Didn't think anythin' of it, though she had some tie to somethin' I'd seen on another person. A boy with grey eyes and a flat bitch with a temper."

He shrugged, taking another pull of whiskey. 

"She was at a similar place when I saw her next. Was there lookin' for a whore for the eye. Ye'd know she was a virgin just by lookin' at her. She wouldn't know what the fuck to do with a man. Couldn't keep her fuckin' eyes off of me the first time and she was gettin' the way virgin bitches do. Figured if I didn't get a whore's eye, could at least get the hair. Was gonna fix her 'problem' as well but another bitch, her sister by the sounds of it, came. Tattooed cunt with black hair. Looked like a whore, spoke like a whore, smelled like a whore."

A cruel smirk spread across his face. "Two fer one."

Her hands worked the magic into the vessels, ash and flame sinking into the stone skins. The words changed their shape, strange and thick, from stone to malleable to liquid... it was repulsive, and obvious, the shimmering of smoke over the work. Each was turned into something beyond what it had been, a heaviness to the air as the small clearing began to fill with blood-scented smoke. Karsteth would feel it, laying on his hair and skin, thick over his leather gear, like a pyre's offering. Oily, greasy, weighted with death.

It carried the scents of a mutiny, of raved seaside towns, of ichor and sea-wet steel. To another, it might be the fall of the city. Magic moved in it, like curled beasts, shifting awake, sliding and squirming through the murk towards the woman at the fire pit.

Despite this, Dasia listened to Karsteth's words, her voice lowering further as she slid the spoils through the flames. From fingers to elbows, the skin of her arms was growing paler-- chalky, cracked, but she seemed unbothered. The only twitch came as he described solving problems.

Her indignation was short lived. As he spoke, painted the picture... Dasia's eyes widened. She did not take take her gaze from the work, but each strange syllable was painted with laughter, bubbling, wicked. She was blessed, then, blood offerings taken and returned tenfold. She knew this whore. She knew this Eye.

She pushed fingers into what had been her niece's flesh, and smiled widely. The best eye, by far for this Captain, but he would never know why.

Taking a breath, she released the magic, and there-- one orb, nearly spherical. Milky and pale, like an egg. "Almost done. It seems you were blessed by great luck.... but did she use magics for you?"

Karsteth halted his words at that, uncertain if he wished to give the witch the details. For a moment, he saw vermilion. He saw his dreams. He saw the vision. For a moment, he felt the pang in his chest, like the steel was still through his chest. But with another swig of the whiskey, it was gone.

"She read some cards."

Unwinding several strands of orange hair from her fingers, Dasia coo'd. "You read cards, little one? Why... what strangeness runs in the blood." Taking the curls, she carefully wound them around the egg, now lifting her eyes to Karsteth.

"Say for me, for this spell, what you want from the eye."

As she spoke, she stepped into the flame, and it grew around her-- the orb settled in her palms, thread-like hair golden in the light as it wrapped around it, made a nest. "Speak, and we shall make."

Arching his brow, Karsteth looked at the little orb and paused, waiting. Speak the spell. Why do you want from the eye.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he spoke clearly: “I want to see my fuckin’ enemies. To find ‘em even when they be hidin’ in their fuckin’ holes like coward cunts.”

At the moment his words finished, the fire began to creep. It did not gust, like it would in a high wind-- did not tower. Like vines, or slithering things it spread up Dasia's body, flame turning from orange to red to brown and bloody. It followed strange, esoteric patterns on her body, leaving ash and greyness in its wake.

A stank began to permeate the glade, carried in the smoke and the witches chanting... which had begun quiet, almost imperceptible, and then grew louder and louder. In her hands, the egg seemed to twist and writhe, attempting to escape her clutched. In with the strange words, his own were woven.

"I want to see my fuckin enemies..." More singsong spell, then "To find em, even when they be hiding..." it was not just her repeating him; he heard his own voice on her lips, the edges frayed with deep and dark laughter.

When the flames crawled to her hands, they pounced upon the egg, and there was a great hissing-- a great shudder, and smoke filled his eyes, his lungs and he couldn't see, couldn't breathe--

And then, it was over. Dasia knealt before him, head slightly bowed but eyes lifted to his, and in her palms... an eye.

It looks real, save the gloss on it. It looks perfect. The bundle of nerves on the back twitch slightly, and she leans forward. "Let me graft this to you, and you will never want for Sight again, Karsteth Dusktide."

The Captain did not recoup at the stench nor the show of magic and blood red wind. He had seen similar things before, but not this intense. But he knew that he had nothing to fear. This was for him. And if it turned on him, she would die. It was simple. Magic be damned. 

As Dasia knelt, the eye in hand, he looked her over. There was something sexual and something more than that. He did not bother hiding how much he enjoyed having someone kneel before him. And for another instant, the vision flashed. He was not on a tree trunk. He was on a throne of bone, flesh, gold, and ship. 

And in an instant, the vision was gone once more. 

He stared at Dasia a moment longer before reaching for his eye patch and removing it. There it was. A gnarled hand-shaped scar and a gaping hole, healed flesh strung across it. 

“I’m waitin’,” he said, his voice low.

Sliding forward on knees, Dasia laid one hand on Karsteth's scarred cheek. There was romance, and maternal softness, and even more-- possessiveness in the gesture. Her pale amethyst eyes locked onto his gaze, and she held it, arrested while threaded magics in strange unnameable colors slid from palm to cheek and into the socket.

The eye held lightly in fingers, Dasia breathed softly on it once-- almost a blown kiss-- and then with surety, slid it into the void in the man's face.

"This will hurt... and then, it will be euphoric." 

And it was. The pain started small, nerves long dead being coaxed to life. It was like fireants inside his skull, biting and tearing and rendering things sharp and caustic and new. The feeling grew sharper and sharper, until his thoughts would be consumed, and then--

Then the eye took hold, and where there was pain, suddenly... peace. More than that, satisfaction. Murky, his vision would slowly begin to return.

Though the pirate snarled and looked as though he were as his mutt, ready to strike at the touch of the witch, he paused and waited. Staring her down, he looked at her - not the eye. Even as her soft breath coaxed it forward. His brows twitched at her warning, but it was one that came too late.

The pain was intense and deep within his skull. He grit his teeth and pulled from her grasp, raising a hand to cover the socket-made-whole. His mind screamed and even he let out a seething grunt. Breaths came faster, shallow, laced with anger and pain. Sweat sprang to his forehead as he finally let loose a roar of sorts, screaming out, "FUCK!!"

And then....

The pain diminished. It evaporated. He could catch his breath, and he did so. Even his good eye was hazy as it opened, the other remaining behind a hand for a moment as he found his bearings.

"What--....the fuck--......"

Dasia smiled, and leaned in to press a very soft, quick kiss to Karsteth; she too felt the connection of eye and bearer and it was delightful, a feeling of rightness. A thing made for the ma, and now, properly placed. A deal done well.

"Shhh, give it a moment to settle. Then, you will know. It will see for you as an eye should, and when you force concentration, when you think of your enemies... they will be made known. The more you know of the enemy, the easier, faster it shall be, but none will evade your sight long."

Karsteth accepted the kiss, though not necessarily from want; he was still finding his feet, finding the ability to catch his breath. At her words, he started to slowly lower his hand, and there the eye was: unnatural in all ways, especially when sitting next to its foster brother of fel-green. He looked to one side, then another, then another...the vision hazy.

"Can I see out of this fuckin' thing normally too or will it only be my enemy?

"It ain't workin'," he pushed impatiently.

Stifling a laugh, she tapped his knees with her fingertips, still giddy to feel how easily this was all settling, despite the mans impatience. "You have been without sight for many months. Give your mind a moment..." 

Even as he complained and she spoke, his vision would begin to clear. It was not comfortable; his vision somewhat unfocused, crosseyed as things tried and failed to be monocular, but then... slowly, it was working.

"It will be as a true eye very soon, and as Sight just after." With a smile, she gathered the earth at her feet and murmured to it with a spell. It shifted in her hands and became a mirror; dark, like the dirt around her, but reflective. She held it to him, allowing Karsteth to see his face as his new eye grew accustomed to seeing for him.

Karsteth made no move away from her hands on his knees, but almost jerked away when she held up the makeshift mirror. A rabid dog, confused and feeling cornered was a danger. But when he saw his face, he halted. There it was: the scar left on his face by Quineven, the trader of secrets, the broker. Gnarled. And there, in its palm, was the eye. 

He was about to remark on how it was ugly, how it didn't match, but then there was red. He though at first that it was blood. That there was something wrong. So much so that he stood from the tree stump and leaned back, groping for something to hold onto - but finding nothing. 

"What--..."

The blood speckled in, little by little, covering his vision. He looked to Dasia but only saw her from one eye. From the other, vermilion. Like the dream. Like the constant dream. No, not vermilion. Orange. Like a sunset.

"--the fuck--....."

Dasia settled back on her legs, watching the last bits of magic take hold. “Patience... wait. What do you see?" It was hard enough giving the man the space he needed to acclimate; he was violent when confused, and this would be very confusing.

She focused in, and... used the connections she had not told him about. She shifted her perspective so she could sense the magics as they moved, and... she tagged along with his vision.

He didn't need to know she left a connection there-- it wasn't necessary. But it had tagged along with the magic inside of the curse, so she would feel when it was placed... and feel if he came across any more of those orange curls.

"What do you see?"

"I see fuckin' red, I see--"

He stopped. 

What was hazy became clear little by little. The orange was hair. Bright, thick locks that swept over one shoulder as a woman read a book in her hands. One shoulder was against a window  and the light was illuminating her features. Eyes tainted with fel, sharp and narrowed. A small, slightly-rounded nose. Lips turned into a frown until they moved. She was talking with someone that he could not see. He could only see her.

And he fucking recognized her.

"Little....fucking....bitch," he growled low beneath his breath.

She could not see as he saw; could only feel the magics. And she felt when they settled on his target.

"Now, you see. You see what the eye can give."

He was standing, staring ahead. Fury burned deep in his gut, flames licked up to his chest. Where he lacked heart, he held rage. His crew was loyal. Sometimes they strayed, but they never abandoned him. He had made a deal for that. He had made a deal with her, then why--

He looked to Dasia.

With that cunt still in his sight - two now - he reached down and violently twisted his hand into Dasia's hair. He jerked her up to her feet, dragged her whether she was ready for it or not. Charging forward, he slammed her back against the caravan that was her 'home'. 

"YOU FUCKIN' BITCH!! YOU SAID MY CREW WOULDN'T FUCKIN'--"

But he paused. The bitch was not part of his crew. She was a bitch, a stowaway, a plaything, a toy, a nuisance, a tool. But not crew. His grip remained on Dasia's hair, he stayed there, pinning her against the caravan as realization seeped into him. 

And all the while, he could see the flash of bright orange in the corner of his vision.

Dasia hissed as she was grabbed up, the connection to the magic interrupted by his yank of hair. She snapped at him in that same spell language, but there was no magic to it-- just a string of epithets. 

"Tch, whoever your enemy is, they aren't of yours and you know this. Not of the crew, not of those you paid for. My magics don't unravel so easily." She sneered at him now, hands coming to claw at the fist buried in her dark locks. "And so long as you live those you bought with blood will remain loyal, but tell me you brought me this enemies blood, and you will speak lies."

Dasia's nails grew sharp-- sharper than any elves-- and they punctured the surface of Karsteth's skin without digging deeper. "You have your eye and your target, and a curse besides. You have the tools to break your enemies. Our deal is complete."

His grip remained as he realized, both from his own knowledge and hers. He grimaced as claws pierced his hands, but he was a stubborn one. He refused to release unless it was on his terms. And so, he gripped harder, more painful. With a yank, only then did he release and turn. 

Abruptly, he moved, striding back to grab for his bow. Stringing it over his back, he turned once more to the path. 

"Aye, our deal is complete. I have a fuckin' bitch to kill."

Finally, the image in his new eye faded, but the last image he saw of her - of the woman - was of her smiling. Perhaps laughing. As though she was laughing at him. 

A curse was a fitting punishment to tide over until he could find her. And so as he left the witch's fire, he spoke the name aloud to invoke.

"Esme Sunshard."