In a world powered by magic, governed by aristocratic faeries, you either go by their rules or get sentenced to a life of disgrace - if not death. There is an alternative, however. You could find a community of other outcasts, whether because you enjoy living on the thrill of the steal or because there was no other option for you. That’s right: We’re talking piracy.
Welcome to the Hard Nox, a skyship of some reputation, not necessarily a good one. The ship has been operating in some capacity for at least a decade. Perhaps you've been there along, or perhaps you're new. Whatever it is you do, you're fairly good at it, as this ship isn't likely to accept just anyone - but they do have a flair for fitting in unusual talents.
As long as your skills are good and your morals are loose, you can fit right in. It isn't a life of ease, but there's a good amount of ease between the moments of life-threatening terror. Anything that can be bought, bargained, or stolen is fair game. After all, none of you are upstanding citizens.
IMPORTANT NOTE! Illirica and I will be running this and the plan is to sail smoothly, with daily posts if possible. Take it into consideration when you join, though it’s not a set in stone rule, if you hold us back you’ll be thrown out at sea (not really, you can swim back if you want, but we will go on without you if you’re slacking!)
CHARACTER SHEET
Name: Age: Race: Time on the crew: Backstory: Appearance:
Once upon a time, there was a fairy maiden, lovely as the dawn. She wanted for nothing, and was beloved by all who knew her.
This was the beginning of the story... but it was not the end.
It ends like this:
And so, with ichor running in rivulets from the wounds left behind by the shearing of her wings, she fell from the sky.
And so begins another story.
Sinéad and the Hard Nox are more or less synonymous at this time - the Captain and the Vessel: Both a bit worse for the wear, but patched up and refusing to give in. They surfaced around the same time, a decade ago, and there's no real knowing which came first. Some would say whatever it takes to survive, but Sinéad isn't interested in merely surviving. She had everything once, after all - and she intends to have it again.
A trail of abandoned beds and cut throats lies in her wake, sometimes both in the same place. She was beautiful once, after all - and in many ways is beautiful still, despite her scars or because of them, depending on the preferences of those involved. She has no loyalty to anyone save herself and her crew, and her burning passion to take back what should be hers, or at the very least keep anyone else from having it.
Name: Sinéad Oíche Age: She appears perhaps in her late twenties, perhaps in her early thirties, perhaps something else. Sometimes she seems to age at will. Her true age is anyone's guess. Race: A fairy, once. Time on the crew: a bit over a decade, since it began
Unlike some might think, not all fairies are born in wealth. In Caleb's case, he was the son of a butler and a maid working for the royal family. His mistake? Looking at their daughter the wrong way. One look at the princess and he was sentenced to death, with no chance to defend himself, no trial whatsoever.
If it hadn’t been for Sinéad and her crew he’d be hanged to death, and since then he’s been a part of the Hard Nox’s crew, rising in the ranks as those above him left - one way or another - and eventually becoming the captain’s right hand man. At some point he lost his right eye, but it only made his aim more accurate, earning him a reputation of only ever needing one bullet.
Caleb was born with no one expecting much of him, but the life Sinéad gave him got him to taste a little bit of power. And he was getting tired of following orders.
Name: Caleb O'Cain Age: 26 Race: Fairy Time on the crew: 10 years
The Whisper of the Night Nessa Mae Rinn, The Thief
He was watching, Mae knew. His eyes did not leave her as she walked through the store. She knew why -- of course. Her clothing was threadbear, patched so many times that little remained of the fabric that had once been. Her age, and the dirt upon her skin were likewise hindrances that marked her for what she was. A starving peasant girl in a room full of food.
And Mae knew full well she didn't have to steal it, her mother had given her a spare coin after all. Yet, the way the merchant’s eyes followed her every move made her feel vindictive. Who was he to judge her? He was not the Goddess, so he had no right.
With a loaf of bread in hand Mae walked to the counter and held it up for the man to take, which he did with a grunt. She did not do it when the man looked away to place the bread onto the scale. It would have been easy to claim her prize then, the basket was resting just to her left, but that wasn't the point.
The merchant turned back, and held out his hand. “One copper.” With a nod, Mae reached into her pocket and drew out the smaller coin. Her next movements were fluid; she drew her right hand out of her pocket as she lifted herself up onto her tippy toes. She held the coin between her thumb and forefinger, and when the man’s eyes moved to the coin, so did her left hand to the basket at her hip. It was a slight movement, her index finger rolled the object to her palm and her remaining fingers closed tight. It took only the beat of a heart for her prize to vanish into the loose fabric of her shirt. Mae pressed the coin into the man’s palm, and took the bread as the merchant passed it back.
Wordless, Mae turned to the door, the faint lump in her clothing now shielded by her thin frame, and left the store. The man uttered no goodbye, so neither did she. She squinted against the sun, and slid into a nearby alley. It wasn't smart, she knew, but she could not wait, and it felt like one final snub to the merchant. From her pocket she drew her prize. She lifted it to her mouth and her teeth crunched through its skin. The apple was so sweet she nearly cried.
Name: Nessa Mae Rinn
Age: 27
Race: Elf, Vampire One before the other
Time on the crew: About half a decade, maybe a little more.
Backstory: A poor girl from a poor place, with a mother who was just barely scraping by and a father long out of the picture. It bloomed in her heart from an early age a certain distaste for those with means who gathered their wealth and scoffed at the poor who lived on the streets. So, from an early age she learned the art of taking what she wanted from those who didn’t wish to give. There’s a story there, of course, but I’m sure we can all understand it’s ups and downs.
No, life offered her a more interesting wrinkle when she was seventeen. It was night, as these things go, and Nessa found herself following a man she did not know. See, he was new in town, loose with coin but heavy with drink, which together offered Nessa an opportunity she could scarcely pass up. But, unfortunately for her, the man was not a simple man nor was he as drunk as he let on. When Nessa reached for his purse, he turned to her, a mouth full of fangs and amber eyes that glittered in the moonlight.
When she awoke sometime later the sun’s light was hot on her skin and a deep hunger gnawed at the pit of her stomach.
Her people had a home, once. Some time, long ago, told through hushed words that never touched parchment. To write it down was to bind it, you see, and the past - to them - was as fluid as the future, sometimes changed, often embellished. Stories all had a little bit of truth to them, the seed that was planted, but it was the leafy boughs that brought the tree life. It was said - in these whispered tales - that they lived above the sky. Dancing in crystal halls made from the rain, sleeping in beds made of clouds. It was a beautiful life, a carefree life, a life they would have happily shared with any who cared to join them.
There were some, though, who felt the sky too small to share. Their Name was stolen. Not the simple name, the sort we call each other, but their Name - that of their People, that of their Home. Without it, they were lost, unsure of who they were, absent in memory of the paths of their ancestors. They were driven from the sky, bereft of being, and forced to wander aimlessly on the earth below. They were unto the wind, travelling from place to place, never staying long, never finding peace. You cannot, you know, without a Name. Without it, you are little more than a shadow. Without it, you are meaningless.
Yet - they kept themselves alive in stories. Stories told, stories spun, stories that may be all true - or mostly false - but what does it matter? Without a Name, it is your right to Name yourself, and Name yourself they did.
Emer was born into this life. Her mother was a wisewoman, and hers before, and so she learned the trade. She learned what herbs to place on a wound, how to properly set a broken bone, little spells and muttered poems to treat the body and to help it heal. But most of all, she learned stories. From a young age, she was taught about the sky, taught about the Name that had been lost. While she learned her medicinal rights with studious attention, she learned the stories with a rapt soul and an open heart. In her dreams, she saw it. She tasted the dew still-hung in the air, felt the sun so close on her skin. Every moment of her life, she yearned to travel a little higher, to try and see if echoes of the Name still hung beneath the firmament walls.
It's a strange thing, how opportunities come.
Her kind garnered little favors, and were rarely welcome. Without a Name of their own, how could anyone call land theirs? Itinerants are rarely cared for - beggars and thieves, others claimed, come in the night and slipping away the next with anything they could pilfer. Some of the harsher rumors said it wasn't only goods they took, but children as well. As they say - all stories have a bit of truth - and the more a story is told, the more true it becomes, if only in the minds of those who tell it. On her twentieth year, her camp was put to flame. Emer had been in the forest, gathering herbs at her mother's request. She thought nothing of the smell of smoke - it was nearing supper, after all - but the screams and shouts came after. By the time she'd ran back, the ash was settling.
At first, she didn't know what to do. Her home had been stolen twice over - the Name she had lost with her ancestors, and the Name she had made with her family. Names were what you make, though, and once the ash had again settled - this time in her heart - she began to wander once more. She wandered town to town, selling remedies and giving treatments, wandered through the wild, learning stories of trees caked in moss and rocks overturned with millions of beetles beneath them. Were they the ones that told them? Well, she'd say they were, and all stories have a bit of truth. After near a decade alone, she'd learned every story the earth could tell, learned every tale from every farmer's wife and drunken sop and chitlins playing sack outside their home. Then, her path crossed with the Hard Nox - and there was one more story before her. Pirates weren't the most welcome sorts, but she knew a thing or two about being unwelcome. A ship wasn't much of a home, but she was used to having no place to call one. But most of all -
She couldn't resist the sky. She still thought of the echoes that might lurk there, of the Name stolen so long ago.
Skyfolk hardly ever look down, so why would they ever notice the Fir Bolg? In the few early interactions between those from the Floating Isles and forest dwellers, Fairies called the Fir Bolg clans “unremarkable” and “easily missed” - not that the Fir Bolg minded, they liked their privacy and found the winged outsiders funny in their own way.
However, subsequent visits were less dismissive - especially after they discovered the Fir Bolg’s natural sense for metals and the ease in which they could lift heavy weights. Opportunists “uplifted” the clans with modern accoutrements and sciences, but made it clear these gifts were not charity. Soon entire clans were taken from their homelands with the promise of metal and advancement in exchange for work. They would be sent to mining colonies and to serve as labourers and servants for the wealthy. The new age would be built upon the backs of this neo-working class.
Ciarán was born into this time. He never grew up on the plains or valleys, he was born in the sulfur mining town of Brimstone. His parents always spoke of the lands before, the one with no name where the sky was clear and the people only worked to live, not the other way around. Seeing the state of his family, he sought to uplift them however he could, but they couldn't escape Brimstone on a miner's salary.
When the massive sky-galleons loomed overhead and the officers came recruiting, Ciarán was first in line to board. The pay was only a smidgen higher, the food was awful, and the days were long - but it was a chance to get away for a time and to try and build something new for his family. Ciarán served for three years aboard that ship, the Intrepid Dawn in all manner of roles that kept him and the other Fir Bolgs far enough away from the officers to feel comfortable - swabbie, cargo hand, and eventually powder monkey. It was here, hauling black powder from the lower decks to the cannons where his talent and drive was noticed, and when the Intrepid's gunnery officer transferred to a new vessel, he requested Ciarán to follow him as a gunner.
The next seven years of his life were spent aboard Our Lady Tempest, a massive man-o'-war fresh from the shipyards. During his time aboard he rose through the ranks, eventually replacing his sponsor as Master Gunner - responsible for the operation, upkeep, and training of cannons and firearms aboard his ship. His pay continued to go home to Brimstone (or at least that's what the purser told him) and he continued to strive for greatness, but the resentment against his race continued and no matter how hard he tried to break down the barriers between him and the officers, they would never see him as an equal.
His life's work aboard the Tempest came crashing down along with her. During a patrol of the eastern horizon, their ship came under fire by a pair of fast pirate brigantines. The officers struggled to react fast enough, and by the time they committed to a retreat, they'd been boarded. Ciarán rallied the marines and managed to push off their boarders, but their defiance was met with destruction. The brigantines came around, and broadsided her from both sides.
Ciarán was left adrift on a piece of barely floating debris, alone and broken.
He floated for days, the magic on the mast about to dissipate when the Hard Nox found him. He was pulled aboard and healed by their Wisewoman. She set his bones, cleaned his wounds, and managed to salvage what was left of his left arm, his sword arm.
When he awoke he was quite alarmed to find he was in the company of pirates, but when he did not recognize them as the band who had scuttled his ship he thanked them. With nothing of value to trade for the medical care and food, they offered to let him work until they made next port - or take a long walk off the plank.
Slowly he grew more comfortable with the crew, making friends with their healer as she'd insist on checking his wounds, and found himself assisting the Quartermaster with the upkeep of their weapons. He found himself comfortable and even welcomed amongst such a motley crew, quite unlike the strict and homogenous crew aboard the Royal Navy ships he had served previously. When time came to make port, Ciarán instead chose to speak to the captain and make a case to keep him aboard.
A day past seven years have passed now, a day longer than he'd been aboard Lady Tempest. He's found himself in the role Master Gunner, where he finds himself in charge of the weapons compliment aboard the Hard Nox, ensuring the cannons are clean, rifles fire straight, and the crew are ready for engagement. Most of the time he can be found drilling newer crew on proper weapons usage and conduct.
Once there was a man. Aristocratic, elegant. A man of wealth and taste. Life was a task, and the only worthwhile pursuit was collecting coin. That, and using said coin to find ways to extend one’s own life. For when you have a fortune that would take multiple lifetimes to spend, you naturally seek to acquire those lifetimes.
Thus the man lived in fear of death, of the unknown. He sought elixirs, rituals, whatever may be used to grant him immortality. His quest consumed him, friends slipping away, any reference to him diluting to the rich hermit, locked away in his castle. Some even whispered that his journey had ended in his own death, twisting him into some terrible monster.
Until one evening, the man emerged.
He never returned.
None knew where he had gone, but the figure that returned, stepping foot into the man’s home was certainly not him. A shock of white ran through his hair, and he held himself in a distinguished manner the man had never held himself in. But he bore the same scar, slashed across his left cheek. None dared look close enough, but they would have noticed two distinct marks on his neck, a couple inches apart.
Thus Lucien Kilta was born.
He no longer feared death, he no longer craved wealth. He saw the tedium of his old life, and desired nothing more than to get rid of it. Coin remained unspent, doors remained locked, and most thought the recluse had simply returned to his ways. Only a few knew of what would truly happen on dark nights, when the clouds blanketed the sky. The bodies were always found though. What were they going to do, when corpses were discovered with vicious wounds, torn flesh, and bloody smears?
Lucien didn’t know, nor did he care. His hunger was insatiable, and thus the blood ran thicker and thicker. Bounties were offered, and those who were foolish enough to take them were added to the feast. The lawmen stopped coming, the bounty hunters cowed, the citizens terrified. An intolerable feeling crept upon Lucien, an itch that needed to be scratched, a hunger that needed to be fed, lest it consume him. Not his bloodlust, no, but a desire for risk, for danger.
His salvation came with the thunder of cannons and the scream of the commoners. The Hard Nox had come for treasure. His treasure. And in those moments of fending off the filth, dancing with the death they brought to his doorstep, the hunger was filled, the itch was scratched. He needed more. Stowing his blade, Lucien struck a bargain with the captain. His treasure was theirs, in exchange for a position aboard the ship. His years of time spent cooped up had given him a keen eye for charts and maps in his quest for eternal life, and he intended to put them to use. That is, when he wasn’t slaking his thirst on the deck of another vessel, a whirlwind of steel and claw, blood and fang.
Name: Lucien Kilta
Age: Appears to be in his mid-40s. The crew has been given ages ranging from 45 to 500, with no consistency between stories.
Very early on in his life, Sliocht learned to be useful to the right people. Born of a torrid tryst between a local baron and his unwilling Fir Bolg maid, the young half breed found himself competing with hundreds of other orphans in a state run poorhouse for second helpings of stale porridge and crusty bread. The smaller and weaker children would often find themselves going to bed empty handed, and Sliocht frequently found himself hungry at the end of the day.
But to his surprise, the greatest schoolyard tyrants always seemed to amass the largest courts of sycophants and servants. Through those long years, Sliocht filled his belly by cleaning blood stains, fluffing pillows, and styling hair for the meanest and blackest of young villains.
When his 18th birthday finally came and the orphanage bid him a forceful farewell, Sliocht found himself drifting in the world with no family, fiends, or prospects. His old habits served him well however, and he moved along the continent grooming and styling for any he could charm into his chair.
After one particularly eventful evening appointment that culminated in a pirate raid, Sliocht found himself serving as the High Nox's Barber. He didn't much mind the change of station, and the new customers had an undeniable passion for unorthodox styles that he'd never seen, even in more "civilized" locales. He has contentedly served as the Ship's Barber ever since, whilst also lending a hand with any chores that might need doing Every week for years he has set up a small wooden chair on the High Nox's quarterdeck, grinning pleasantly as some of the most fearsome brigands in the world sit expectantly for his services.
The greatest irony of his entire life, he had found, was that everyone seemed to trust the man who held a razor to their throat on the regular.
"You are a violent and irrepressible miracle. The vacuum of cosmos and the stars burning in it are afraid of you. Given enough time you would wipe us all out and replace us with nothing — just by accident."
Post by Paperbag Fill on Jan 27, 2023 22:04:07 GMT
The Survivor of Great Storm
Sorennjall Fritjof, the Cook
Wanderer, come home.
The old home is a realm far beyond from here. Enriched with culture and arts, work done by the hands even to the point of bleeding, his people became the artisans and poets renowned across all lands, but there were always smiles to be found for their earnest and hard work. His people of a particular tribe made and fashioned many things, but fashion Soren to be more like them would never happen. In the blade and more war-like practices of his clan, Soren found his pursuits elsewhere and leading him further and further away from home. His station among his people became that of distrust and suspicion.
His people had right to fear him as his body ran slick with the blood of many.
They found him too violent and destructive, too enamored with battle and strength or perhaps too easily able to fit in among the fighters and warriors beyond their home. A threat and one that could not be ignored, but--in their wisdom--they chose to spare him mercy and simply banish him. One of few besides his people's traders and merchants to leave the lands in search of a life beyond simply creating and remaking, over and over. Now he was forced even further into that life rather than away. Crossing over the border and never looking back, his travels eventually led him to the Hard Nox. He had survived many a conflict. He had a penchant for that.
This one was different. Not a fight. A slaughter.
Escaping from a battle with which he could not win--not at then and there, a tired and injured Soren simply wanted to have a mode of travel and one that would ensure his survival. In his attempt to belittle his own skill and talent, Soren showed the way of the blade in the kitchen. Not only that, the man kept quiet. More so a good listener than a talker. A perceptive brute, if nothing else.
Considering no one else could cook or prepare food--even with the worst of ingredients--quite as well as he did, Soren got the position.Soren's eyes are attuned to the natural and supernatural. Perhaps a part of his heritage, his training, or even his naturally observant mind. No matter the cause, his senses remain sharp and steadfast. Often enough, he can be speaking with the faint spirits that pass by, one of few times he ever speaks beyond simple grunts and grumbling or nodding and shaking his head. He may even slowly pray or sing a small hymm, well versed in the ways of poetry as a skald, a warrior-poet. His choice of keeping quiet comes from his constant state of paying attention to not only his surroundings but also people. Like an alert guard dog or a wolf at the back of the traveling pack, Soren watches over others to either come to their aid or watch for their eventual betrayal.
His style of fighting encompasses slowly but steady assault, conserving energy and opting for a defense that tests the opponent's (or multiple opponents) defenses before becoming startlingly aggressive but no less refined, whether it be in swordplay or with his own bare hands and body. His sense of patience and timing is well-disciplined, carrying over to his culinary expertise.
It also helps he sports a strength, stamina, and speed that is startling. His Jötunn heritage makes him well-suited against both harsh elements and even harsher tasks. Few think they saw him crack a cannonball in half with his bare hands. Others think he could survive a lightning strike with his indominable strength and stamina. Perhaps he has or perhaps he has not. It matters little. Soren finds himself amused by any embellishments or stories about himself, although he'd prefer to be left out of the mouths of others. He keeps to himself and he gets his tasks done quickly and quietly. He works hard and he works with pride. No task receives less than full effort. Either it is done right or not at all. The same principle extends to his cooking.
His most unique attribute is his command over water itself, a magic that comes naturally to him. This extends to a few other liquids, like booze or even muddied water, but he works best with pure, raw water. It is good then he knows how to purify even the most contaminated of liquids. In the sky, where water is sometimes plenty with the clouds, Soren works to sometimes manipulate the clouds or the moisture in the air into a fog--to the best of his ability of course--or clearing them away for a clear view forward. No matter, he can freeze or boil water as well. He can manipulate these changed forms, although he finds it easier to maneuver and manipulate the solid ice over the gaseous steam, which loses its heat and density.
The only other talent he sports is his attunement to his two blades: two twin longswords forged in his homeland. However, these blades are large and heavy enough to be counted as greatswords to anyone of less strength or size. His particular attunement is his ability to call his blades back to him whenever they leave his hand. Even when he has left the blades behind, Soren will find himself waking the next morning and finding them laying nearby.
Name: Sorennjall Fritjof Age: 437 years Race: Jötunn Time on Crew: 5 years
Eye Color: Amber-Yellow Hair Color Black & Grey Height: 7'5" (226.1cm) Weight: 294lbs (133.4kg)
Last Edit: Jan 31, 2023 1:41:28 GMT by Paperbag Fill
Ash and blood. That's all she could smell, all she could taste. Pale blue eyes, lifeless eyes, her eyes remained transfixed on the young girl, cowering behind the wreckage of the tavern bar. And the girl stared back, watching the eyes cloud over, watching the blood spread across the sticky floor.
It would be hours before the girl would rise, frail body unsteady, but alive. She would turn away from the wreckage, away from her one and only parental figure, and stalk out without turning back. Her fingers would curl tightly into fists as she walked, mind memorizing the faces of those who had destroyed her humble life.
Pirates.
Outcasts, rejects; those who plundered from the rich, murdered their defenders, and forgot about the innocents who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Fueled by rage and little else, the young girl found herself on a ship desperate enough to take on a snot-nosed orphan as a swabbie. She worked hard, kept her head down, and when the time came, she'd have the blood of unsuspecting men and women on her hands. Raids were the ideal cover; death was inevitable, and who would ever suspect the little mouse who never made it back onto the ship.
Years passed, as did the number of captains she'd serviced. But she never found the faces of those who started it all, after all, those faces had begun to blur. As did time, as did her morals. The power of taking, the satisfaction of life draining from shocked eyes, the thrill of drunken heists... the facade seems to have become reality.
After all, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Oh, it's a pirate's life for me.
Name: Alys Viathi Age: 25 Race: Fairy Time on the crew: 6 months
Post by ShoddyProduct on Jan 29, 2023 23:16:15 GMT
The Wildfire
Juniper, the Sorceress
As opposed to most pirates, Juniper is actually very used to fitting in. As a matter of fact, it’s what their entire existence has been built upon. Very early on, the minorly important mercantile family of the Masons had a child, a young girl they intended to name Juniper. This, however, did not go to plan, as some mischievous individual swapped the newborn with something else, an imitator meant to deceive, and deceive they did. As a matter of fact, the new Juniper tricked the Masons so well that they didn’t realize they weren’t Juniper, not until shortly after everything changed again for them. An early sign of suspicion should have been when the child began to develop an affinity for magic, something never before seen in the Mason family. However, instead of investigating, they became excited, and tried to foster this skill.
Being inexperienced, both the child known as Juniper and their unknowing adoptive parents, things got out of hand quickly. The child was trying things well beyond their power, and magic, like life, is unpredictable and uncontrollable. Things would come to a head one fateful afternoon, when thieves broke into the household in order to help themselves to the money accrued by the family. The new Juniper was taken hostage, despite their best efforts to avoid it, and held at ransom by the thieves. Determined and confident that they could save themselves, however, they channeled their newfound skills and attempted to do away with their assailants. In a rush of adrenaline, a feeling of dominion over nature and the elements, they unleashed flames on the rogues, burning them to a crisp.
This feeling of power was unlike anything they had felt before. It was addictive, this power over destruction, over the lives of the people who had previously held them captive. They wanted more, and this want, this need, fed the flames. Before they could realize what was happening, the flames had gone out of control, and in a flash, the Mason residence, and everyone inside, was turned to ash, except for the new Juniper.
Realization crept over them like a shadow, chilling them to the bone and quenching the flames near instantly. Fear took their place, and before anyone had time to arrive on the scene, Juniper was gone. They ran to port, knowing from their unknowing and now deceased parents that it was the place people went to go anywhere else. It was a place for them to run away. Already, the local law enforcement had arrived, keeping watch for the missing Mason. In their fear, Juniper became someone else. Literally. Their body shifted, changed to take on the visage, proportions, and mannerisms of one of a sailor they had met once, an average looking man whose face was not being actively hunted at this time. Under the guise of searching for work, they made their way onto a skyship and slipped into the clouds, leaving their past, and the Mason name, behind, though they held tightly to Juniper, the only small bit of identity they had left, now that they knew their parents were not that all along.
The hunger for power was not gone, however, merely quenched. Juniper, now faceless, and near nameless, became one of many faces, doing whatever necessary to hone their skills and learn more of the vile mystical force that had burnt their old life away so effortlessly. It was only a matter of time until this journey brought them to the High Nox, a place for outcasts and murderers, both descriptions Juniper fit well now. In the year and a half since joining, they revealed their nature to the captain, and the quartermaster, and otherwise did their best to just seem a sorcerer looking for work, doing their best to ensure the ships magical levitation did not run out and that every other ship they encountered burnt to a crisp.
Name: Juniper Mason
Age: Claims 24, but looks are oft deceiving
Race: Changeling
Time on the crew: A year and a half
Last Edit: Feb 11, 2023 2:24:24 GMT by ShoddyProduct
His first memory was of light. Eyes that took in every inch of the workshop where they were made. Hands stretched before his eyes, and he knew them to be of earth, and not flesh and skin. It was awake.
His second memory was of a man. Aging, but still hale, back then. Wisened enough to require an assistant, yet sharp and resourceful enough to create one by his own hands. the man gazed upon his new creation, and named it Fionn, after the milky clay it was crafted from.
His third memory was of the trades. The craftsman had soon set about instructing his new student on the basics of his trades. He'd started with woodwork, and suffered not
His fourth memory was of the signs. The craftsman's interests stopped not at his work, but also in the future. He always said that the means of divining it was all around them. One needed only to be perceptive.
These were the first memories of a being built of the earth.
Name: Fionn Age: 25 Race: Golem Time on the crew: Soon, should the fates be kind.
The trade for the ship was a success, all things considered. A soul for a vessel; a storied transaction, though at least the forms were different this time. Only, the trade was incomplete. Weighted. One-sided. For the vessel in question--this Hard Nox, as they named it--came with a soul of its own.
They could never be away from their work, especially something like Nox. The thought alone of separation was enough to drive them mad- a ship like that required constant upkeep, frequent upgrades, and, above all, to be treated with care. The type of person to recklessly trade a child for a boat didn't seem all that careful to them. Left alone, in their hands, the ship would be in ruins before it left the harbour
Name: Mal.
Age: They were created as they are now a little over a decade ago. If their soul existed prior, then they have no memory of it, and no inclination to unearth the truth of the matter.
Race: A project. A salvage. Created in another's image, Mal felt nothing but contempt towards their patchwork form; the spoils of a vulture, all spare limbs and wanted amputations- at least, they assumed so. For who would want a body like this, even in part?
A craftsman. That's who.
Over time, the parts changed- upgraded, as Mal says. They learned they could rebuild themselves, fashion their body in their own image- a luxury few creatures could call their own. More limbs, less limbs, a little taller, a little shorter, their body was a vessel, like the Nox, and it could be altered, like the Nox. Magical parts are the most desirable, though Mal is seldom trusted with them. The right hand and right eye are the only two they have, with the latter allowing them to see through solid objects, at the rather grating cost of being long-sighted.
Their body is not the only one that can be altered, however. Though they have asked many a time, so far nobody has taken up the offer of a graft- or even a mechanical replacement.
Perhaps that's for the better.
Time on the crew: They came with the ship, so about ten years.
Backstory: Few concrete facts are known about Mal's creator. She was female- or proportioned as such, at least. Her skin was a pale lilac. The magic she used to sew flesh to flesh, to unify it under one soul, granting life to dead limbs, was stored in the fingertips of her right hand- slender and delicate, which perhaps would have fit with her body, but now lies in contrast to the rest.
She was always so hasty, Mal miserably recalls. Those dainty hands could sew miracles, sure, but the stitchwork was loose and messy, liable to fall apart at the slightest movement. Oh, but she begged for movement; sobbing on her knees before the operating table, like a priest begging an idol for a miracle. The miracle waited. Playing undead, as Mal described; all laboured breaths and twitching hands, giving way to rock-still silence as soon as she faced them. A failure with a chance, that's how she saw them- and, by extension, herself.
We have been asked to include in this publication a reminder that a reward is available for information regarding the whereabouts and activities of the foul necromancer HESTER FALMOUTH, known also as MAD-HAND HETTIE. Ms. Falmouth, having become the subject of several penny-dreadfuls since the despicable murder of fellow in good standing at the College of Spiritual Inquiry Dr. Henry Rowe four years ago, has in recent months been sighted again about these parts.
Ms. Falmouth was, at the time of Dr. Rowe’s murder, a PETTY NECROMANCER of no great skill. She has, however, no doubt spent the intervening time refining her grim arts. At the time of her disappearance, Ms. Falmouth was believed to have in her possession a HAND OF GLORY–a powerful necromantic artefact made from the left hand of the recreant HALF-GHOUL, JOHN FALMOUTH, her own late father. This unclean device was instrumental in the murder of Dr. Rowe. Our readers would do well to remember that there is a standing reward for the delivery of any such artefact to the College. She has not been seen to carry the Hand of Glory on her person, though it has been noted that she seems to have found a replacement for her own left hand, that being her dominant hand, which was taken in the same trial that saw her father hanged and gibbeted.
Ms. Falmouth was at last sight a diminutive and ill-favoured woman, gaunt, filthy, and foul-smelling, with a pale face and a wretched complexion. Her father’s ghoulish heritage is said to be immediately apparent in her slouching posture, and in the shiftless, unkindly motion of her eyes. Her favoured construct is said to be a small, many-legged serpentine creature, about the size of a large rat or perhaps a small dog, foul in its construction–an unliving beast of sharpened bone and sinew, which she is said to wear like a bracelet about the left arm. The creature is astonishingly dextrous, resembling the ratcatcher constructs she is said to have employed in the days when she worked with her father as a bone-grubber in the lower city. If she has taken up the practice of raising and directly controlling wights, revenants, or other such abominations, this has not yet been observed.
We ask again that our patrons exercise CAUTION IN THE EXTREME in dealing with Ms. Falmouth, as she is in the first case a murderer, in the second a necromancer, and in the third a known pirate and rogue. Individuals interested in claiming the reward should report to the College, and ask to speak to Mr. Gacy or Mrs. Sybil. Confidence artists and hucksters will be punished appropriately.
-Excerpt from the North Leimor Morning Chronicle, found pinned to the wall of Hester Falmouth's cabin.
“The only thing that ever stopped me being exactly who I wanted,” she said, “was the worry that I would soon be dead … and now I am dead, and I am sick of roses, and I am horny for revenge.” -Harrow the Ninth, by Tamsyn Muir
Ripped from his mother’s breast before he could even form a memory of her face, the garbage had been a servant to the great faery lord for its entire memory. It cleaned the floors and washed the laundry while scuffling about like the cockroach it was often called; head down on all fours to avoid the eyes of the exalted masters. It’s small size made it ideal for accomplishing tasks out of sight, but the sights of some were far more difficult to avoid than others. Often times the youngest lord would call upon his innate powers to beat and bruise the flesh of the garbage, sometimes laughing as skin split and blood welled.
The great lord was less inclined to random attack, but punishment for insufficiency in any form was executed in the form of lashes with an invisible whip delivered as the master flew above. Other trash came and went, much larger and harder to hide. Sometimes they would attempt to run, other times they would not be sufficient enough to warrant feeding and would starve in their beds. The small garbage survived longer.
It was a new small trash that first awakened the one who cleaned the floors. Despite the rules she stood upon her legs and looked down at him as he scrubbed the floor, and dared to speak. Dared to ask him a question! “What is your name?” It was the first time he remembered looking into anyone’s eyes, and hers were the most gorgeous blue he could imagine; endlessly deep and pure to the point they possessed a sort of luminance.
The master removed her head where she stood, as the garbage who scrubbed the floors lost himself in her gaze. His eyes followed hers as they fell to the floor, and there they lingered. The light in the girl’s eyes faded slowly; much more slowly than any of the others the one who scrubbed the floors had seen die. It was as if she still waited for an answer to her question.
“What is a name?” he thought as the master’s boots tread past him.
“Clean up the mess this worthless garbage made,” came the great command, and without a sound the one who scrubbed floors went about the task as the master continued to his destination. It wasn’t difficult, the girl had been nearly as small as he was, and he was used to cleaning the messes of much larger garbage. Soon enough the floor was spotless and the one who scrubbed the floors wandered to one of the inlets that served as beds for the trash.
A name.
The next day he asked another trash, daring to speak only in a whisper while the lords and ladies slept. The other either did not hear or deigned not to risk speaking, and so the garbage continued to wonder. Day after day he would ask a new trash, until finally one answered.
“It is who you are.”
“Who I am?” the one who scrubbed floors thought.
“They will never take your name. Even if they take your life you will always be you. Surely your mother called you something?”
The one who scrubbed floors had never been spoken to so much. It made him nervous and he quickly left the other behind. His answer came during one of the youngest lord’s sudden beatings, amidst the laughter and sneering comments the young master favored.
“Worthless worm!” the master had yelled as he ground the heel of his boot into the the garbage’s hand. “Garbage like you is not fit in my presence! Your worthless existence is an affront to my senses, with that wild hair and ugh.. the stench. Sister calls you the little lion, but you’re just a mangy RAT!” as he screamed the last word he kicked out, and instinctively the garbage reacted, jerking his hand from under the heel of the young master to shield his face.
The act unbalanced him, and down he crashed with a sickening thunk into the corner of the stone pillar next to him. The garbage watched as the young master’s fair face crumpled into the stone with a shocked expression, crimson rivulets already tracing their way to the floor as he slid slowly behind. Though the garbage had never looked upon the young lord’s face before, he knew the look of dead eyes. He had killed a master.
It felt…
He felt alive! Something sprang into his chest, a searing flame that he had never felt before, and before he knew it he was on the lifeless body of his abuser, ripping at the wings on his back and bashing his head against the floor.
“I AM A LION!” the garbage screamed as he bit into the flesh at the base of one wing, tearing it away and biting down again. With a few more bite the wing came free in his hand. The lion turned it slowly, admiring the shimmer it made in the light. “You are a tasty bird.”
They found the youngest lord’s body, but not his assailant. The entire castle was set on edge by the horrific display, even the servants who were not meant to be seen. They whispered of the one who went missing, but a servant’s words did not reach the master’s ears, and a missing cockroach is rarely noticed. Instead the master focused upon his enemies without suspicion of the truth, and it would become his downfall.
For five nights the castle was fed vengeance, morning’s light bring scenes of mutilation to each of the family’s members. Each had their wings removed, their bodies battered and bones broken, each caught when they were alone. A lion stalks it’s prey before it attacks, and this one had been stalking for its entire life. It knew where each would lay their head and when, and it was hungry. The master himself hung from the posts of his bed, wrapped in his own sheets and wings pinned to the headboard. The only survivor was the infant daughter, just coming into her words. When found by the city guard she was cradled by a servant boy with long and wild hair who was covered in blood, laughing and calling “Lion!” as he handed her away. ~~~~~
Life in prison wasn’t so different as life as garbage, when you really got down to it. The Lion had been treated with understandable detest when arrested, beaten nearly as bad as the young master at his worst, but still he smiled with satisfaction until they placed him into an interrogation cell. He told them everything, in detail, the fire in his chest hot as their disgust grew. Despite his ready admission the interrogation took weeks, and in lieu of a trial he was automatically thrown into the nearest cell.
After being beaten, cut, electrocuted, burned, subjected to freezing cold and torrents of magically pressurized water, the Lion was introduced to the most violent criminals society had to offer. None of them cared how small he was, in fact, they felt it made his place quite clear. The Lion did not see it that way.
The day he felt his body had recovered he killed the first prisoner that spoke to him, swiftly pouncing on him and pushing his thumbs deep into his eyes. As they fell the Lion grabbed the unnatural horns and drove his weight into the back of the other prisoner’s head, smashing his face into the stone with a silence inducing crunch. The prisoner spasmed for a moment and lay still before the Lion released him.
“I am a Lion,” he called out to the onlookers as he stood and a guard rushed toward him. “I will do the devouring here!” The first guard rushed at him with his hand out, but the Lion jumped out of the way. The guard careened forward and tripped on the prisoner’s corpse, falling to the floor and eliciting a laugh from the Lion. The laughter was cut short by the blow from behind, and the Lion’s world went black.
For years the Lion was moved around the prison, most often locked in chains and cell alone. When released from his chains the Lion almost always killed, whether prisoner or guard he didn’t care. Each death was another stint in chains, but also another impurity cleansed from the world. Magic users and aberrations, they seemed everywhere in the prison, and each seemed intent on teaching the Lion his place. The Lion knew his place.
Still, after much time had passed a light came into his life that he did not shy from, though he detested its source. The young lady, the one who gave him his name, eventually started coming to see him. At first she asked questions of her family’s murder, screaming and cursing at him as he marveled at how much she had grown. Her vocabulary had certainly expanded beyond the one word he had heard her utter outside of his cell. He never answered her, always staring ahead at her without expression. It seemed to infuriate her, but he still couldn’t bring himself to speak in the presence of one of the masters; not while they were alive.
Time passed and her visits grew less angry, though the Lion could not guess why. She stared calling him by his name, at first a rabid Lion until eventually he was Leo. She spoke of the world he had never seen, the man she was supposed to marry. He didn’t like that she still visited her family’s killer, and that made her want to do it all the more.
“When did I become her confidant?” Leo thought to himself as she told him of the gown she was to wear when she was married. He had spared her because she had been the one to name him, but for some reason even as she grew and became more like them he could not find disgust within himself. His fire ran cold when she spoke to him. Her eyes, as blue as the ocean, enraptured him as she prattled on. The young lady was not like her family. Even in her anger she had never attacked, easy as it would have been with the chains wrapped around him. Though she had many times wished him dead in those first visits she had never said she wanted to do it herself.
“I don’t actually remember my family, Leo.” Her mention of his name caught his attention, but it was the tone of her voice that intrigued him. It was soft, but not as sad as when she had cries of her lonely state some time ago. It was after that she started calling him Leo. The tone this time was gentler, comforting in its honesty.
“I remember you. Your wild hair and your gold eyes! You worked so hard not to be noticed but my earliest memories are of you. Isn’t that odd?” She chuckled and swiftly covered her mouth. “Perhaps it wrong of me to laugh, but the absurdity of my first memories being of the human that orphaned me is too hard to resist.” She paused and stepped forward looking Leo in the eyes. “I learned my father killed my mother. I’m half human, though my faery blood seems to be more prominent. My real mother… was one of the slaves like you.”
Her hand reached out, inches from his face. Despite himself he flinched. “You spared me, but you may have also saved me. You’re capable of being more than just a killer.” She lowered her hand and turned away. Leo blinked for a moment, silent still against the question that beat against his mind. The question he had never thought to ask until now.
“Tomorrow is my wedding day.”
Leo begged himself to speak, to ask the question he needed an answer for.
“I won’t be coming back. We both need to move forward from that darkness.” Slowly the young lady began walking toward the cell door.
“You’re not gagged, you’re stupid animal! Ask her the damn question!” Leo screamed at himself, his body straining against his mind as his training battled his heart. Finally, just as she reached for the door, Leo found his voice.
“What is your name?” he asked, his voice surprisingly soft for all of the effort it took to summon it. Silence followed his question for several moments, her hand frozen upon the door before she slowly turned around. The young lady smiled, though tears ran from her eyes. “Sylvael,” she replied with a laugh before quickly rushing from the cell.
Sylvael. It was pretty.
It was after the wedding, perhaps the next day, that Leo met Sylvael’s new husband, a grotesque combination of a faery and a pig by the weight of him, his body so fat he likely could even use those wings of his to fly. As soon as he came through the cell door with his oily grin Leo strained against his chains, the fire within his chest swelling to a blaze before he even knew who the man was.
“My wife has played with you for far too long,” he said as he covered his nose with a monogrammed handkerchief. “A man has offered me a tidy sum for bodies and I’ve arranged a deal with warden to split our profits. I don’t know what a man like that has in store for you, but I bet it will be ugly. A beast like you deserves nothing less. Rot in hell.”
Leo lurched against his chains again and the piggy faery jumped back, dropping his handkerchief. Leo grinned a twisted smile. “Lions love pork.”
As soon as the pig faery left two guards threw a thick sack over Leo’s head and unbound him from the chains. Before he could even move new chains wrapped around his arms, binding them to his torso as his legs were chained together with a shorter chain between.
“A shame they’re moving this one, I rather enjoyed watching his fights,” Leo heard one of the guards say through the bag.
“We lost several of our own to this monster as well. Let him rot in some backwater cell where he can’t kill anyone else.” The other sounded familiar. Leo had been there a long time and some of the guards were known to him. The first voice seemed younger, newer.
“Any idea where they’re taking him?” The first again.
“Warden said him and a few others going on ship to a new penal colony. He’s strong enough to get some work done if he don’t kill everyone before he learns how. Shit, the bastard’s hardly ever said more than his name in all the years I’ve been here. I don’t know if he can do anything other than fight.”
“I can clean floors,” Leo said brazenly, protected by the darkness of the bag and the fire that burned in his chest. It was tolerable, not the all consuming inferno he felt before he killed, but it was there. As long as he had his fire he would find his chance.
“I’ll be damned.” They shuffled Leo forward and he went along easily. The short chain and the one they added at his waist were connected by a long length, from shoulders to waist to feet. All he could manage was a small shuffle, and for every step the guards took he had to take three. The walk was long, but finally the ground beneath Leo’s feet grew softer, wind tousled the ragged breeches he wore. The wicker of a nearby horse startled him slightly and a rush of excitement went through him. Leo was outside! Then he was in a cart, tossed like a sack by the guards the brought him from his cell.
“Last one?” Leo heard the Warden yell from, what he assumed was, the front of the cart. He could hear the sound of others breathing near him, likely chained prisoners crumpled on the bottom of the cart as Leo was. The guards grunted affirmation and struck the side of the cart loudly. With a snap of the reins the wood beneath Leo began to sway and creak, and the sound of horses hooves drowned out all other noise.
The ride wasn’t long. Soon enough the warden whistled for the horses to stop and the swaying boards ceased their creaking. The jingle of gold could be heard near where the horses would be, faint but notable accompanied by the warden’s laughter. Heavy footsteps approached and with little cries the other prisoners were removed one by one. When cold hands grabbed Leo’s ankles and shoulders he flinched, the fire inside flaring bright against the unnatural touch.
“Why is this one wearing a hood?” an oily voice queried. It was the voice of poison and filth, disgusting but with a sense of power about it.
“This one bites, hard. Word is he ate an entire family of fairies some thirteen years ago. I know his body count in my prison since I took over is at least in the dozens, and that’s just the past five years. Those chains may as well be a part of him.”
The oily voice came from directly in front of Leo’s face, just on the other side of the bag. “Oh he bites, does he?”
Leo snapped his head forward and his teeth together through the bag, hoping to get a piece of the disgusting voice, but putrid laughter echoed from behind him as his mouth bit down upon something soft. The taste of rot accompanied the smell as Leo spit against the mask in a vain attempt to rid himself of it.
“He might prove to be my favorite new toy. Take this one directly to my cabin and unbind his arms and feet. And remove the bag. See if he’s hungry when he sees what he’s biting.” The oily voice pealed a raucous laugh that faded with its footsteps and cold hands lifted Leo silently carrying him off to some unknown destination.