#rogaire

Rogaire

Rogaire is a crow bard who is theatrical and creative, yet they purposefully avoid sincerity and deeper emotional connection. Their music and poetry are so incredibly loud and grating that they double as actual sonic attacks, disorienting enemies and shattering objects. Rogaire desires to be remembered and appreciated. Their fear is being ignored, forgotten, or deemed completely irrelevant, believing that nothing else really matters as long as their friends stay entertained by their shenanigans.

The loyalty of John Silver is as fleeting as the changing wind. Like a tropical thunderstorm hiding in plain sight. Shay knows this. He must know this. For his loyalty can only be bought, or at the very least, that is what he tells himself. They have known each other for some time, long enough for Silver to become fond of this man, much to his dismay, for he doesn't really care for attachment. Or even caring for another person.

( it only slows him down )

There is a groan from the ship, a tilt with the waves. Years ago it would have made him keel over from seasickness, but he has learned to prevail. To adapt to the cruelty of the sea. He looks up at the man before him, knees dig into the wooden planks underneath, it doesn't bother him much. If anything, this only widens the smirk on his face.

"Do you really think, my friend, that I would betray so openly? Do you not know me at all, Shay?"

He wouldn't betray him. Not really. Not now at least, for no matter how much he would prefer to be anywhere else than at sea, there is always something interesting going on in this man's presence. Even if it might be something less than proper.

"Shall I put your doubts to rest?"

Perhaps he is too bold with this, but he doesn't really care. Not when the heat in his stomach is stirring from this position and he takes a firm grip on Shay's hips only to force him closer.

The squint of his eyes, calculating. No kindness, nor malice, but rather a look to analyse what meaning might be hidden behind those words. Did he not know who he was? That truthfully, no matter how much he learnt to control this surging power underneath his skin, it would never be enough.

How many would have to suffer, he wonders for his own greed. Did it matter? To Silver it didn't. Lives mattered little in the big picture of things, for everyone is replaceable. As soon as you came to this understanding, nothing mattered anymore.

"And yourself? Do you deem yourself the holy crusader come forth to judge?"

He smiles, but it's closer to a predator's smirk than anything. Perhaps even a little challenging, not that he believes it will come to blows between them. Still, there are parts of him that demand chaos. He turns more openly to face him now, moves with an inhuman grace that would have easily enthralled mortals. The wind pulls at his shirt, he doesn't feel it. The concept of cold, nothing but a distant memory.

"They were all weak, after all. What use would they be to me if not food for the fish?"

A tilt of his head. His past self would be revolting at the thought of what he has become. The kindness, the fear, the hope, all but killed. Frozen inside just like the dead beat of his rotted heart.

"Are you truly so righteous, or is it just pretence? You wish to believe you and I are not the same"

The smirk widens. Mischief sparkling throughout his entire being. Perhaps this had been a close call, or-- too close for comfort really, not that anyone really gave shit. At the very least Silver didn't. They lived, that should at the very least count for something.

"Oh come on, Shay! Admit it. You had fun"

Curls bounces against his shoulders as he carelessly strides several steps ahead of the other. It is a wonder he made it out whole and with only a few minor bruises due to his own clumsiness, though he supposes he truly should thank Shay for his aid.

"You make it sound like we did something utterly scandalous"

He turns, one eyebrow raised. Hands clasped between his back, moving backwards as he regards his companion with a curious look.

Silver had asked a favor. Some documents that had fallen into the wrong hands, and simple as that, he had asked for aid to get them back. Perhaps a tiny bit of a risk, considering the owner of said hands were dangerous and quite powerful... something he had, of course, kept secret until the point of no return. But hey, they'd managed, hadn't they?

"I did say I would pay you back, and I do keep my word... sometimes"

Even though she knew she shouldn't be ashamed of the scars on her palms, she was.

She would wear fingerless gloves to keep them hidden, even if the weather was warm. She didn't like for people to touch her bare hand if it could be helped. The scars reminded her of all of the horrible things that happened. They would ache when it was cold or when it rained. Sometimes, it was hard for her to hold things.

Sometimes she hated her scars.

Yet when Shay lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, she couldn't find it in herself to hate her scars at that moment. Not when he kissed it so sweetly, as if it wasn't even there. He smiled at her, that roguish smile she'd come to love.

Conall scoffs, waving a hand dismissively as he regards Shay. "What, you didn't miss me? Oh, I think I'm hurt," he teases, grinning at him mischievously. "What, you think I wouldn't have shown up to try and quash this rebellion? You ought to know me better by now."

Besides, he'd rather be here dealing with it than back in England dealing with the king. Somehow this is preferable. The king, after all, is a raving lunatic and Conall would rather not have to sit there and listen to him ramble all day.