song of burning

      FEB. 13TH, 2349           // behind the raven’s rest.

The gang has been laying low in Eel for what, a week? No, longer. Long enough to lick their wounds, certainly. Probably long enough to offload the cargo, though Widower wouldn’t actually know; those tasks have always been left to brighter minds. Long enough for the four walls of the inn to start chafing around the edges, as Widower’s always preferred the transience of camping.

Long enough for tongues to start wagging.

And, okay. Let it be known, first and foremost, that Widower is glad that Lark’s fine. It would be a real waste of talent to lose her like that. (Is that all?) Let it also be known that to this point, Widower has given Lark a wide berth. They’re empathetic like that. But Eel is only so big, and Widower’s temperance only extends so far. It’s fulfillment of inevitability that he catches them outside Raven’s Rest and ambles on over.

“Follow-through’s integral to shot stability,” he opens. It’s brusque, sure, but if Lark is going to leave or cut him off—and Widower is fairly certain that Lark is going to leave or cut him off—best the conversation be productive. “You can’t jerk the gun immediately after pulling the trigger. The bullet’ll go flyin’ Martyr-knows-where.” That’s all he means to say, but he finds himself pressing on. Perhaps Widower is more affected by his restlessness than he thought. “You can’t always just bamboozle ‘em and hope for the best.” They tip their chin at Lark. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth. “You see what I mean now, yeah?”

♡

It was only a matter of time before the confines of EEL became insufficient for Lark, and the other more than likely restless members of the Odyssey gang. She’d grown accustomed to a life of constant movement— a lifestyle that left little opportunity to be alone with one’s thoughts. Needless to say, an entire week in Eel became practically unbearable. There’d been only so many people she could pickpocket without drawing too much attention to herself— and she was at the precipice of discovering such limits.

Never mind the fact that she’d formally been banned from THE ATLANTIS, an unexpected occurrence that left her with significantly fewer ways to occupy herself as they awaited their next job. They’d settled on hanging out behind RAVEN’S REST, a poorly rolled cigarette between her fingers— muttering something unimportant beneath her breath.

She needs not to look up to know the person that’s joined her. Perhaps she’d grown accustomed to the pacing of their footsteps— perhaps it had more to do with them being one of the few people who could approach her without a proper greeting. Regardless— she’d recognized who it was— and his more than likely reasoning for being there. She exhales deeply, not bothering to disguise her already budding irritation. At least he’d spared her for the first week.

“I’ll give some credit where it’s due. I know you’ve just been itchin’ to get that off your chest,” Lark retorts, her words oozing with sarcasm. “It must’ve taken a significant amount of discipline for you to not immediately tell me everything that’s wrong with me.” Her words were a tad bit more sensitive than she’d intended. It was true that this was WIDOWER’s way of being helpful, but that didn’t make her hate proving him right any less. If they’d approached her right after the robbery— like she knew he truly wanted to— she might’ve told him to fuck off immediately. But the week served to dull her obstinance significantly. “Trust me, I more than know that now,” they assure Widower between gritted teeth. I’ve always known that. “The tips, I’m may be willing to accept. Only maybe.” For now. She’d been too exhausted to put up a fight. “The lecturing? Could do without.” She understands that this is perhaps his own convoluted way of showing he cares— but it still annoyed Lark to no end. “You would think we weren’t damn near the same age with the way you like to scold me.”

Old Halo was careful not to play favorites within the Jack Odyssey Gang. After all, she wanted the Gang to believe she could be an impartial listener, a fair judge when disputes arose. More than anything, she wanted Jack to believe she was advising him based on the members’ abilities, not out of a desire to protect them. Which was why one of the members she cared most about checking in one was left for last.

She was hoping to catch Lark on her own, which was why she stopped by her room at the inn, rather than waiting to catch her at the Atlantis or wandering town. She was a little surprised - and relieved - to actually find her there. She stepped into the room, giving Lark a warm smile. “Hi, dear,” she said, gently shutting the door behind her. “I’ve been going around, checking in on everyone. Are you doing alright, is there anything you need? I did hear that things got a little hairy for you, Widower, and Witness.” An understatement, perhaps.

Although with most of the gang, Old Halo’s concern was more of a sugar-coated act, she eyed Lark like a worried mother hen. She wasn’t quite sure where that sense of loyalty came from. Maybe it was misplaced, stemming from guilt over the community she’d abandoned when she became a Resurrector. Or maybe it was simply because she looked at Lark and still saw a shy child, despite how much she’d grown over the years.

“You handled it well, of course,” she continued, careful to keep her tone reassuring. “But I wouldn’t blame you, if you were shaken over it.”

♡

They’d developed an unexpected habit of crossing paths with their old gods. Though they’d never believed in god in a formal sense— there’d been a select few people in her youth who’d taken on the role of a makeshift god of sorts. A RESURRECTOR seemed like the most obvious choice, but she’d never been fond of any of The Faith in that sense. OLD HALO becomes the exception. Perhaps things were different when a god lived next door to you. Perhaps it was different when said god possessed the gift of storytelling— an ability she’d long coveted and done everything in her power to mimic. This is who Old Halo was for Lark, and even more so in her departure.

To reencounter Old Halo in this manner felt surreal. For what were the odds of Lark becoming a member of the Jack Odyssey Gang, just as she did? If they’d believed in fate, they would’ve designated it as such. Even when she’d known it was all a matter of a world becoming far too small for the both of them. Never mind the fact that each whimsical encounter she has with the woman leaves her feeling all too real— and in ways that were never meant to be. The reason why the MARTYR was so easy to believe in was because he’d been elevated through his death— an elevation that made him inaccessible to humans. Such an inaccessibility was a necessity in the construction of a god.

It was rare that Lark could be found in the confines of her room. Remaining in a singular place always made her restless. She’d been presently plotting her next course of action, the door propped ajar ever so slightly in case someone decided she’d been worth bothering in that moment. She’d expected the presence of Dove, or even Widower, more than anything— but Old Halo had been a welcomed surprise. They clear their throat, forcing herself into an upright position, lowering their boots from the table. She’d suddenly been aware that this was ill mannered— since when had Lark ever given a damn about manners?

They clear their throat uncharacteristically, in search of the right words to say. “Howdy,” she finally manages in greeting, doing their best not to sound startled. People checking in on them was still a foreign concept. “I’m doing alright. I’m just…” She mutters under her breath— exhaling. “No, thank you. Unless you happen to have some whiskey on you.” It wasn’t as if she’d gotten banned from the local bar, but she’d practically been on the brink of it.

She saunters on over and Farrier can’t help but feel a little relieved for it. There have been times where he’s asked for help and been told to straight up go fuck himself. “You mean, do I get tired of herding you all like cats every day just to see if you’ll eat two meals? Well, it’s not as easy as killing, but it’s something to do.” Farrier can’t help but laugh at his own quiet joke. He watches Lark cut the carrots with relative focus, pleased that she doesn’t lose her pinky, and decides that she probably doesn’t need to be babysat when it comes to chopping. He focuses, instead, on the withered and sad looking tomatoes set out before him. “Put those in the pot over there, and then there are more under the potatoes… I think.”

He ponders on what aliens may or may not look like. Truth be told, he’s never really thought about it before, but looking at the carrots now versus what they’d looked like before… maybe they did look like aliens. He winces. Gross. “Why do you ask? You wanna take over, give me a week off so I can sunbathe and bask in the shade?”

Somehow, he’d always managed to elucidate a response without directly answering her question, but it was always a response that said more than a plain yes or no ever could. “There are far worse animals than cats that you could’ve designated the lot of us. So I guess it isn’t too miserable of a job,” Lark responds in playful contemplation. “There aren’t many others I’d trust to handle my food, if that counts for anything. Or the management of anything, let alone themselves.” The comment isn’t about anyone in particular, but a few people came to mind. “I don’t think I’m in the position to dispute the murder or management part, but I’m willing to take your word for it.”

FEBRUARY 10th, 2349. SILVER LIVING GAMBLING HALL. OPEN TO ALL.

He likes fighting, and he likes divinity, so it stands to reason that he likes fighting for divinity. Eel has long been one of his favorite towns in Fool’s Prospect on account of Silver Living Gambling Hall, and over the years, this beloved haunt of his has lined his pockets aplenty, much to the consternation of the house. He reckons it’s a little unorthodox, if not a little illegal, to wager ✹100 on a fight and then step into the ring, but—well, he’s not exactly known for doing things the legal, orthodox way. Besides, he’d be hard-pressed to find a safer bet than an outlaw with a six-figure bounty.

Hellion’s fought twice tonight, and already he’s made out like a bandit proper, nearly tripling his wager. But it’s not enough for him—it never is—so he negotiates with the bookmaker and places another bet, and then he negotiates with the pit clerk and enrolls in another match. There’s three more fights until he takes the floor again, so he uses his sizable intermission to catch his breath and rally his aching bones for another round of play. Chest heaving, he situates himself at a secluded table in the corner, gulps down as much water as he can without choking, and uses his discarded shirt to wipe the blood from his face and knuckles. His injuries are minor—messy, but minor—and he can scarcely register the pain of them, for the divinity in his pocket is as fine a balm as any. 

He’s trying, mostly in vain, to remove his hand wraps with his teeth when a looming figure approaches. He doesn’t need to look up to know that it’s one of the gang; none else would have the gall to approach him.

“Have you come to turn a pretty profit on me?” he asks through clenched teeth, still gnawing at the too-tight knot of his hand wraps. Frustrated, he huffs a sigh through his nose and braces his elbows on top of the table, deserting his endeavor to change out his hand wraps for fresh ones. “Or are you here to throw your hat in the ring?” he asks, a catlike smile stretching slowly from one ear to the other as he jerks his chin at the fight unfolding before them.

♡

Occasionally, the opportunity for a solo venture presented itself— and this one was perhaps the most unusual of all. Outside of her robberies with the gang, Lark was never one to commit to collaboration. Tonight was different, for tonight, HELLION had been in the ring, and what person to risk it all on, then the person who she’d known with certainty loved divinity more than she had? This was something else rare, but easily discernible, with his unmatched ability to pursue divinity by any means necessary. Lark, on the other hand, did her best to avoid any situations that resulted in any direct harm— which is why she’d been on the outside of the ring, leaving her fate in the hands of another.

They find him in a pitiful struggle, approaching him reluctantly, but inquisitively. “This is one of my best hats. I’d be damned if I threw it in that filthy ring,” Lark responds with a facetious grin. “I’ll leave that to the professionals.” They attempt to peel their eyes away from Hellion’s dirtied wraps, but are ultimately unable to. “This isn’t me officially offering to help,” Lark prefaces her suggestion before continuing, “But would helping you potentially increase your odds, and therefore increase the chance of my pockets being lined?” 

𝐖𝐇𝐎: BRONTIDE & OPEN 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: RAVEN’S REST, EEL 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: FEBRUARY 4, 2349 – APPROX. 2:00AM

𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘. It was difficult for them to determine exactly why they still felt so on edge – replaying the events of the heist over and over again, despite walking away from the train with enough divinity to last them weeks and a nod of approval from Jack. It was like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop – for something they’d missed to come back and bite them, jeopardising their success and tenuous utility within the gang. Though they’d always been caught up in the past, dwelling this thoroughly on a heist was new – coming with the newfound scrutiny they imagined themselves to be under following their sudden desertion and even more sudden return.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that sleep didn’t quickly befall her. She’d always been a light sleeper – mind never quite switching all the way off, after years of ensuring she was constantly vigilant and alert. Her sleep had always been plagued by dreams – distortions of the past that sent her tossing and turning and unable to clear them from her mind, even long after she’d awoken. Tonight, however, Brontide could not even reach this stage – their mind stubbornly refusing to clear even for the few minutes they required to fall into what would surely be a fitful slumber. Seconds stretch into minutes which stretch into hours, and when they next check their watch they find that late night has bled into early morning, and they decide to give up on the fruitless endeavour.

They stalk their way through the halls of RAVEN’S REST – ( the inn was quaint, but big enough for the needs of the gang, and the owners hadn’t asked many questions yet ), slipping through the entrance and out into the cool night air, breathing it in. EEL was quieter at night – though the odd person or two could still be spotted on the dimly lit streets. It would be almost peaceful were it not for the sounds of patrons stumbling out of the Atlantis down the road following last call – drunken revelry bouncing off the walls and echoing through the streets. The faintest hint of a smile graces Brontide’s face at the sound of the inebriated singing of a familiar tune – but it is gone as quickly as it had came, replaced once again with an impressive impassivity, giving nothing away, even in solitude. 

They are soon disturbed from their thoughts by the sounds of footsteps approaching, a hand instinctively reaching for the gun on their thigh before they recognise the familiar face, obscured by night, and slowly retract their hand. She eyes the newcomer up and down, letting a long few moments pass before finally speaking – “And here I was thinking I’d be all alone out here at this time of night.”

Turns out Poseidon was mighty serious about last call. So much so that Lark had been unsuccessful in her attempt to acquire one final shot of whiskey for the road, leaving her no choice but to endure the unwelcoming wind without any liquor to keep her warm. What remained of their comfortable buzz evaporated further with each step, muttering a string of curse words beneath their breath. They’d always hated the cold— it always made them stiffen up. It resulted in more mistakes, more hesitation— and why she commenced with the majority of her work beneath the blazing sun.

On a rare occasion, such feelings arise regardless of temperature— and in these moments, they knew they were only to be met with failure. The events of the train robbery became the most recent occasion of such. If Lark were braver, they’d acknowledge the sensation for what it was. An immense fear of her own inadequacies— and something that would prevent her from ever achieving anything akin to fulfillment. It was a realization difficult to contend with alone, and so, she’d opted out of doing so. Indefinitely.

Her quest for the indefinite had come with a few unforeseen circumstances— namely the expectedly unexpected last call that she’d assured Poseidon several times over, she’d been entirely unaware of. Never mind the fact that they’d been held up with a pickpocket job that took longer than usual. Both excuses were lacking, but one covered her ass, at the very least. 

With nothing present to make for a sufficient distraction, Lark found herself on the brink of self-reflection, but not before finally arriving at a reasonable distance away from RAVEN’S REST— the recognition of a familiar face enough to draw her from her present course. Lark still caught themself, on occasion, taking longer than usual to identify them— for the task of reacquaintance with someone who who’d never been meant to return— was in the realm of unfamiliarity. She did not encounter people more than once. Not people she’d never robbed, at least.

— open to all

FEBRUARY 5, 2349. THE ATLANTIS. They’re not drinking tonight. Never liked the taste of liquor much, and never liked the way it made their limbs feel loose and their chest feel light. But Vex does like the games. The edge of the pool table jabbing into her stomach as she leans over and aims.

She’s never been the best shoot, or the best at pool, but when she closes one eye and then the other, imagines Shotgun then Cain then the rest of the Jack Odyssey gang spiraling across the green and falling with a clack! down the rabbit hole —

The 8 ball falls neatly into the corner. Vex straightens, and grins with all her teeth. Stretches the cue stick out until it taps at her opponent’s throat, pushes up against the fleshy part of the chin.

“Double or nothing?” Vex taunts, eyes flashing.

“Quit teasin’, Vex,” Lark announces, gradually leaning further into the stick poised at her throat. “Absorbing the sum of my debt after you impale me is the last thing you need. Trust me.” They sidestep out of the path of the pool stick that seemed much sharper only moments ago, and begin replacing the balls within the frame of the rack.

WITH: @zjlark​ WHERE: camp WHEN: july 12th, 2348.

To be fair to Lark — she’s the first person he sees when he looks up and accepts that he’s behind schedule. It’s a slow, begrudging sort of acceptance, the kind that has him setting his knife aside and really considering the descent from feared outlaw up and down Bounty all the way to man who cannot cut vegetables at the speed he would prefer. There are only a few of them in camp, the rest of the bunch running off to rob who knows what, which means they’ll inevitably return hungry. If he’d seen anyone else first (excluding Rambler, because he can’t ever really predict what Rambler will say or do) he would’ve asked them. And, as fate may have it, they just so happen to walk into his peripheral vision.

“Lark,” Farrier calls, already intent in how he plans to bribe her — it’ll be a story, like always, “how do you feel about chopping some carrots?” They’re all gnarled and strange, more red than orange, but they cook the same and they’d been cheap enough in the last town they’d passed through.

Perhaps it was nowhere near the work she’d expected Ferrier to take on (for she’d always imagined him being at the frontlines of any all missions), and perhaps he hadn’t been anything like she’d once imagined in her early outlaw days, but she’d still found him intriguing, nonetheless. Rarely did she enjoy the stories of another more than her own. She’d positioned herself strategically, mindlessly kicking up the dust beneath her boots as if there’d been nothing more interesting in the world— until she heard her name being called, that is. 

RAVEN’S REST, EEL. FEBRUARY 6TH, AT APPROX. 11:30 PM. CLOSED W/ @zjlark​

There’s a quality of weariness just beginning to set in the circles under Dove’s eyes. She noticed it that morning, in a passing view of her reflection. She noticed it a second time over breakfast; an offer of coffee, unsolicited — “You’re lookin’ a bit tired. That’s all.” She stared at that cup of coffee for a long while, contemplating, dwelling. Half the drink was gone before she could stomach it no longer. A bit tired. The comment had a way of worming into her mind, making her awareness of the fatigue increase tenfold. Sleep had been impossible to come by since the incident on the train. The sun would set, and her mind would overwhelm with uncomfortable mid-night thoughts that made any worthwhile rest entirely unrealistic. 

And yet, despite the way the lingering fatigue had begun to physically manifest, she finds herself milling about the entrance of the inn fighting the urge to retreat to her room. It was a trap, despite how inviting the bed seemed. There would be no rest for her, only staring into the dark until the sun rose and Bug began to stir beside her. 

Almost mindlessly, Dove walks, back and forth across the wooden floor, listening as the planks squeak and groan beneath her steps. It is monotonous enough work to distract her mind from wandering, but rhythmic enough to tug down on her eyelids … And silly enough she was certain she looked a fool: dressed in her night clothes, padding back and forth, eyes half-lidded and yet intently focused on each step taken. 

The only thing that breaks this pattern in an addition of foot steps entering the room. Dove raises her head, attempting to blink that tired feeling out of her eyes.  “You’re up late.” She offers Lark a smile, small but genuine. “Trouble sleeping, or you just up wreaking havoc on Eel?” A joke, the smile pulling into a playful grin.

She crosses her arms across her chest, as though to warm herself from a non-existent draft. “I haven’t seen you since after we got off the train.” Dove was slowly beginning to piece together what else occurred during the robbery, through conversations had, and conversations overheard. “How are you? How was it?” Though genuine questions, Dove thinks that maybe, just maybe, if she can get Lark talking, any mention of her own time on the train may go unspoken. “I feel like we’ve got so much to catch up on.” 

It wasn’t the first time they’d landed themself in trouble, and they were certain it wouldn’t be the last. They’d chosen to navigate it the same way they’d navigated every other misstep. A drink or two to take the edge off. A low stakes pickpocket job to repair the hit taken to her ego. Rinse. Repeat.

This time was different, somehow. This time she is made to deal with the specter of her hesitation. It went beyond a mere mistake— this time she’d fucked up. Even worse— it was something she’d long since had the opportunity to rectify, and had chosen otherwise. What she’d felt went beyond regret; Lark was haunted by her own failure to rise to the task.

It would be the same arrogance that landed her in the very situation she’d been in that would prevent her from rectifying it. Instead, they’d committed themself to the same course of action they’d always committed themself to. Perhaps if they managed to successfully fool others, they’d eventually fool themself. 

They are not expecting to see Dove the moment they arrive at the entrance. Dove, whose expression conveyed everything, and somehow nothing at all. Dove, who’d been pacing with such rhythmic precision, as if she’d been a ghost condemned to do so for all of eternity. Dove, whose very presence had been enough to derail whatever plan Lark thought she had only moments prior. 

 “The night’s only just begun,” Lark muses upon summoning a smile that just manages to reach her eyes. “Maybe not just begun, but last call isn’t until 2 AM. That ought to count for something.” Their smile condenses itself into a smirk, as they waltz closer to Dove. “Trouble? I hadn’t any intention of causing any— unless you’d like me to, that is.” They tilt their hat in the same playful manner. “I would ask you if you had any intention of causing trouble, but it looks as if you’re waiting for trouble to find you instead.”

They find themself at home, or something akin to it, amongst the chatter and bustle of the bar. Never mind the fact that they’d never been to THE ATLANTIS or EEL whatsoever— for all bars were practically the same to Lark. Only the quality of liquor and seating presented noticeable variations whenever she frequented them. Their mood was presently soured by the almost failure of their last robbery— an irritation that only intensified upon relinquishing a large sum of her earnings to gang directly.  They’d hoped to rectify this loss through several, quick fire pickpocketing attempts— only to realize upon collecting a watch from a particular patron, that one of the bar goers had been a previous target of hers. 

In a newly directed effort to lay low, Lark lowers the brim of their hat to near sightlessness, before casually sliding into the seat across from the face most familiar to them, with a drink she’d also acquired during her most recent watch escapade. “Fancy seeing you here,” she declares in a low, near sarcastic murmur, lips contorting into a smirk. “Have I ever told you how much I hate Eel?” She glances briefly to her left to ensure she still hadn’t been spotted. “If you find a way to turn this sucker into divinity, and quick,” —she briefly dangles her newest acquisition in front of him— “I’d be willing to give you a generous sum of the profit.”