Woolf D. Esther: Under Construction!

Red painted lips spread into a wide smile - he’s proud of where he has gotten himself. How far he’d gotten without his past known to most – before going back to the Grandline, he had determined his plan. Play himself down to climb the ranks, to avoid people trying to take him down before he can get where he wants too. Some of the things he was aiming for just happened to fall into his lap. Buggy won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, not when it will benefit him in the long run and mess with others around him. 

“It is fitting wonderfully,” He muses as he adjusts an imaginary crown upon his head. He’s aware of how he’s become perceived from his start in the East Blue till now. How many people would believe that of him? Well the Government does and he supposes that is also good for him. “I have, and I’ll just keep climbing and climbing – doing whatever I have to do.” Including playing the fool to those close to him so it looks like it’s just falling into his lap. 

@tessofbaterilla

Idly, she wonders if he remembers her. Pirates learn to recognize one another. Least if they live long enough. Whether it's paths crossed here and there, pissing contests between crews, wanted posters placed side by side on a bounty board, or stories--? Unless one's head is lodged up their ass ninety percent of the time, it's hard not to pick up some details over the years.

Even so, the Grand Line is a metaphorical meat grinder for pirates, and this 'Golden Age' they find themselves in? Well, the meat grinder just keeps chewing them up. Someone vanishes for any period of time? Probably fed the grinder.

"So much for 'heavy is the head." Her voice is low and lazy, the words slightly muffled by the cigarillo clenched between her teeth. As she watches the Star Clown tilt that imaginary crown on his head. "You know, I wrote you off as an idiot for years." Before he can respond, she holds up her free hand, indicating 'peace'. "Don't cut my throat yet. It's a compliment."

Rung by rung and up he goes, she thinks, holding a mouthful of smoke behind her teeth before puffing it into the space between them.

She plucks the cigarillo from her mouth and tilts it at him in an odd little 'toasting' gesture. "Long live the king, then."

Anywho, it's all in good fun. After all — there's no malice behind either of their words.

"I think you misunderstand. There are no secrets between me and him — well, not from my side of things, at least." Looking back at the female the second the door closes, his eyebrows then raise. "But you didn't bring me in here just to talk about Mihawk, now did you?"

Much like Shanks, Tess can be 'malicious', but not now. Not in this place, gazing at the Emperor standing in place of the boy she remembered. 'Acerbic' is a better way to describe her. After all, that's the bare minimum a woman needs to be if she's going to survive in the New World. And--really? He has no idea who she is?

She reaches up, pinching the bridge of her nose and letting out a world-weary sigh. 'Let it go, Tessie. Let it go. You're letting it go.'

"I'm not saying you aren't close. I'm saying I had no fucking idea you knew--" Letting it go. She flaps that same hand in his direction, a gesture that's all exasperation. "You've been in here five minutes and you're already driving me to drink, you know that?"

With another wave-flap of 'augh!', she turns away, striding toward the mini bar propped up against the striped tent wall.It's a fancy thing, all polished wood cabinets and cut crystal glasses, bottles of the really good booze tucked away behind the closed doors.

He's right, though. She didn't invite him in to talk about Mihawk. Squinting at the bottles lined up inside the cabinet, she sucks on one canine tooth and considers her stock. The Dressrosan orujo? Alabastan Fire Whiskey? Not the hibiscus stuff. That's from home. She's saving that bottle for a special occasion.

Speaking of which. "You want one?" She glances over her shoulder at him, brown eyes meeting his before she turns away. Red-Hair Shanks. Emperor? "If you're sticking around, you might as well get comfortable."

Because she does have a question for him, and it's not about Mihawk.

Her tail lashed once, splattering mud across Tess's thighs for good measure.

As she rose to her full height, hooves sinking deep into the mud as she loomed over Tess. The rain slicked her white coat into sharp, glistening lines, transforming her into something both magnificent and terrible. Her nostrils flared as she took in the sight of this pitiful creature—this betrayer who dared scratch her like some common stable horse. The vine around Tess's wrist snapped taut as Regalia shifted her weight, the fibers creaking ominously.

She always knew—never trust humans. Their hands, warm with false kindness, carried the scent of betrayal beneath their nails. She’d seen it firsthand, centuries ago, when they’d knelt before her with offerings of gold and wine, only to slit each other’s throats the moment her back was turned. And now this one—this rain-soaked, vine-wielding fool.

The moment she dropped her guard, the vine tightened around her neck with a cruel snap—not enough to choke, just enough to brand. She reared back, hooves slashing air where Tess's head had been a heartbeat before. Mud flung from her fetlocks in glistening arcs. Victory? This puling human thought looping a rotted vine around her throat was victory? Her lungs burned with the need to scream, but her equine throat produced only a furious whinny that cracked halfway through. 

The sound was pathetic. Unworthy. Beneath her.

So she bucked, hind legs kicking wildly like a true spooked mare—except her fury was calculated, precise. Her hooves missed Tess's skull by millimeters, close enough to shear a lock of rain-sodden hair from her temple. The vine around her neck snapped taut, biting into flesh as Tess desperately yanked back. The sting was infuriating. Delicious. She threw herself sideways, twisting with all the grace of a warhorse trained to disembowel. The vine held. Tess didn't. The human's boots skidded through mud as she was dragged forward, arms straining, face contorted in a rictus of effort and terror.

She breathed out and pulled, moving around the human, but she could not escape. The vine bit deeper with every twist, its fibrous grip tightening like a serpent’s coil. She could feel Tess’s pulse through the makeshift leash—frantic, human, so easily crushed—yet the woman held on with the stubbornness of a barnacle clinging to a ship’s hull. Mud splattered her flanks as she pivoted, her hooves carving furrows in the earth. The rain turned the ground into a slick trap, each step a gamble between traction and surrender, as she was wearing out, quickly.

By the time she's got the fucking horse moving--had she ever thought it was pretty? --she's cursing under her breath and covered in mud. Her enjoyment of the rain has turned to a pins and needles sensation spreading throughout her entire body because Mother Ocean just had to get the word out to all the other water gods out there that that a Devil Fruit user was daring to enjoy a pleasant spring rain.

Somehow, the horse ties into all that; Tess hasn't figured out how, only that Mother Ocean doesn't like the idea of her petting a pretty horse and enjoying it, either.

(It's actually a boy horse, she realizes halfway into town because, good G-d, how could she miss it at that point?)

"Could've been enjoying some peace and quiet--" she grits, and as the horse makes another go at her neck with his teeth, they skim harmlessly over the black shield of her Armament. "But no."

She doesn't know the true horror of Killingham yet or that the Knights of God have come calling. What she knows is that she's had enough of this entire messand ought to have left the horse in the woods to starve to death the way it wanted.

"Could have been in a g-ddamned inn, even." Her eyes, already heavy-lidded against the rain, narrow to angry little slits. "Could be taking a nice hot bath as we speak. But no--"

A villager is hanging out by the muddy roadside, a black umbrella above her head and her mouth half open as she stares at the muddy woman and her rearing 'companion'.

"How ya doin''?" is Tess' flat, distracted greeting to her, followed by a snarled, "I could have just thrown myself off a cliff and saved myself the trouble!" meant for Mother Ocean Herself as one hoof strikes her Armored shoulder.

Her shields hold, but her tenuous hold on her temper snaps.

She spins around, feet skidding in the mud all over again as she bares her teeth at Horse, clutching the vine lead in a white knuckled hand. "BUT NO--!" she bellows to the horse and Mother Ocean Herself.