RP Pirates of the Hard Nox 2

The sun was about to set when Caleb landed on Goswick’s shores. The beach was shockingly empty, with no one but him standing on the thin sand for as far as he could see. Without thinking much of it he made his way up to the street, equally soulless.

It wasn’t until he neared the castle’s walls that he started seeing people, heading in the same direction. The front gate was crowded, with people of all ages, races and sizes looking up at the far balcony behind the front yard.

“What’s happening?” He asked a young woman nearby.

“We want to see the bride and groom!” She explained, as if it was obvious. Caleb should’ve been able to piece it together, considering how many ships were on port and how many flowers adorned the gardens.

They had arrived on the wedding day.

Solomon must’ve done it on purpose, he thought, sliding to the side to find another entrance, to the west of the main gate. He walked for a few minutes, until getting to a smaller entrance, which he assumed was reserved for the workers. As it was to be expected, it was perfectly secured by armed guards.

“Afternoon.” He greeted, with a nod of his head.
 
"I think I'm going to get married in the spring."

"Really. To who?"

"Melia. The girl I told you about."

"The one you haven't asked out?"

"I've got time!"

"You're an idiot."

Checking in at the west gate was boring, tedious, and a number of other synonyms. The guards were armed, but not particularly expecting any trouble. If there was trouble, it would probably happen at one of the other gates, the ones with all the important people. Not here, which was fit only for servants. One of the guards gave Caleb a disdainful look as he approached, shabbily dressed, but other than the missing eye he wasn't that different than anyone else here. He was a fairy, after all, and that counted for quite a lot.

"Name and business?" The inquiry was perfunctory, the same one they were asking everyone who passed through, recording the answers in a neat little booklet that, realistically, no one was ever going to look at again.
 
“Christian O’Cale, I’d like to speak to the residence’s butler, please.” Caleb said, keeping his shoulders down, as well as his head.

The guards’ body language didn’t show any sign of concern about this stranger that had just appeared at the gate, a poor man with an ugly scar in the place of an eye. It was enough for the more sensitive people to avoid staring at his face for too long, which worked for his benefit.
 
The guards didn't seem concerned by Caleb's announcement - maybe it was just that they were fending off enough people who wanted to speak to the royal family or the bride herself or all of the above, on the wedding day. To have someone keep his head down and ask to speak to a butler wasn't going to raise any alarm bells.

"Very well. Can you sign your name or make your X?" The notebook was thrust in his direction, with a neatly written Christian O'Kale now written on one of the lines. "Ask one of the servants where to find him. And he's likely busy, so you'll probably be cooling your heels for a while."
 
Alys certainly didn’t seem the optimistic type, but it seemed that O’Cain’s second was the one assigned to hope on this venture. She seemed adamant about using flares, and though Argent had his concerns he simply shrugged her insistence aside. A slight downturn of his lips gave away more of his concern as the First Mate assigned Summer to pair with Lucien, and the hobbled elf agreed readily.



”By the time you wonder,” Argent replied to Ciaran’s question without lifting his eyes from the map. ”Things have usually already begun turning.” Argent’s crossed his arms over his chest, studying the terrain with a crease on his brow.



”The Captain seemed intent that we do this quickly; I doubt we have a day to spare.” When Argent’s pale gaze lifted his face was its usual mask of serenity. ”If this is all we have to our plan I would like to make some preparations before we leave.” Without waiting for a reply he turned from the table and left the office.



He stopped by the armory first, hesitating a moment before filling his pistol and trading his cutlass in favor of a shorter, cruder falchion that was easily hidden along his spine. A small bag of powder and a handful of lead was tucked next to his pistol, and Argent made his way to the furnaces next, sweat beading on his forehead as soon as he entered.



He wasn’t exactly well known, and if there was a bounty for his head it wasn’t enough to warrant posters. However Argent knew his appearance was hard to miss, and with that in mind he scooped a bit of errant ash into his hand, rubbing it into his hair until it became a dingy, dirty grey. Satisfied the grime was caked enough that it wouldn’t immediately wash away Argent returned to the top deck. The change in appearance wasn’t stark, but at a glance he seemed a complete stranger leaned against the bannister as he waited for the others.
 
"It took nearly killing him to get it on the first time. Besides, if he's allowed to kill and someone gets desperate and takes that bracelet off, we're all dead anyway." In other words, don't fucking touch it.

With Argent gone, deeming planning to be completed, Alys glanced towards Ciaran, to continue planning. "You've got to take care of the duke, his three kids, and a daughter-in-law." The princess, apparently, though she held back that piece of information. "Their wing and chambers will likely be heavily guarded. Do what you have to." Then, she turned to Summer. "Can you find and bring the Captain here? He said he was looking for Juniper."

Once Summer had disappeared, Alys once more turned to Ciaran. "How long should we wait for you? If you're going in tonight?"
 
Getting in was a lot easier than Caleb had anticipated, but he wouldn’t let his guard down because of it. He thanked the guards and after their backs were turned went down a set of stairs, where he knew the service hall would be even though he’d never visited that house before.

Despite the number of people going in and out, no one seemed to have paid any attention to him. He figured the importance of a wedding, the increase in staff and of things to do would be enough to help him go unnoticed and he was right, as by the time he made it into the footman’s sitting room no one had said as much as a ‘hi’ to him.

The place was empty, and the doors were unlocked. The captain of the Hard Nox entered the nearest bedroom, closed the door behind him and pushed open the door to the closet, hoping the uniforms he’d find in there would be the perfect size. A few minutes later he was wearing a black and white suit that would have been tailor made for him, had the pants not been a little too long. Nothing a few folds couldn’t fix.

It was weird, wearing those clothes again. After a final look in the mirror and making sure there was no blood leaking from his glove, Caleb walked outside as a brand new man.

If only his father could’ve seen him now.

***

“Quick, Sam! Get me the sugar!” An old maid shouted from the kitchen of the Goswick state. A short girl with curly dark hair nervously searched for where they had put the bag of sugar, but the kitchen was too much of a mess for her to spot it right away, on the counter, behind another two bags of flour. “Hurry!”

“One second, Ms. Bernadette!” There were labels on the bags, but none the poor girl could read. She searched one by one, tasting it sometimes to make sure she wouldn’t deliver salt instead. She wouldn’t want to get fired for the same mistake twice. “Found it!”

But Bernadette wasn’t listening. A footman walked into the kitchen, picked up a tray of appetizers and Bernadette was too busy wondering if she’d seen him before to see the disaster that was about to happen.

“Aaah!” The scream captured Bernadette’s attention, and was followed by the muffled sound of an open bag of flour falling down to the floor. Soon, half of Sam's ebony hair had turned into grey. “I-I’m sorry Ms. Bernadette! Here’s the sugar!”

“Careless girl! Clean this up!” Bernadette shouted, taking the bag of sugar from Sam’s hands before turning around, and finding the footman was no longer there.
 
“Sure thing, boss.” Summer said, sliding out of the office after Argent. She asked around about the whereabouts of the captain, and someone mentioned they saw him hurry to his room, which saved the woman plenty of time. When she got to the door she knocked and waited, but no sound came out.

“Captain O’Cain?” She called before knocking again and reaching for the doorknob, only then realizing it was stained with blood. The door was locked and after another slam, there was once again, no answer.

“Hey!” Summer shouted, hurrying back to the top deck. “I think the captain might… He’s not answering, the door is locked.”
 
Caleb couldn't have known how far he would get, but it likely wasn't as far as he'd have wanted. He was stopped by - of all things - a prod in the ribcage, from his blind side.

"You, boy. Where is it?" The speech - and the prodding - had apparently come from an older woman, wielding - of all things - a paintbrush.

She might have been pretty once, oddly enough - but she seemed more washed out than anything now, a voice that should have been imperious softened to almost pleading, skin that should have been fair wan, gold hair alloyed with silver. Even her wings seemed more transparent than they might have, as if someone had leeched the color from those as well. The only color came from splatters of paint along her hands and arms and across the sleeve and skirt of the elegant black dress she was wearing.

"Did you find it yet?"
 
Do what you have to.

Ciaran gritted his teeth silently as a stitch began to radiate from his left side - throbbing pain from an arm long gone. Caleb hadn't said kids, but Ciaran should've assumed. Every new piece of information he'd glean was just - wrong. "Aye, what -" Ciaran paused, his arm ached and neared agony.

"What we have to," the master gunner finished, a bead of sweat slid down his temple and stained his lapel. His right hand moved up to grip his bicep in an effort to massage the stump of his lost sword arm, to little avail.

When Summer departed, Ciaran turned his eyes back to Alys. "A few hours at most, I wouldn't risk much longer. If I'm not back by first light, consider me gone." A grim aura clung to his words, even if he didn't intend it - devil's work. Ciaran had made his choice long ago, there was no use bemoaning it now.

As Summer came back above deck shouting for every swabbie to hear, Ciaran looked first to Alys for something - anything that might give him pause, to reassure him. Without waiting for response, he turned wordlessly and marched for Caleb's quarters.
 
Last edited:
The look he gave Alys was one of sorrow, as if they were knowingly marching into a battle they couldn't win. She wouldn't accept that though, and as she opened her mouth to respond, to answer his longing stare, he turned and left.

Scampering after him, her own long strides quickly matching the master gunners, she placed a hand on his shoulder to halt him, just for a moment. "Till first light. And I'll make sure we wait for as long as we can after." Before Goswick's soldiers found the ship, nestled within the forest. Unable to force a smile, the fae softened her gaze and nodded. "But you'll make it."

Then she released her hand, and together they met Summer, standing outside an all too familiar door. The bloodied doorknob seemed to slow her breath, the accompanying words echoing in her mind until she'd finally comprehended them.

Wasn't answering. Locked door.

Fear shot across her features, automatically thinking the worst. King had accelerated the timeline; a timeline that hadn't even existed until an hour ago. She looked at Summer, then Ciaran, then the door. "Captain?" She called out, and when no response came, she took a step back and looked to the master gunner, expectant.
 
The child had managed to bring her sword up in time to block his feint. Unsurprising, but at least she was competent enough to follow instructions. As his blade clanged against hers, Lucien shifted, spinning to attack from her other side. He had aimed for the shoulder, deliberately provoking the hand into defending. It did not disappoint.

Lucien saw it flatten itself, saw the girl drop in response, and watched as his blade skimmed over the top of her head, a few strands of hair rustling in the breeze it created. Pivoting, Lucien flicked his wrist and the blade came back around, resting uncomfortably beneath her chin.

“Interesting.” Lucien muttered, staring down at her. “Keep working. Next time you will be the one attacking.” Without explanation of when ‘next time’ might be, Lucien stowed the rapier and turned on his heel, descending into the depths of the ship. His nose wrinkled at the stench of copper that wafted up, and Lucien was curious as to what exactly O’Cain had gotten himself into.

It was not long before he found the blood, relatively fresh compared to the other stains that had soaked into the bones of the Nox. The owner of the spill was nowhere to be found, and neither was the culprit. Unless of course they were one and the same. Lucien did not know why the fairy would go spilling his own blood on the gun deck, but he could only hope that it had hurt a lot.

Not long after, he had heard the commotion and oh so very concerned voices from in front of the new captain's cabin. Lucien sauntered up, leaning against the wall as he watched the growing panic with clear disinterest, taking a deep breath through his nose. The coppery tang was subtler than the gun deck, but it was there.

"Oh dear, has our beloved captain hurt himself? Perhaps he slit his throat while shaving, and is desperately trying to beg us for help through all the blood." All of this was delivered in the same neutral tone one might use to comment on the weather or if a soup needed more salt. "Such a pity."
 
Summer didn’t particularly care, but she looked like she did.

“Should we break in?” It was the obvious thing to do, considering he wasn't answering, but she wouldn’t be the one to do it. She wouldn’t want to hear it from the captain that she was responsible for damaging his door.

***

Caleb turned perhaps a bit too abruptly, his hand instinctively moving to his waist even though there was nothing there.

He realized after a quick glance that it was nothing he should be concerned about. An old hag dressed in a nice gown even if her demeanor made him consider she might have a screw loose. Either that or she was too smart for her own good.

“Pardon me?” He asked, with a chivalrous smile. His right hand had returned to its rightful place behind his back, while the left held the tray at his mid abdomen level.
 
Last edited:
“I think the captain might… He’s not answering, the door is locked.”



It wasn’t so much that Argent held no concern over the Captain. At Summer’s shout he turned toward the officer’s quarters, though he made no move to push himself away from the bannister. There were a million and one reasons why O’Cain might not answer his door, and most were no cause for concern. If Argent had a door to ignore Summer through he felt he might abuse the privilege, so he couldn’t blame the Captain for doing the same.



Alys and Ciaran crossed the deck with haste, though, concern already twisting their expressions as a quick word was exchanged between them. Argent watched nonchalantly as they passed, content to ignore the worst possibilities in favor of the most likely. The Nox was Caleb’s ship, it wasn’t as though his life were in immediate danger.



Unless one of the new crew members were a threat.



The thought made Argent pause. He hadn’t gained the trust of this crew, and if the Captain were to turn up assassinated in his room… Argent couldn’t account for his whereabouts for the past several minutes, and was dangerously close to the Officer’s quarters while he patiently waited. If it had been anyone other than Summer to have shouted he might have been less worried. There worse ways to remove someone who harbored suspicions about you.



Argent slipped in behind the unlikely quartet at Caleb’s door, leaning against the Master Gunner’s doorframe as Lucien spoke ominously. If there were blood involved, which Argent couldn’t doubt from the expert’s mouth, things were looking grim indeed.
 
"The paint, boy. The orange paint I asked for. I need it for her eyes." By the way the woman spoke, she fully expected Caleb to know exactly what she was talking about, and perhaps also have a tube of paint in his pocket at this very moment that he could hand her.

Footsteps may have saved him, quiet soft soles on the hallway, shoes never meant to be worn outside. "Mother?" A voice, as approaching. "Mother, what are you- why are you here?"

"For the paint, of course-"

The steps stopped, the newcomer briefly with his eyes closed and his fingertips pressed on his brow, as if he could massage away a recurring headache. The eyes opened - orange, bright, and intimately familiar. They scoured Caleb, as if they could tear him open, and it seemed strange that they did no harm before returning to the woman instead. "Mother. He's a footman. He probably has no idea about your paint."

"He's a servant, isn't he? They're supposed to communicate."

"Please go back to your room and wait. I will make sure someone brings you paint." The second sentence was almost gentle, but in the way that it seemed perhaps the edge had just worn off of the exasperation after many long years.

"Oh, good. I need it for her eyes, you know."

"Yes, mother."

"And ask him if he's seen her. He may have!"

"Mother, she's-" A sigh, and a shake of his head, as if the argument weren't worth having, especially if it prolonged the woman's presence. He watched her retreat, then returned a sharp gaze to Caleb, his words just as sharp. "My mother has not taken my sister's death well. I tell you this as a courtesy, and also as a courtesy I will tell you that if there is any gossip on the matter, my memory for faces is much better than hers. Do you understand?" He did not apologize. That was the footman's task, for having been in the wrong place so as to hear things that he should not have.
 
Getting mistaken for another servant was awfully common in that line of business, and was not what caused Caleb to freeze in place. What did was the man that had joined them - tall, blonde, with orange eyes like hers.

It wasn’t just the way he looked, but the way he reprimanded as well. Caleb felt the hairs of his nape stand up, and nodded at his question.

“I understand.” He responded to emphasize, and hesitated before taking a step forward, going against his better judgment. “Allow me to escort you back, ma’am.” Hoping her son wouldn’t stop him, Caleb politely offered his arm for her to lean on if she needed. “Perhaps my colleague will have returned with your paint, if not I’ll make sure to bring it to you in haste.”
 
Last edited:
The woman took his arm, not so much as if she wanted to lean on it, but more in the manner of someone who expected it - aristocratic all the way through, to be offered aid in all she did. Her son watched them with some concern, momentarily, but seemed to decide the situation was well enough in hand for the time being.

The lady turned, back the way that she had come. Caleb could likely only hope that she knew where she was going.

You should do something with that eye of yours. It's quite unpleasant, you know. They make eyes of glass - or crystal. Hm, perhaps something in sapphire, with your coloration..." She seemed to consider this entirely an aesthetic proposition, as if completely unaware that the subject might not be something he cared to discuss, and similarly unaware that sapphires might be too much for a mere footman to afford.

"And tell me if you see my daughter. I'm sure she must be here for the wedding - how could she miss it? Everyone will be here, after all."
 
It was most likely just a nasty coincidence, but Caleb had to put his mission aside to make sure that’s what it was. After the man had left, he wondered if it hadn’t been his subconscious that made him see her in other people’s faces, he had only spared him a glance, after all.

It was a waste of time, listening to the woman’s solution to his right eye just to peek at a painting made by a sickly woman. It had just been a supposition, but after the woman asked if he’d seen the daughter his son claimed to be dead, he was even more convinced that it was a waste of time. Just not enough to walk away.

“What does she look like?” He asked.
 
From her reaction to the question, she hadn't expected it - perhaps she hadn't expected a mere servant to make any inquiries or say anything beyond yes, ma'am, or perhaps there was something else to it. "Don't you know? Everyone-" She half turned to him, looking him over. Her gaze didn't really have that same sharpness as her son, but whether he'd gotten it from her and refined it or whether hers had once been just as bad and had dulled was an open question.

"Hm. She's been missing for a while. At least a week. A month? Oh, but little Maeve is getting married, it must have been... Perhaps you'd have been too young." This statement was probably less helpful than it could have been, from Caleb's perspective.

"She's lovely, you know. My daughter. The most beautiful maiden - well, girl - of her generation. They write poetry about her. It's mostly terrible, but you know poets... no, I don't suppose you do." She seemed to conclude that this description might not have been entirely accurate in helping her daughter be found. "She looks a bit like her older brother. More delicate, though, but there's a similarity, especially when they were small. Now, he should have married the princess, I think, rather than having her go to this backwater - he refused to ask, though, the stubborn boy. Said she was too young for him and he wasn't interested - bah. I could have had two children married to royalty, you know. Well. We just have to find my daughter and then she'll marry the prince, and things will be better after that."
 
A moment passed, two, then time began to drag with the navigator's arrival. Alys bit her tongue, knowing very well that they needed him - rather desperately. Still, her expression didn't hide her discontent. He'd need a muzzle next, to pair with his collar. A shame that it'd likely been discarded with the rest of Sinead's belongings.

"Your concern is dully noted," She muttered, turning back towards the door that still remained sealed. Growing impatient, she touched the bloodied handle - still slightly wet - and turned it, just in case. Then, without another thought, she took a step back and slammed the sole of her foot into the door, just below the lock. Once, twice, and upon the third, the door groaned open, revealing an empty room. She was the first to enter the all-too familiar room, eyes scanning over the opened chest, the desk that remained in it's usual state of slight disarray, and the dark clumps scattered across the floor.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top