[OPEN] there is a light that i leave on

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria, Marcoulf, Flint and OPEN
WHAT: Open post/catch-all/buries myself in top levels
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: Kirkwall and misc
NOTES: Prose or brackets are a-okay. Feel free to hit me up on DM or discord if you want something specific that isn't here. Just posting a wildcard and winging it is awesome too.

Comments

[sclavus]

"And my ship, you sent out with the fleet? When do I get that one back?" Vane snaps, not necessarily because he's actually angry about that in particular - Blackbeard had been captaining the Revenge at the time, and their separation had nothing to do with Flint's orders. He knows that, but he's spoiling for a fight, and Flint's really the only one who gives as good as he gets. "With my crew. My quartermaster. My former captain."

Ignore that Jack Rackham is no longer his quartermaster, but fuck all of you, he doesn't care. Ultimately, this is all rhetorical, and he ends the line of it with another long swig from the bottle in his hand, lips pulling back tight against his teeth as he swallows in a manner that speak of annoyance. As for Mister Silver's list, Vane shakes his head, dismissing it.

"Don't need it. I'd sailed next to or fought with most these men before you even got to Nascere." Pirating is something many men came to after leaving or running from the civilized world one way or another. To Vane, the edges of the earth, the outskirt slave camps, the war-ruined isles between Tevinter and Seheron, and the vast waters in between waiting to swallow them up has been his entire world, never so much as set foot in Minrathous.

For Charles Vane, Nascere and pirating are his air, and everything about Kirkwall is starting to suffocate him.

[katabasis]

Across the table in that dark, high backed chair, Flint has stilled considerably. He's quiet, studying Vane out from under the line of his brow with heavily hooded eyes and waiting for--

"Are you finished?"

With the temper tantrum.

[sclavus]

Flint asks that, with his hooded eyes and his thin patience, and Vane grins, that sharp kind of smile that bares teeth, that has more in the way of aggressive restlessness and nerves on edge than real anger. The one that's clearly picking a fucking fight, just because he wants a damn fight, and he can't pick one out in the city, else it comes back on them with the Inquisition breathing down their necks.

In answer, Charles holds up a single finger - one second, please - and brings the bottle back to his lips to chug probably a couple more shots worth.

And, while he's busy with that, his foot snakes out, hooks the toe of his boot under the front lip of Flint's chair, and jerks it up, trying to tip it back and drop Flint onto the deck. Nurr hurr hurr.