天动万象

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𝐘𝐎𝐔  𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃  𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄.  waist  deep  in  a  fresh  grave,  you  learned  to  hold  your  breath  whilst  choking  on  a  mouthful  of  dirt.  to  reach  solid  ground,  you’d  have  to  traverse  the  blackholes  of  ketterdam  and  take  what  you  want  —  the  deal  is  the  deal  until  it  suits  you  otherwise  (  as  the  turncoat  now  knows  ).  a  natural  villain,  you’ve  never  been  concerned  with  washing  the  blood  from  your  hands.  if  you  know  your  next  move,  it’s  never  lonely  at  the  top.  content  in  the  cataclysm  once  reaped  by  your  own  gang,  it  was  a  cutthroat  heist  that  derailed  an  expanse  of  achievements.  head  to  head  with  the  bastard  of  the  barrel,  you  beat  each  other  bloody;  a  brawl  which  should  have  put  one  six  feet  under  but  ended  in  brothers  sporting  deranged  grins.  you  could  have  cut  your  losses  and  ran,  yet  ascended  to  the  crow’s  second  in  command,  a  staggering  sense  of  fealty  causing  you  to  shake  kaz  brekker’s  gloved  hand.  but  a  voice  whispers  that  the  dregs  could  be  your  own,  and  like  a  bad  dog,  you  get  mean  when  you’re  nervous,  plotting  to  take  the  throne.

ABOUT THE WRITER –––––––––––  hello everybody! henry jude here, from gmt+8, happy to present jozef laurens de ridder, resident lieutenant, local mess, and all-around sus crewmate. 

THE SETTING :  SUMPTOUS, RICH, PROSPERITY-TIPPED with the flavour of all the lost dreams and broken futures that have been sacrificed for the betterment of another. No one in Ketterdam becomes rich without paving the way with the broken bodies and bleeding fingers, and the opulence that greets them is both testament and evidence to a grim history indeed. The walls     ———     ivy-covered, with iron grills covering windows to bar any prospective thief     (  which, Jozef supposes, is a good thing, because thieving is not what they’re here for  )     and with the imposing grandeur of a house only that big could possess     ———     would have perhaps been enough to intimidate lesser gangs, lesser people ;  but the time to turn back has long passed, if it even existed in the first place.

     ❛  Ready ?  ❜     Jozef signs. They had already gotten past the gates, and now the only thing left is to actually go inside     ———     which might have been laborious, had they not paid off a disgruntled employee inside the man’s house quite the pretty pretty penny to ‘forget’ to lock a certain window in the second floor. Now, as their     (  literal, heh  )     window of opportunity waits for them, Jozef finds himself pausing the flow of operations.

     ❛  Remember,  ❜     he signs, in a way that makes it look as if he’s trying to remind Valdis, but seems suspiciously close to looking more like a reminder to himself,         ❛  in-and-out, no time for dawdling, no time for gawking. We accomplish the mission and we vanish like thieves in the night.  ❜     

location : the slat with : open

hands flicker in quick motion as she stands at the base of one of the leaning staircases, one foot planted on a creaking step. weight is pressed forward until the wood creaks beneath her boot. head tilts at the sound and a soft sound of contemplation slips from astrid’s lips. something in her eyes SPARKS, focused, and hands move swiftly once more as weight is removed from the step. when she presses forward again there is no sound.

“there,” head turns and there is a satisfied sort of look in the mild curl of her lips, “that will keep that step settled for now. the slope of the building will - it will resettle wrong, but not for some time.” it is the sort of thing that is small, that is simple, that is FIXING. there is a path of warmth that courses through astrid when she fixes rather than destroys ; DESTRUCTION is icy fingers down her throat, creation is sunlight on the crown of her head. hands fall to her side and for a breath she thinks of what she could have done in fjerda. the roofs patched and protected against ice and sleet. paths that would not become slick so easily.

when she blinks she pretends the thought is dismissed and does not lurk insidious in the back of her skull. “i have plans for some of the doorframes later, but i will have to do greater inventory of the walls before attempting to correct them.”

HE’S BEEN WATCHING HER, CURIOUS, STEADFAST, WATCHFUL ;  she’s fixing things, this sophomore addition to the crew     ...     too established by now to be still called fresh ;  yet even so     ———     even still     ———     not so familiar that Jozef has already memorised her idiosyncrasies :  the food she takes every morning ;  the length of her strides during nighttime, roving the streets of Ketterdam ;  even the weight of her glare, the knuckles of her balled-up fists, the back of her skull. She’s a saint for doing this, thankless work that would perhaps go unnoticed, utterly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things ; and so he wonders if she knows he’s there, if this is a piece of theatre meant for him, if this was all some kind of bizarre attempt at play-acting, or perhaps at playing house.

     (  He does not, for one second, think of a good deed done simply for good     ———     or if he does, it is a thought easily dismissed, as if it was never there, as if it was never worth pursuing.  )

JOZEF LAURENS DE RIDDER  ━━  @zhongwei​

The Lieutenant’s shadow casts wide down along their path to Fifth Harbor. It is there Sigyn follows, as cobblestones turn to decking beneath her feet and the busy, muddled air of The Barrel’s interior gives way to a salted ocean breeze. She is best for the task, a fact she determined last night when she’d volunteered to accompany him ━━ no doubt to the surprise of all those present as Sigyn’s distaste for the man was not a subtle thing kept quiet. However, it was not for the task itself that she deemed herself qualified ( as all it would require to accomplish was a pulse, just steady enough to check on the state of the shipment the Dregs were expecting following The Verglas’ explosion) but instead for her true aim ━━ to keep a watchful eye on their second in command. 

She didn’t trust the man, not at all. How could she, when simply at the whisper of his name the bones would furiously scream their warnings to her? Patterns divining deception, promises of blood and death. Sigyn takes their message to heart, and at every opportunity that presents, she finds herself here ━━ in his shadow. Waiting. Watchful. ( … and, if she were being honest with herself…  Spiteful. )

Approaching the edge of dock, the damage weeks old is still plain to see. Black ash spread like a halo from where the The Verglas had lit up the night’s sky ━━ she’d seen it’s glow all the way from The Slat, and slinked away to await word on what had happened ( having precisely no interest to venture anywhere nearer the blaze; she’d had her fill of flames for a lifetime. )

Sigyn comes to a stop, toes just over the ledge, looking downwards into the water. It calmly lapped up against the structure where they stood, as if still enjoying sated rest after it’s feast of foreign vessel and screaming crewmen. For a moment, her mind wanders ━━ thoughts of a ’careless’ push, an unlucky fall; a cracked skull, lungs filling with salt and brine, the echo of a heart in panic, before slowing, beat after beat after beat until… Sigyn smiles, a crooked little amusement, eyes flickering upwards to her companion, unsure where the line between fantasy and premeditation truly lay. 

“Well, boss?” she asks finally, the title chosen for him steeped in ridicule. “Where is it? Below us on the ocean floor? Swept away in a pile of ash? What was in there that you felt required your personal attention, I wonder?” A baseless accusation, she was sure. But, one day, she’d be right. Until then, there would be no cease fire.

DEFEAT TASTES LIKE ASH, LIKE DIRT, LIKE DREGS     ———     which, of course, tastes like nothing :  abstract concepts and complicated manoeuvres of the brain, failure turned to poetry turned into pitiful attempts at transforming the lack into something more palatable for one’s mind. That he has an audience for this moment would have made him irritable regardless, but the fact that the audience is her     (  of all the possible people from the crew !  )     turns irritation into something sharp-edged and gritty, a lumbering weight of a cataclysm barely contained, bone and flesh holding the tempest of his soul, whatever hold he has on his construct corralling the temptation to unravel, to unwind, to unleash     ———     and it remains to be seen whether this horrible clockwork system of blood and bones would win or if this would be the moment he lets himself slip.

     ❛  Just say you know nothing of economics, Sigyn  ❜     ———     he fingerspells her name. In truth, he fingerspells everyone’s name, but never does he try to make a point of making it obvious more often than he does with her     ———     ❛  or that you lack for imagination     ...    this is one of the busiest harbours in the world. The question you should be asking is  ❜     ———     and here he smiles, expression almost benevolent, settling on his face like something that belongs     (  it doesn’t, or    ...    rather, it shouldn’t  )     and it’s like an adult talking to a child, to someone who doesn’t or couldn’t understand, as if humouring her, as if condescending     ———     ❛  what wasn’t I keeping tabs on ?  ❜

If it sounds like boasting, it’s because it is. Not everything requires his attention, but it’s far better that Sigyn think him far more involved than he actually is. Involvement, after all, in her mind is just a way of dressing up treachery     ———     and rarely/sometimes/never/often     (    the narrative switches as befits his comfort     )     he thinks treachery suits him, the idea of it, the feel of it resting in the hollow of his soul, like a glove on his hands     (  and here a stray thought :  like dirtyhands’ gloves ?  )     that eternal literary flourish of his life, once betrayed, turned betrayer, and how would it feel, he wonders. How would it be. How would it taste. 

     (  How would Sigyn look like when all her worst fears about him come true.  )

      (  Like earth, perhaps. Like soil. Like dregs. Like dirt. Like ash. Like defeat.  )

THIS :  THE PLACE WHERE HONOUR COMES TO DIE.  This :  the place where money comes to be lost, then found, then lost again    ———     all in an endless cycle of profit and loss that keeps the whole world spinning around. This :  the place where loose lips have definitely sunk ships, where good men are but figures from the myths we recount to make ourselves feel better about the world, where words are spilt and exchanged and yet not a hint of truth exists in any of them. 

It is the perfect setting, then, for a drink with an     ...     associate, let’s call it.     (  Friend is too close, and co-worker too formal.  )     It is the time of unwinding, unravelling. The whole of East Stave comes to life only at night, where darker deeds get enshroud by stygian cloak, those luminescent orbs in the sky serving as the only witness. Their intentions here are less illustrious than such concerns     ———     Jozef had genuinely made the invitation in an approximation of the spirit of goodwill     ———     but with the burnt remains of The Verglas in its watery grave, there’s a tension thick with the prescience of danger, something he could almost taste with his tongue :  delicious, swirling, seductive.

@zhongwei

It had been days. A week, really? Manu couldn't remember, his mind too occupied by unsavory speculation to keep track of how long they had been tailing that idiot. If at least he had had the decency of stopping near a restaurant, Manu could've eaten by now. Yet another aspect of this shady business he didn't care for. This dealt in silence, unmoving. Manu lived in the loud, wild places. It almost felt like the boss was punishing him with this assignment. A little rope to the wrist and shout at the ear for being a bad, bad boy. Specially when considering the company.

That Djel forsaken company.

He was nice enough to look at, Manu would grant it easily. Strong jawline, beautifully shaped lips. Better than the mark, anyway. But Jozef's face... it was familiar. It belonged in the night he came to Ketterdam and to the blood debt he still owed. Half of Manu had been lost to that thought over the course of the week. Why keep it quiet? Why not demand the payment in full? It just didn't fit. The certainty Jozef was the one who took him out of the water with the complete absence of the subject in the days they've spent together over those months.

And if there was something the Barrel taught Manu, was that blood is always paid in full. No matter the circumstances.

Manu realized he was staring. Obviously. Questioning. "Jozef", it had to be him. But that name shouldn't have been said aloud. Shit. Why couldn't that stupid mark do something interesting? "Ahm... how long do we have to do this again?". Because there was also the poking Jozef so much enjoyed. Or was it pleasantries, really? Manu had the odd feeling the other dreg had far more on him than Manu could possibly guess at the moment. Questions about his nights, one following a nightmare had in the harbor. There just couldn't be so much bad luck to be had at once with just one person. Surely Jozef knew nothing of his ridiculous insomnia, nights slept at the harbour, nightmares leading to screams. Djel, no. Please. "I'm starving", he said instead, lips pressed together, eyes still fixed on Jozef, brain ignoring the mark. Let this be over.

                                      ––––––––––––––––––

EVERY DAY AND EVERY DAY dripped, dripping onto the ever-changing amorphous blob of time itself      ———     the constant, relentless, never-ending flowing of the currents of his life. His life : stricken with ennui, the same things happening all over again, the same narrative recast in different settings, different characters, yet still the same meaning, the same symbols.   (  Yet more fool is he, for ever thinking there is meaning and there are symbols still that stand for something.  )   Here, another mark ; there, another trail to follow. So on and so forth, and nevermind the end      ———     not that there ever can be an end, because there never will be, not in Ketterdam : itself a yawning chasm, endless void of greed and grit     ———     nevermind the means. The only thing to mind is the price and the prize, which were     (  if one were un/fortunate, depending on one’s vision  )     the same thing regardless.

For now, there is the mission, and there is the directive. Simple orders. A simple life. Quod erat demonstratum. Yet he barely pays attention to the mark and switches to studying the other beside him     (  a far more worthwhile pursuit, at this point : nothing going, nothing done  )     wondering how to fit what he knows into the image presented before him     ———     and it is this careful attention that alerts him to Manu    (    marvellously mellifluous and mystifying Manu     )     breaking the supposed silence they were supposed to revere and keep holy for this missive.

     ❛  Giving up already ?  ❜     His smile can be thought of as either taunting or encouraging. It is always hard to tell with him. The darkness that is both their shroud and protector also serves as cover for much of his intentions     ———     though those things are already by themselves unreadable even in the revealing light of the dawn. And still, though the light is poor, he has seen the words coming out of Manu’s mouth plenty enough times to memorise its motions, the contours of need writ into lips.     ❛  Poor you.  ❜     The motioned signs are wrapped in a sarcastic air, Jozef’s face still wearing that enigmatic smile     ———     before it vanishes like smoke in the air, face suddenly turning serious, his demeanour falling prey to some erstwhile caprice.      ❛  We do this for however long it takes. Nothing more and nothing less.  ❜