The journal of Sabre Seesaw
-
Death again. Not mine this time, but the responsibility is mine, at least in part. Gen…the argument still unresolved, me pushing for some sort of closure, for an end to the strife. Ormpur. Not the place to debate such matters in, but I just couldn't leave things be. She was quiet, saddened, so pityful loooking that I wanted to slap her. I wanted to scream at her: So someone hurt you - get over it! It may be a first but it'll happen again, and again and again and again. That's life!
So frustrated - I just don't get her, can't get through to her. Sometimes it's as if we don't even speak the same language. I swear I was never that young, never that naive. I tried to reason with her, tried to seem calm, persuasive and understanding but I got too frustrated. Lost my temper, said too much or the wrong things, I'm not sure which. She looked about to cry again when Devlin decided it was time to leave, stomping off impatiently. Gen and Taria followed swiftly, but I stayed, lingered a while to talk to Pavel quietly. Shall I apologize, even if I don't mean the words Sabre?, he asked. Before I could reply, Taria came running back, blood staining her armour. Hurry! , she screamed, then we ran. Too late...too many worgs. Devlin and Gen, bitten and mauled to death before our very eyes. A frenzied fight ensued before we could drag their bodies back to Jiyyd. If only I'd been faster, if only we hadn't argued...
If only's have never done anyone much good, but they fill my mind regardless. Regret, remorse, a sense of failure. I was supposed to be the senior Sail, supposed to lead in some sense. I failed, failed, failed. It makes me question whether or not I'm really fit to be a leader. Am I really decisive enough, strong-willed, thick-skinned and ruthless enough to be in command? A sinking feeling in my gut says I'm not, but I -have- to be, I must. I must, for the Harbinger's sake. I couldn't stand to let anyone other than myself captain -my- ship, should I ever regain her.
Once back amongst the living, neither Gen nor Devlin blamed me. They didn't have to, I did that fine by myself. I still do, though I feel a little more at peace now. Death, loss - I cope badly with these things though one might think I'd become used to them by now. I was drifting back into my cold and familiar depression, fog sweeping in around me when Pavel caught me, offering a form of escape from my island of self-inflicted misery. He bought a good few bottles of booze and led me upstairs, nudged me to talk, listened as if he really cared. He layed his arm around me, I rested my cheek against his chest. So strong, so warm, the fragrance of him filling my nostrils. A sliver of desire crept through the fog. Gently, I whispered, gently...let me show you how. We made love then, slowly, silently...soft caresses, just skin against skin in what was almost more of an embrace than actual sex. Like Liara...just like Liara.
He smiled afterwards, a strangely soft smile. That was different...but nice...I liked it, he whispered, looking like he truly meant it. I rested my head against his chest once more as his arms stroked my back. Then I told him the story of Liara, of all that she taught me and gave me of herself. All the love I could never return, all the pain I caused her...and the end. The fight, my flight, her death. Liara, dead. Not by my hands, but the blame is still mine. If only...
Her image is still vivid in my mind; her warm brown eyes and honey hair, that dimpled smile and the flawless grace of all her movements. The business Liara, expertly pleasing and teasing her clients, and then the private Liara, my Liara. Warm and tender, patient, forgiving. Funny, oh so funny she could be. If only I could have loved her back, if only.
You were lucky to have such a friend, Pavel pointed out gently, as my voice trailed off. It's true. I just wish...He stopped me there, told me the story of his friend in return. Friend, or almost brother from the sound of things. He's dead now, I guess we have that in common aswell. Loss. Pain. Guilt. I repeated his own words back to him - you were lucky to have such a friend. He smiled, agreeing. You would have liked Liara, I added. You would have liked Pavel, he replied. I do like Pavel...imagine two Pavels, now that would make me almost too lucky. He grinned and held me closer, grew silent. Looked at me almost cautiously before whispering: kiss me again, the way you did before...with your tongue...I think I'm ready to try that again.
A soft kiss, a slow, tentative exploration. His tongue carefully, gently tasting my mouth, my lips in return. A shimmer in his eyes afterwards, a look of almost wonder. A good kiss...but not a wise one. Revealing your soft spots makes you all the more prone to get hurt. I should know, but still I kissed him. And I can't promise I won't do it again.
Tenderness, so much more dangerous than playing rough. And what's worse, I think he's beginning to like it too.
-
A moment to myself at last, a little respite from the turmoil of emotions and events that swirls around me lately. Alone in my quarters, just me, my journal and a bottle of rum. I need this, need to pen down my thoughts before they too swirl out of control. Just one swig before I start, just one to numb my headache. Rough day, rough week, rough month. Good rough and bad, both kinds exhausting.
Aches and bruises, welts, bite marks and scratches cover my body, in various stages of healing. I don't mind them, I enjoy them even. The bruises, the bites…aching mementos of our meetings. Imprints of his touch, lingering on my body, his body bearing my marks in turn. Together they tell a story. I read and reread it with my hands, fingers grazing over the tender spots. His mouth was here, kissing, biting...his hands there, grabbing, squeezing, holding me tight.
It started on a playful note. We'd wrestle, mock-fight over who got to be on top. He would've won easily, won every time if not for the fact that I (of course) cheated. He let me cheat, still does, lets me get away with most of everything. Lets me set the boundaries in this game - perhaps that's why I can enjoy myself so immensely, even when things start getting rough. Lately there's been a sort of frenzy, almost violence about our lovemaking, pleasure and pain mingling. A desperate effort to push each other away or an equally desperate hunger for more, I can't decide which. Regardless of why, it seems only to bring us closer. It always ends in the same way, me and Pavel in each others arms, relaxed, guards dropped, revealing bits and pieces of ourselves to the other.
He doesn't laugh. It's a vow he made years ago, when he and his friend were tortured, their pain a thing of amusement to the men in charge. They laughed, so he won't. He told me this quite calmly, but I see the hurt behind his vow...I feel it echoed in myself. My own tormentors laughed at me too when they cornered me, when they had me pinned and caught. Cruel, excited laughter. Especially if I fought back, even more so if I cried or begged. I told him, quietly, just a few words and he understood. Held me close.
Closeness. I long for it and dread it equally, want to be held and want to be free all at once. Want to be strong, independant, invunerable, but I'm not, I'm weak. I seek his company, crave it at times even. I'm weak, but I think he's strong, strong enough to not let this end up a mess. I kissed him once, kissed him like Liara would kiss me - soft lips, open-mouthed, my tongue exploring gently. He looked stunned, pulled away slightly. Too much, he said, too close. Too intimate. He's right, and I'm glad he said so, glad he drew the line somewhere. As long as he's strong, I can allow myself some weakness.
I've tried regaining my distance though, I have made an effort. With Ocean's words ringing in my ears, I decided to sleep with Hawk. I figured it was harmless, that he's well over me by now and that perhaps he could be dissuaded from joining the Pick-On-Sabre club if I bribed him in this way. It was a mistake, though he's not to blame. Roughness, but not the kind I wanted. Flashback to the ship, to them as he pinned me down, a moment's panic. Bit him hard, whimpered before I could chase the memories away. I expect he mistook it for passion, certainly liked it enough. He fell asleep afterwards, I dressed and left, feeling empty.
Next try was better, though hardly a success. Invited Taria to join me and Pavel, much to his wide-eyed delight. Also rough, but at the same time playful, enjoyable. Not a complete success for the simple reason that it ended just like always. Me and Pavel alone together, that powerful pull tugging me close once more. The aftermath though...that's what has me drinking now.
Gen found the three of us later, at the commons. Looking our welts and bruises over, she came to the conclusion that Pavel had beaten us (which admittedly he had), and that he should therefore be punished in return. She was very upset, though both Taria and I tried to explain. It was good pain, I said. She looked blank, lost...for all her wits she is unbelievably clueless about anything regarding sex. A noble upbringing can do that, I guess. Taria took her aside, spoke for what felt like an eternity. As she returned, a strange debate began, something which I mistook for banter between her and Pavel, but which ended in a big, big mess...
Talking about pain, she mentioned wanting to hurt him. Ok, he said, grinning. Ok, I said aswell, thinking she'd slap him (which he'd likely enjoy, or at least be amused by). But Gen...smart but literal-minded that she is...she -really- meant to hurt him. She tinkered together a vicious little trap which she then stuffed down his britches, too quickly for any of us to stop her.
Snap.
Pain, and -not- good pain.
He struck her down in anger, and now they want to kill each other, or at least she him. I've talked him out of hurting her further, but he won't apologize for striking her. I won't make him either. It's not like he hit her very hard even, but she acts like it's the ultimate insult, like she's never been struck before. Perhaps she hasn't? I don't understand her at all sometimes, I really don't. I'll have to go crawling to Drelan to fix this, I can't do it myself. He can talk to the nobles, he's nearly one of them after all. I'd rather not tell him the -whole- story though... he knows all too much of my intimate affairs as it is. This has got to get sorted, it has to. As much as I count Gen as a friend, if she kills Pavel...I think I'll return the favour to her.
Life is rough, you take your punches along the way. Some punches you invite, you bring them onto yourself, others you dodge as best you can. I should dodge Pavel, I should...but I think I can take a little more damage before I pull away.
-
I blame Mercy. She started what now feels like the new sport or pasttime amongst the crew: picking on me, be it verbally, physically, or both. I could claim to be completely innocent and undeserving of any and all such treatment, but what's the point of lying in a journal only I will ever read? Admittedly, I tease, taunt and banter as well and as willingly as anyone. I enjoy it, I'm rather good at it too, only lately I've felt a bit outnumbered. When even Drelan makes jokes about there being spiders in my bunk, that's when I know the line is crossed. I have -got- to stop being such an easy mark.
It all started with Mercy, with her jovialically evil practical jokes and casual jabs to my posterior with that damned trident of hers. She gifted me with the dubious pleasure of the nickname "Butter Knives", a little jibe at the feebleness of my two shortswords, and picks endless fights with me that I unvariably lose. Mercy prefers a more physical, in your face sort of taunting, but I'm also pretty sure she's behind the ugly rumours circulating in Peltarch about a sailor wench being pregnant by an unnamned Senator…
That rumour has now started circulating amongst the crew, growing in popularity no doubt because it never fails to get me riled up. Pregnant my arse! What was it that fishfaced, purselipped, so called healer said.."the likelihood of you ever being able to bear a child after this sort of procedure are slim to none, young miss". It still boils my blood thinking about it...the frowning disapproval, the cold judging and tut-tuts, when I was little more than a child myself, when he knew nothing of the whys and hows behind my situation. Judging me as if he were superior, but he still took my coin. Bastard. I'm angry again, remembering. I ought to have stabbed him, would have stabbed him had he not done such a piss-poor job that I almost bled to death.
Calm, calm...past life, past hurt. Over and done with, but the fact remains that I'm highly unlikely to ever conceive a child. Not that I'm particularily sad about that, no, quite the opposite. I don't like children, they're loud and obnoxious, not to mention frighteningly fragile and horribly needy. I know I'd make an awful mother, and besides, it would be beyond cruel to pass on the blood feud to an innocent new soul. So why let the comments bother me? I shouldn't, I won't, not any more. It's just...no, past tense. Period.
Damn. It does bother me, but I can cover it up, I know I can. Next sore spot will be harder though, as it gets me so visibly rattled. Spiders. Apparantly it's a source of never ending amusement to the crew and even outsiders to spook me over that. Candy morphing into spider shape and chasing me, Fedar hiding and chittering omniously, Hawk describing in detail the spider colony he supposedly planted in my bunk...and that raggedy Wolf man joining in with druidic pearls of bloody wisdom about the eight-legged freaks. Drelan, even Drelan joked about spiders on my pillow once, though he whispered an assurance that there were no spiders immidiately afterwards. He's such a softie. Janita on the other hand is anything but soft. She all but pushed me off the Jiyyd watchtower the other day, crazy wench, all for an innocent slap on Deacon's rear in passing.
Mark has his own little jokes, but he prefers to keep them between just him and me. The wolf story, the dress...he hints at these things in public just to make me jump, and looks ever so smug when I do. I know he only pokes fun at me for lack of being able to poke me in a different way though. I would probably make use of that knowledge more if it wasn't for the fact that I sort of like him, well, him and Celina both. And yes, there's the whole avoiding messes thing that I've promised myself.
I can handle Mark though, verbally and even physically I've swept the floor with him on occasion. The same goes for Hawk and Fedar, while me and Mercy are a close match. She seems to end up with the upper hand more often than not, though I think I've found one comment that actually worked. I called her sweet and cuddly, pinched her cheek even. In hindsight I'm surprised I lived, but then she did knock out one of my front teeth, making me chase her all the way to the crossroads to wrestle it back from her grubby hands (with the help of Hawk and Grano). In the end I had to knock out one of her teeth to trade for mine, or the stubborn cow would never have let it go. Mercy, Mercy...she's one of a kind (thankfully). She's preparing to leave soon, to travel the seas once more. To my amazement I'm sorry to see her go, even though my life is bound to run smoother without Mercy messing up the rigging and tossing barnacles down the proverbial hatch. Smoother, but duller I'm sure.
Perhaps the club will fizzle out and die in Mercy's absence? I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but I won't bother holding my breath. There are far too many candidates jousling to fill her seat. Mark, Hawk, perhaps Janita or even Ocean might be the new ringleader. It had better not be Ocean...she's got the potential of becoming an actual friend, but she just can't seem to stop bugging me about the whole concept of love.
Ugh...love. Ugly, nasty fourletter word. I told Ocean once that I didn't believe in it, and that got her set on some kind of one-woman mission to reaffirm my faith. She sang me that cursed love-song in Jiyyd, causing me to fall into the Blues for a week straight. After that I had to admit that yes, I do believe in love. I just believe that it's very bad for you. Well, very bad for me. She seemed to lay off a bit after that, but now she's started pushing my buttons again, damned bard. Predictably she taunts me about Pavel, making puppy eyes and claiming we're in love...argh. It's NOT true, it isn't. It's friendship and great sex - nothing more and nothing less. It's good, it's enough, it's already more than I bargained for. There's no need to call it names. It worries me a little though; Ocean asked me when I last slept with anyone but Pavel, and I had to stop and think back...way back. Not a good sign, but it doesn't mean -anything-. It certainly doesn't mean what she implies. Still, best to spread my graces more, if nothing else then just to shut her up.
Spread my graces, cover my sore spots, be the breezy and carefree Sabre. Perhaps the club will live on after Mercy leaves, quite probably so since I certainly won't stop being a tease any time soon. But maybe, just maybe I can direct the jibes to safer areas than babies and bloody love. When it comes to spiders though, I need help...
-
Subtract one bodyguard, add a new one. Gain, loss, or simply breaking even?
Mavado has left, really left this time. My wall of muscle and metal to hide behind, my eye-candy, my partner in the wine business, gone. Officially he was never really -my- bodyguard, but inofficially I had him wrapped around my little finger. He headed the Church guard, but somehow it was always me he was looking out for. Even as he was preparing to leave, he had my safety in mind. I had been toying with the idea of recruiting Pavel, but it was Mavado who suggested the idea of him becoming my new bodyguard, even to the point of buying him new clothes to look stylish enough to match me. Good old Mavado, gorgeous powerhouse of a man…if not for him Deacon would never have agreed to the idea. Mavado's recommendation, and possibly my untimely death in the ettin caves are what finally convinced the captain to let me hire a bodyguard, though I dare say my choice didn't exactly please him. "Ye just want ta git laid more", he said, snickering a tad sourly.
I chose Pavel, though hardly for the reasons Deacon imagines. Hells, I can't afford to get laid any more often than I already do, or I'll never get any actual business done. Pavel's fault, my fault? Regardless of blame we can't seem to spend much time alone together without ending up very naked and very sweaty. A bad choice then, since he distracts me so? At times perhaps, but a good choice in many other respects. Pavel watches, assesses, thinks ahead and alerts me of dangers yet to come. He melts into the background when he chooses, and wears no weapons or armour to alert my opponents of our possible intentions. Clever, stealthy and quick, his methods and skills are very much different than Mavado's, but no less efficient.
Still, it wasn't an easy choice to make, for a wide range of reasons. I wasn't sure myself if I wanted to include him in the crew. For some reason I can really talk to Pavel, perhaps because he has virtually no ties to anyone or anything else in my life, or perhaps because he listens like no one else I've ever known. In either case I treasure that part, and hope I haven't risked ruining it by hiring him. Deacon and Hawk's old grudge against him was another reason, and Pavel himself took quite a lot of convincing before he agreed. I think he's reluctant to feel he owes anyone anything, he wants to be completely free and independant. Free to leave when he wants to - and he just might have done that already if he'd have had the means.
I stupidly dubbed him my favourite lover once, and watched an all too familiar reaction spread across his face. A familiar reaction, because it's usually mine: Danger, danger! Hole in the hull, we've sprung a leak! Abandon ship, man all the lifeboats, escape!!! There is no leak, I'm not in bloody love with the man. But I don't want him to leave just yet either.
So I convinced him to join up, convinced him that his former masters can't touch him if he's a Sail, but that he can still leave. Leave when he chooses to, not because he has to - that's freedom.As a lover, Pavel really is my favourite, it's true. I'll avoid saying so to his face so as not to freak him out, but the fact is that none of the others make me tingle and burn like he does, none of the others satify yet leave me hungry for more like Pavel. As a bodyguard then? If I were to crunch the numbers in my ledger, adding Pavel and subtracting Mavado, would I end up making a profit, breaking even or losing cash on the deal?
I admit I do miss Mavado, miss his brute force and his willingness to always take punches for me, to lay his life on the line for me even. It's different with Pavel, it's teamwork and tactics. It requires more of me, but I also learn more. Already we've proven to be quite a deadly pair in combat. Would he lay down his life for me though, as a good bodyguard should be willing to do? Time will tell. When your bodyguard is also your lover and your friend, you tend to try and avoid situations where these questions crop up. We have a special tactic to avoid disaster though - a kiss before every risky venture. Sounds silly, but the fact is that it's worked remarkably well so far.
All in all I'd say I'm breaking even, but perhaps I could do with one more bodyguard, one or even two? Sometimes you need a big, metal-clad brute to take the hits for you. Best if that someone is expendable...which I'm beginning to think Pavel isn't.
-
((bahahahahahahaha))
-
It wasn't -that- funny…
Mark walked in on me and Pavel in a back room at the Mermaid, unannounced. At first he just went bug-eyed with shock, then he started laughing and wouldn't stop. Every time he looked about to calm down he snuck another peek at me and started laughing his head off.
What's so damn funny about me wearing a dress, I asked. In case you hadn't noticed, I -am- a girl. Beside me, Pavel nodded quiet agreement.
Mark wheezed and wiped a tear, unbearably amused at my expense. Please, he replied. You're even more of a tom-boy than Celina.
Tom-boy. I suppose Mark might have a point in calling me that, though I'd never admit so to his face. Having lived the life of a boy for so many years, having lived among sailors for -all- my years hasn't exactly done wonders for my feminine side. Still, I've been making up for lost time in my own way, and I can pull off wearing a dress if I want to, or so I'd told myself. Suddenly I felt stupid, like a boy caught wearing his mothers flowery frock. Then I felt angry for feeling stupid, for being made to feel stupid...
Looking at me again, and perhaps noting the storm clouds piling up on the horizon, Mark added, insincely, that I looked good. He looked about to burst into another fit of mirth, so I decided to cut things short and just pulled the dress off. That seemed to work, though not as well as I'd hoped. In hindsight I shouldn't have worn any underwear, perhaps that would have wiped the smirk off his face.
I'd only been wearing the stupid dress because I'd been pretending to be a lady, part of the silly but enjoyable little games me and Pavel play to amuse ourselves at times. Some sort of underwear was required, I thought, in order to get in character properly, though perhaps the tiny black silk ones are not what respectable ladies normally wear. Who knows though, I should remember to ask Aarron about that some day. I should remember to give him a good slap too, for giving me the dress in the first place and convincing me I looked alright in it.
Still chuckling, Mark finally left. Pavel and I were just about to resume our favourite way to pass the time when Celina burst in through the door, asking for her boyfriends whereabouts. Being more than a little pissed at him, I accidentally kind of gave her the wrong idea about why I was nearly naked and what exactly Mark had done. She stormed off to stab him, or so I had hoped. No such luck, it turns out. Guess I'll just have to do it myself I thought, still in a piss-poor mood, but Pavel soon had me too distracted to care. After barring the door firmly shut, he performed a very careful, very thorough investigation in which it was proven beyond any doubt that I am in fact all woman.
I still can't quite believe I trusted Pavel with a knife down there...Even more amazing is that he trusted -me- with a knife though. Anything to please Caling, I suppose. He's quite interested in her, but apparantly human men are too hairy for her refined elven tastes. I offered to help him out with a shave of the more intimate nature -what are friends for, after all? He agreed willingly, but insisted on doing the same to me.
It's very breezy, a little chilly even. I may have to get in the habit of wearing bloody underwear, but that's about as ladylike as I'll ever get. Gods, if Mark breathes so much as a word about me wearing a dress, I'm going to give him an intimate shave of the brutal and bloody kind. Then we'll se which one of us is the tom-boy...
-
I died yesterday. I died alone, panicked, in the oppressing darkness of the ettin caves, trying desperately to unbuckle my clanking armour and chance sneaking out as my invisibility started flickering and fading. Hands shaking, cold sweat running down my back. Fumbling with the straps, a plate dropping to the ground with a loud clank. Shite. Two ettins charging down the corridor towards me, a spellcaster behind the door leading out, standing between me and safety. A club over my head, a white blinding pain and then nothing.
A place of sand, devoid of emotion and life; a place of quiet and waiting. I was not alone, the mage Yolanda was there. She had been the first to fall when the group entered duergar territory. I ran up the stairs as things starting going downhill, but I couldn't run far with ettins blocking my path. The two male mages, the farking Bane-hole and the redrobed bastard that had dragged us there in the first place, dragged us far further than we agreed upon, they up and left us to fend for ourselves. Gen gave me an invisibility potion to drink, but it didn't last long enough, or maybe I just didn't run fast enough.
The place of sand, the eerie silence. We waited, perhaps a short while, perhaps an eternity, time has little meaning in that place. Suddenly a winged creature appeared…golden-haired and beautiful, glowing with light. Your names?, the celestial asked, turning first to Yolanda. I recall thinking that someone a lot less pure and shining would claim me, someone horned or with a tail perhaps, then I felt an odd pulling sensation. I woke up in Jiyyd, shivering and cold, weak as a kitten and with an overwhelming sense of isolation.
When will I ever learn...I can't even be angry at the two scumbags that left me for dead, I'm mostly just disappointed with myself. Why must I be so stupid, so weak? Stupid to go with strangers to an unknown, dangerous place, stupid not to turn back when there was still time, too weak to fend for myself, once again. Weak, when I need to be strong. Alone, mind-numbingly alone, the fog rolling in and trapping me on that damned island again. I sat on a bench in Jiyyd, staring at the fire. I should leave, I thought. Just hop on the next ship and go as far away as I can. When the feud-ravens find me, I'll let Umberlee claim me and flip my finger at the whole thing. It seems fitting.
Deacon sat next to me, looked a little concerned. A strange look for him, and one that he seems uncomfortable with. I told him what happened, woodenly, then laid my head against his arm. He looked awkward, as if dying to get away. He doesn't like me like this, he likes the carefree, flirtatious and daring Sabre and wants nothing to do with the messed up wreck of a girl beside him. Drelan found us and Deacon all but shoved him onto the seat next to me, making some vague excuse as he skulked off.
Drelan...so seductively easy to lean on, a rock to cling to in stormy weathers. I told him I wanted to leave, he wouldn't let me. Let's drink, and you can tell me why the world has lost its sparkle Sabre, he said. There it was again, that powerful urge to confide in him. Even in the state I was in, I knew it would be a bad, bad idea. I'll drink with you Drelan, I replied, but let's not talk about things that matter, I just need to forget now. A drinking game then, and not only that, he sang too. Round after round of the strongest booze to be had at the inn, and Drelan singing bits and pieces of Mercy's old songs inbetween. Umberlee's tits, that man sings badly, but it warmed my heart even as the booze warmed my body.
The winner carries the loser upstairs, I suggested, hoping and predicting that I'd lose hands down. I did, and I have the hangover to prove it today. Everything after Dre's version of "Torm with the tiny.." is a blur, but I woke up alone, neatly tucked in and fully clothed. A gentleman, as always...I can't decide if I'm disappointed or relieved about that fact. More relieved perhaps...I wouldn't want to envoke the wrath of his Spider-Woman Candy, after all. Brr...yes, relieved.
A hazy memory is drifting back from the night before... I remember Drelan sitting on my bed, draping a blanket over me. I remember wanting to take his hand, to pull him down on the bed next to me, to have him just hold me...oh gods...I think I'm going to be sick. Tell me I didn't actually do it, please, dear gods...it was just a drunken thought, tell me I wasn't really that dumb, that needy and pathetic? Oh fark...I can't ask him, and he'd never tell, but please, -please-...someone tell me I didn't.
-
An ancient book written in the tongue of dwarves, a raven on its cover - this is my only clue as to why I'm being watched constantly from the sky, and why I'm under attack for no apparant reason. Ocean and Celina have translated the tome for me, and the result is startling to say the least…
Family - an age-old blood feud between two clans, the Ott-Kharno and those of Bogarth's line, whose true name was taken from them ages ago. They are known only as the Forgotten, ever since Bogarth brutally broke all law and tradition at a peace gathering, killing Ott-Kharno and the peace-keeping families alike. A family best left forgotten really, but apparantly part of my legacy...I'm clinging to the hope that it's all a huge mistake, a case of mistaken identity and nothing more, but my gut tells me differently. I think it was the part about Bogarth himself that convinced me, in spite of wishing it not to be true. Bogarth, caught and about to be hung, spitting out his defiance and calling down a curse on the families with his final breath. Like a murder of crows, the feud would forever follow the clans, through the ages and wherever they may travel.
This somehow called back memories of my mother, images more painful and vivid than I thought possible after all these years. The final stand, the Harbinger, at the helm. Green eyes blazing and raven hair flying as she spun, kicked, stabbed and slashed at our attackers, rallying our men to her side. Beautiful and terrible in her fury, not backing an inch, no mercy given or asked for. Men around her falling one by one, the blood, the cries, her slim figure in the midst of it, dealing death with every flick of her blades. A slash at her arm, a cutlass piercing her side, and still she fought. A blade in her back, the light fading in her eyes, but still she fought. She fell fighting, and I wouldn't be surprised if she uttered a curse of her own with her dying breath. Hanr shielded me from the rest, saying again and again: "They mustn't know ye be t' Raven's daughter". So I wasn't, I forgot, I made myself forget but it all comes back to you, doesn't it? It all comes back, no matter how far or how fast you run.
Mother. They called her Raven, for her waistlong black hair I always thought, though it strikes me now that there may have been other reasons. I don't believe in coincidences. Pavel asked me to tell him about her, but I found I couldn't. What was she like, did you love her, did she love you? Impossible to answer, as all my images of her are seen through the eyes of a child. She's larger than life in my memories, but perhaps she always was. Looking back stirs too much emotion, I won't...I can't deal with that just yet. I believe Bogarth would have been proud of her, that much I can say for sure.
Family - I'm surprised and more than a little touched at the show of support from the crew through all of this. They have little to gain from helping me really; I was already packed and set to leave when I asked them if they would back me. Not our fight, not our problem, was the answer I was expecting, even though I know I have friends here. Friendship only goes so far though, in my book. They all said yes, said for me to stay. Perhaps Drelan was actually right, when he called the crew his family? My family? It's funny...the Sails are just a means to an end, I wrote earlier, and now they're as close to family as I've gotten since I was ten.
By blood I may be of Bogarth's line, but by choice I'm Sabre Seesaw of the Black Sails. This time I'll face my past, this time I won't run. This time I'm not alone.
-
Panic. No air, I can't breathe.
Heart racing, cold sweat covering me.
Hands shaking, but I have to write, have to make this real and managable somehow.
Can't sleep in either case, or the dream will come again.
Ravens swirling around me in my dream, cawing, screeching, pecking, smothering me with their bodies. A hilltop, me alone on it and then a storm of ravens, like a great black cloud surrounding me.
I could tell myself that it's just a dream, but looking back on today's events makes it painfully clear that it's not. I wish today really had been a dream. It would have been a very bad dream, but at least it would fade upon waking.
–-
The raven.
Mangy and starved, copper eyes filled with some kind of obsession. It followed me, staring relentlessly at me until I tried feeding it just to make it stop. Flap, flap, caw... "Ott-kharno are coming for you!" Flap, flap, gone.
An uneasy feeling in my gut, a dread I couldn't explain, then the rain. Heavy drops, warm, salty, red... Raining blood. Blood in my my eyes, clouding my vision. Soaked with blood, clothes and hair dripping, red pools of it forming under my feet. Ushered into the inn, kicked out just as fast, Drudo yelling about adventurers making a mess on his newly scrubbed floor.
Caling led me off to the bathhouse, I followed, numb. The water turned pink around me, but was warm and relaxing. A little haven of tranquility. I emerged feeling somewhat myself again, but my clothes and my pack were still wet and sticky with blood. I squeezed into one of Caling's skimpy little outfits instead, tried to open the door...locked. Tch, said Caling and tinkered the lock open with practiced ease.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The Valley was peaceful as ever, but then a caw, a flutter of black wings. Raven. Staring at me with those eerie, burning eyes, it croaked it's warning again: "Ott-kharno, beware!"
More of the crew in Jiyyd, felt safer there. I sat on a bench and tried to act like everything was alright, tried to make light of things as I always do. A stranger listens in on our conversation, stares at me. A thoughtful, examining gaze, measuring me up somehow. A knowing look suddenly, a smile hinting of something. "I have something to tell you of this raven, miss. For your ears only."
I followed, alone and unarmoured like the idiot I am. I say alone, but in truth the crew were tailing us...thankfully they never do what I tell them to. We reach a thicket outside Jiyyd and my mystery man turns to me, his smile completly gone. "No Bogarth may live!" His men emerged from the trees, lunging at me. Slashing, stabbing, grim determination in their eyes. I ducked and weaved, I dodged and held on for dear life until the crew came to my resque. Somehow I lived.
When the attackers were all dead, ravens descended to feast on their bodies...
Why me, why this attack, this insanity? It feels like a dream, but the freshly healed wounds on my body are undeniably real. The ravens, the blood...I mustn't think about it or I'll go mad.
Cold and shivering now. Still can't sleep, but I think I'll lay down next to Pavel and let him warm me up, let his calm, quiet breathing soothe my nerves. I met him just afterwards, told him everything that happened. He listened without questioning my sanity, really listened. He's almost too good at that, I've begun confiding in him, telling him things I thought would remain locked up inside me for years more to come. For ever, really.
Pavel. Of course I couldn't let him go, of course not. It's not like I'm famed for my willpower after all. I did resist for a while, I avoided him, trading polite phrases at best. Then the Jiyyd swamp incident, Elor making off with a diamond our party found. Pavel and his woman friend followed, beat him into a bloody pulp. Not a nice guy. Irresistable.
So we have our fun again, and then some. The attraction is stronger than before for some reason, be it the new honesty between us or the games we play to amuse ourselves. He tells me not to get too attached, that he might leave soon. Slavers might come looking for him...he's not so much a former slave as an escaped one. It's ironic, someone telling -me- not to grow fond feelings, that they could leave at any time. How many times haven't I done exactly that? He shouldn't worry, though I like him well enough. I've nothing more than like and lust left in me, the other L-word is squished under another's boot. Eradicated, turned to dust.
Pavel. He's different than the others, I must admit that. A friend of sorts, even. I seldom really talk to my lovers in normal cases, I seldom linger afterwards, but with him it's nice. Pleasant to remain in his arms, easy to share my thoughts. I'm contemplating helping him out, of recruiting him to the Sails. I need a new bodyguard now that Mavado's leaving, especially if these men are going to keep trying to kill me. I think maybe I'll have Pavel fill that role. I think he might be good at it, and quite frankly...I'm not done with him just yet.
-
I've been thinking a lot lately, about good and evil, right and wrong; about all the different meanings packed into those little words. It is certainly a topic of lively debate around these parts. So far I tend to listen without voicing much of my own ideas on the matter. I wonder, am I evil? If so, what is it that makes me evil - my actions, my thoughts and intentions, the company I keep or my very nature? And lastly, why do I care?
According to some it's the colours I wear and the company I keep that makes me evil. They judge not me, but rather what I represent. I don't think they even see me, they just see the black and gold and their own preconceived notions fill in the gaps. Cold looks, open insults and whispers behind my back, from people I've yet to speak a single word to. Deacon says to ignore such behavior, that it's just part of the prize one pays for being a member of this crew. I try not to care - why should I take the opinions of strangers (not to mention idiot strangers) to heart? Yet I can't help but feel stung. I find myself envious of Mercy, who not only doesn't let slights bother her but in fact thrives on conflict and always, -always- walks away with the upper hand, cackling gleefully. I've much to learn from her in that respect.
Others judge on faith alone. Do you follow Umberlee, they ask with narrowed eyes, mentally preparing to label me Evil if I should answer yes. I answer as I always do: I'm a sailor. What else needs to be said, really? If your life hangs in the balance, wouldn't you pay service to the cruel and fickle lady that has the power to actually do something should she decide to spare you, rather than to the kind but meek god that will listen sympathetically, but can't really do ought but wish you good luck on riding out that storm? To me it's got fark all to do with good or evil, it's just common sense. I carry a small mark of Valkur on my right arm, but Umberlee's waves cover my left one on a far greater scale. There ain't no harm in wishing for fair winds and good sailing, but wishing isn't going to save one's hide from the wrath of the sea. Always know that the storm can destroy you, and that there is most certainly harm in not paying your dues to the Queen.
Just recently I heard it said that it is in fact your actions that define you; the actions that are good or bad rather than yourself. It's not even your motives for doing something that matters, it's the act itself. And its results, I'm presuming, in as far as they can be guessed at beforehand? I would have pressed Nym further on the subject, but I was already getting odd looks from the mainly paladin crowd at the square. I like the thought though, it makes my own balancing act seem all the more worthwhile. My metaphorical swingboard tipping up and down, from bad to good, from good to bad with every act and every decision I make. Always moving, never set in stone. Redemption and damnation equally possible.
The paladins would disagree, I'm sure. I hear some of them talk of evil as a taint, something foul that corrupts by its very nature. As if evil was a living, breathing thing, a presence or a disease, something that should be either destroyed or possibly at best cured. The latter alternative is far less frequently heard than the old "Smite Evil" routine though.
Taria makes for the perfect example. Judging on her actions alone, she is far from evil. She cures ills, heals wounds and really helps a lot of people, without shoving her faith down their throats no less. Alright, so she may at times deal a whole lot of pain to various critters that happen to cross her path, but all in all her good deeds outweigh the bad, or at least balances the scale. Yet she is shunned everywhere by the so called good people, branded evil and corrupt. Her nature, and the nature of her godess supposedly outweighs any deed she performs.
We helped save Nym's life once, me, Taria and Genevieve. We helped that prissy, stuck-up, frigid cow of a knight Elenwyd get her precious elven sidekick back from the hands of goblin necromancers. A good deed, if I ever performed one, but did we recieve even the slightest bit of thanks for it? Of course not. Granted, I only helped out of spite, and partially for Gen's sake. For reasons beyond me she's befriended that elf. Still, according to himself a good deed is a good deed, regardless of motive.
He grudgingly squeezed some sort of thank you out later, but not before Gen had been driven to tears and Taria stormed off with similar feelings. From Elenwyd, not a word. I honestly think she'd have rather let her friend become undead than to utter the words thank you to the likes of us. Something about those two really brings out the worst in me. I feel like roughing them up, cutting, stabbing those perfect, pristine exteriours, dragging them down into the gutter and off those high horses. I won't though, for Gen's sake. I promised her I'd play nice, but I feel like being petty and at least tripping one or both of them face-first in the mud.
Why, oh why do I care? So what if Elenwyd looks at me like I'm something unpleasant she just scraped off the sole of her boot? So what if Nym acts like I'm about to stab him at the blink of an eye? Why do I care, why does Taria care? Just because people like them act like they're better than us doesn't make it true. They aren't better, I know they're not. Perhaps they are simply afraid, afraid that associating with so called evil will rub off on them, sully their shiny surface of goodness…or wake the evil they themselves carry?
Am I evil? Yes.
Am I good? Yes.
I think I'm both these things, I think we all are.
-
Bloody Hawk.
Bloody Deacon.
Bloody hells.
I've just cut Pavel out of my lovelife, and I feel about ready to stab someone. Definatively Hawk…preferably Deacon too...hells, anyone who even looks at me twice today. Damnit! Pavel who showed such potential, as a lover and maybe even as some sort of friend. I was just beginning to actually like him, and now it's all ruined. He threatened me, Hawk says, whining like a child to Deacon. He's no good, Deacon says (more than a little ironic coming from him). Thinking from below the waist, the pair of them. I suspect Hawk has a thing for me, and Deacon...well, Deacon would have me fawn over himself, settling for whatever tidbits of time and attention he tosses my way. The underlying message is far from subtle - drop Pavel or he may well end up dead.
Fine. I will. I did. No more messes. It's just sex, no point in either of us getting hurt over it, but I can't help feeling robbed somehow. Damn, this is beginning to wear my patience thin. Questioned about one lover, pressed to dump another...if this is how life in the Sails is going to continue, I'm more than a little tempted to ditch the whole thing. It's a job, a means to an end, nothing more. One more trample into my private affairs though, one more attempt to control me, to limit my freedom and I'm off. Done. Gone. Sailed off into the next sunset.
I was just beginning to actually like Pavel. Worrysome words, now that I think about it. Liking him was never supposed to factor into the deal, but there was a sort of kinship growing between us, something I can't quite put my finger on. A shared penchant for freedom perhaps, both of us striving to live for the moment and leave our hurtfilled pasts behind. Perhaps this abrupt ending is for the best, perhaps he was too nice for me? Well, as much as you can ever call a man that can rip through a hobgoblins ribcage with his bare hands nice. Those same hands did give me the best massage of my life though, along with some pretty intense pleasure and an unexpected intimacy afterwards. He held me for a while, and for some reason I let him. We talked, shared little bits of our pasts with each other. It was new, it was fun, it was promising and surprisingly good. Now it's over, before it ever really begun in earnest.
I confronted Hawk today. Do you have a thing for me, I asked. He looked me in the eyes and simply said yes. I'll bloody kill that man... I told him, I -specifically- told him not to develop any feelings for me. A roll in the proverbial hay, sure, but nothing more than that. I don't do the love thing, I told him this from the start, and he has the nerve to go and feel things for me anyhow. "Ye didn't have to end it on my account...I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to happen like that" he mumbled. Sorry my arse... coincidentally a part of me which he is unlikely to see for quite some time now.
Pavel and I parted as friends, with no regrets on either side. His final words to me were to never let myself be caged. Understandable sentiments from a former slave such as himself, but they ring just as true in my ears. I won't be owned, won't ever be anyone's woman but my own. Freedom's a lonely path though, I'd have liked to have had his company just a little further along the way.
-
I scratched that itch today, seduced a man for no better reason than that I was idle and he was there. I chatted him up, I got him drunk and I had my way with him. Were I still playing the role of a man, I could have bragged about it, been slapped on the back and given envious glances from my comrades. Ladies man, stud, charmer I'd been called, but as a woman? Slut, whore, temptress, woman of the night…the list goes on and on. I don't care much for lables, nor do I take them to heart, but it's undeniably interesting to note the differences. Perhaps I'll reinvent the language to suit me better - Sabre the man's lady? No...that sounds as if I'm the submissive part, or worse, some kind of belonging. Seductress, perhaps? Sabre the seductress...I'll settle for that, as far as lables go.
Funny thing is that I had no real intention of sleeping with this man. I flirted, yes, but I always do that. It's almost compulsory by now, and I wonder sometimes what it is that prompts me to such behaviour. Sure, flirtation can be strategically advantageous, either to secure a good business deal or to distract your opponent from your real intentions, but sometimes it's as if I just can't stop myself. I'm a hopeless flirt, but the number of people I actually sleep with might strike some as surprisingly low. There's Deacon and Aarron, who apart from being attractive men in their own right are both influential and wealthy. Lust coupled with potential gain was my motivation there, but this one was different, almost accidental, but hightly enjoyable nontheless.
His name is Pavel, and he's neither rich nor powerful. Not stunningly handsome or particularily smooth and wordly in manners, but he has a real fine-looking body and a pleasing tendency to wear very little in the way of clothing. I'd met him once before when travelling down to Jiyyd with Taria, but didn't really notice much more about him than the savage way he kicked and punched his way through the hobgoblins in our path. Today I ran into him in the foothills, roughing up kobolds with some enthusiasm. We teamed up and wreaked some more bloody havoc before returning to the fire. He tended to my wounds, I to his, we talked, and I of course started flirted with him. Pavel, this hardfaced man, this brutal, barefisted fighter started stuttering and blushing. Adorable, I thought.
Adorable, but maybe not for me. Best leave such sweet innocence uncorrupted, but then...something in the way he looked at me, something in the brightness of his grin belied that innocent front. I'll torment him some, just for fun I thought, so I invited him to join me for a drink in Jiyyd. We made our way south with little difficulty - he proved to have a sound tactical head on those beautifully sculpted shoulders. Smart, I thought to myself, feeling a slight stirring of interest.
Once in Jiyyd we headed to the Inn and I ordered the strongest drink in the establishement. Pavel soon grew bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked from the drink, as if unused to liquor. He loosened up, grinned and made witty comments, flirted back in a tentative way. A sense of humour, I thought, feeling the interest grow stronger.
At this point I made the suggestion that he should try my pants on. I can't quite recall the reasoning behind this, but at the time (and under the influence of some pretty hard booze) it seemed an excellent idea. He needed a little persuading, but one suggestive smile later he was all for it. We ducked into the back room to change...and still I had no real intention of sleeping with him.
My black sailor pants were very, -very- tight on poor Pavel, who looked more than a little uncomfortable in them. I made a big show of admirering the effect though, whistling and ogling. You best get out of those, before I ravage you hun, I told him jokingly. I er...wouldn't mind that, he replied, adding that he might need my help getting out of them. He blushed slightly but was obviously keen - those pants hide nothing. I took a second to consider, then barred the door with a chair. This is the part where you kiss me, I said, seating myself on the table. He looked a little dumbfounded but grinned and obliged quite eagerly, with that and the act to follow.
It was good, raw and honest lust. No ulterior motives, no personal ties to each other, no pretence. Just an itch and someone fit to scratch it.
-
The skies are blue and the wind is fair - I've come out of my slump and the world is once again my oyster. I've this new-found, sizzling energy that I need to put to some good use. Combat training is going surprisingly well, and business-wise I've made a few hopefully profitable contacts in the region. My love-life, on the other hand, leaves a few things to be desired…such as actually getting any.
Deacon's moved to horrid, -horrid- Norwick, and apart from not seeing him very often because of that, his ex-wife Janita is watching me like a bloody hawk. She actually slapped me just for looking at him, the crazy possessive bitch. Deacon seems to favour the idea of us fighting it out over him, but frankly he gives himself too much credit. I'm not getting gutted over him or any man, I'm far too fond of my own hide. If he wants me, he'll have to get off his lazy bum and do something about it.
As for Aarron, he's mostly engrossed in his mind-numbingly boring politics. I still sneak over to see him at times, usually wearing my old ship's boy outfit and pretending to deliver messages. The tea is still good, and I do love the fancy bed linens against my skin, but the thing about Aarron is that he's best enjoyed in small doses. Like sweets or a rich dessert, the right amount is pure bliss, while too much will just make you nauseaus.
I think I might need a new lover to spend all this pent-up energy on, but I seem to have a hard time choosing one. There's Mavado of course, sexy and carefree like myself. We've had a sort of agreement to possibly end up in bed when and if we felt like it, but somehow it's just never gotten to that point. Perhaps it's the fact that he's recently become a father that deters me - I just don't want to step in the way of something more real for him, I kinda like the guy. For now, I think I'll settle for having him as my favourite eye-candy.
Then there's Hawk, who seems to seek me out quite often. We've drunk together a few times, talked about this and that from our respective pasts, him more than me of course. I'm really not keen on sharing my past with anyone, but I offered him a small tidbit. He's good company, and not at all shabby looking, but seems to perhaps take things a little too serious for my taste. Also..I've yet to decide whether or not he falls into the nice guy category, thus rendering himself unavailable. For now, I think I'll just avoid doing more than flirting with the male members of the crew. Things might get messy otherwise. I'm trying to avoid messes, though they seem to the only thing apart from braids and knots that I'm actually good at creating.
Aside from crew, there's of course Elor, who'd like nothing better than to get inside my britches. I don't see that happening really, for two main reasons: my no nice guy-policy, and the fact that Deacon really hates him, ergo a possible mess in the making. I like Elor well enough to not want to see him hurt because of me. He seems to suffer from the delusion that I'm actually a nice person too, which I must admit feels sorta good.
I have one more sort of admirer...I say sort of, because he's not really like most men, or most people in general. Vagabond, the shy and timid black-clad wanderer of the woods. He's not really lover material, he's far too odd, but he's nonetheless quite an intriguing character. He tells me I'm pretty, and inquires often about whether this man or that one is my mate. Though he's Talosian and often up to no good, he's still sweet and strangely innocent. I have no idea of how to explain to him that I have several casual mates, so I simply say I have none. He takes me with him sometimes when he feels a storm brewing. It's rather thrilling with the wind and rain, the thunder and the lightning, though it's much less intense than in Umberlee's realm. A good release of tension, in any case.
I'm still feeling increasingly antsy though, not the termites in one's pants kinda antsy, but a restless, creeping sort of feeling, like an itch begging to be scratched. I need to either set sail, to move on and away, or to find someone suitable to scratch those hard to reach places. It really shouldn't be -that- hard to dig up a candidate for the latter alternative, I just need to keep my eyes open and follow the simple guidelines I've set up for myself: No nice guys, no messes, and absolutely no love.
-
I was doing so well. For the longest time now, I've been feeling witty, sexy and smart, like nothing could touch me, nothing could hurt me. Of course it couldn't last, nothing good ever does. I could lay the blame on Ocean for singing that love song, but I know she was just the trigger. I know this feeling all too well.
I call it the Blues. That makes it sound more beautiful and melancholy than what it really is. In truth, the Greys would be a more apt name for this thing that takes hold of me sometimes. It's like a huge and disgusting grey leech fastening itself on my soul, sucking all the joy and all the strenght out, bleeding the world of its colour and sparkle. I'm left hollow and numb, alone. So alone.
I feel like I'm marooned on a small island, heavy fog surrounding me, pressing down on me. I hear voices through the fog, distant and muffled, but I'm too cold and numb, too tired to go look or to shout out to be rescued. What's the point of trying? What's the point of even caring? What's the point?
Some rational part of me knows that this will pass. Happiness doesn't last, but neither does the Blues. I know this from experience, but I can't seem to make myself believe it. Elor's been keeping me company, though how he stands being around me when I'm this dull, I'll never understand. I'm not complaining, it helps, if only a little. He's sweet, but he doesn't reach though the fog. No one does. I'm alone.
-
It started with a lick.
A calm Jiyyd evening, on my way to the inn, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a large pack of wolves and hounds. They looked, they sniffed, they crowded around me and then they licked. Off! Get off me! I yelled and squirmed, I booted a few, I called out for Mercy to chop some heads off, but the dogs were all over me. Warm, wet, slobbering canine tongues licking every inch of exposed skin, the smell and the heat of their bodies oppressing, dizzying. A tingling sensation, a strange crawling feeling, a sudden lurch in reality. The world twisted.
Confusion and panic, words and logic lost. Senses overwhelmingly keen, body strong and sleek, fourlegged, furclad… The pack greeted me, welcomed me. A sense of belonging suddenly, the panic melted and then we ran. I heard voices behind me, familiar and alien all at once. Twolegged creatures followed on our heels, but four legs move faster by far. We ran and ran, a strangely jubilant feeling coursing through my body. Stopped on a hill, twolegged ones approached, two of which seemed familiar - one short and stout, the other tall and far leaner.
Tall one first...sniff, sniff. A male. He made some noises at me, noises that almost made sense, but still eluded me. He reached out a hand to me, I sniffed it. Man and boy, decent yet mischieveous, a faint sadness underneath...I know this one's scent, I thought. Sniff, sniff, lick...yum, good enough to eat...hello Marky boy. I nipped at his fingers with my teeth, he yelped and yanked the hand back. I met his eyes, heard him speak, or rather curse my name and the pack faded from my senses a little.
I grinned wolfishly, letting my tongue loll out as I dodged past him and on to the next familiar figure. Sniff, sniff....my senses reeled. Salt and seaweed, grit and grime, blood and violence, cackling with malice and mirth...hello Mercy. I licked her face, and the pack faded further from my mind, bringing the ocean in its wake. "Sabre ye daft bitch", Mercy said, something like actual fondness and concern in her voice. Sabre, yes...that was me, wasn't it? I tried to distance myself from the wolf pack, clinging to that name and the scents of my friends. Black Sails..my crew..my pack.
I sniffed around for other familiar faces, or crotches rather, taking full advantage of being an animal. Vaguely recall that one...not the other...ooh, hey, here's someone I know. Sniff, sniff...a male. Not large, quite timid, but a crackling energy coiled up inside him, smells of leather, of the outdoors, of forest fire, thunder and lightening...hello Vagabond. He looked at me for a long while, then chanted softly and the world tilted again.
Back in Jiyyd now, with the proper amount of legs and sans fur, trying desperately to wrap my head around all that's happened. Some things are beyond words to describe though, beyond language, beyond reason...but it happened, it was real even though it's already getting that dreamlike quality in my mind. It started with a lick and ended with a chant, and if Mark doesn't shut his face about this whole incident, there will be bloodshed to boot. I don't need the shape of a wolf to be a real bitch.
//a little OOC explanation - Sabre was transformed into a wolf by the roaming pack of wolves and dogs, if that part wasn't clear. Hooded Traveller, aka Vagabond, dispelled the effect, turning her back into her usual lovely shape. Thanks to Caoimh for always doing the unexpected.
-
The sound of my own crying woke me up. A cramp in my gut, a far away noise like an animal in pain, a wetness on my cheeks. The kitchen, I thought, I'll sneak down to the kitchen. Huddling in the little nook that only I fit into, amidst the warmth and the soothing, familiar aromas of the ship's kitchen always calms me down. I'll steal a sweet, and if Hanr is up he might sing me a song. I sat up, and reality slowly seeped back into my mind.
The world smells wrong, I thought blurrily before it all came back to me. Smoke, stale ale, frozen manure and the green scent of forest… the sounds are wrong too, the room, the bed... This is not the Harbinger, and the knees I'm hugging aren't Sahlee's skinny childrens knees...I'm not Sahlee, I'm Sabre...Sabre Seesaw. This is Norwick, and I'm Sabre Seesaw.
A deep breath, and more of the world became solid. Norwick, yes, and the fight night is still going on outside. The bed is big and empty, Deacon apparantly out there with the rest of the brawling bunch. He's the one who insisted I come, even though I'm not allowed to partake in any such activities yet. He nagged, threatened, taunted and sweet-talked me into staying up, even though my neck ached and my head was swimming with tiredness. I stayed up, but I couldn't keep up. Deacon, fluttering around the town, a veritable social butterfly, talking and joking to every single person that showed up it seemed. I found a quiet corner, sat, or rather slumped down, feeling unnecessary. Drelan was there, looking almost as unsociable as myself. Too tired to talk, I thought, too tired to flirt and amuse. Too tired to drag myself upstairs even, the ground is not so cold really, a little snow never killed anyone...
Drelan shifted closer, murmured something in the vague form of a question, then suddenly a cloak covered me. His cloak, still carrying his body heat, the scent of it reassuringly manly and solid. I felt oddly touched that he would treat me this way, like a gentleman would a lady. He may be the former, but I'm certainly not the latter, though I must admit it felt more than good to imagine myself as such, if only for a short while. We talked in hushed whispers, about things I've all but forgotten already. The feeling I recall all the more strongly, the feeling of being looked after and cared for, of allowing myself to let my guard down for once. I indulged in it for a while, knowing full well I can't allow myself such luxories.
He told me a little about himself, about his past, and some weak and treacheous part of me wanted to share my story with him in turn, to confide in him things I've not told another since Liara. Danger, danger, a small and sober part of my mind called out. I have quite a few sob stories, if you should ever feel like hearing them, he said. I have enough of those myself, I replied. Tell me one about fairies and rainbows instead. I'd meant it as a joke, afraid that if he told me too much of his life, mine would come spilling out aswell. A request made in jest, but Drelan...Drelan actually told me a story of fairies and rainbows, of treasure, magic and a pot of gold. It was the sweetest story, told with a somber but soft tone. I closed my eyes and fought an urge to take his hand in mine, and when the story ended I scrambled up to bed.
I woke up crying. I woke up crying, and somehow I blame Drelan. He's a dangerous man, far more dangerous to my equilibrium than Deacon. I'll have to sharpen my defences, squish that little child-part of me that whines about someone to lean on once and for all. I'm Sabre Seesaw, and I don't cry.
-
I hate this town, I really do. I'm sitting in a quiet corner of the Boardshead inn writing this, my hood pulled way down over my head and my neck hurting like hell. That drunken dwarf had better not approach me again, or I'll stick a knife in his fat belly…and that dim-looking barbarian can just forget about coming my way, I'm -not- in the mood.
I'm never in the mood, in Norwick. This frozen cowpat of a town seems to have a decidedly detrimental effect on my lovelife so far, apart from the general gloominess of the place. The rumours of us moving base to Norwick had better not be true, but there is a sinking feeling in my gut that says otherwise. Too much whispering between Deacon and Milshot, too much training suddenly located to the Rawlins for me to feel at ease. Gah, Norwick! Norwick where it rains and snows all at once, Norwick, where the woods are crawling with goblins and worse, Norwick, home of the brute and the sour. Please not Norwick.
My un-love affair with this place must have begun with the termites... There was me, Drelan, Mercy and Grak. We'd been scouring the forest, looking to scrape together some coin and especially looking for goblin grenades for a scheme Mercy's cooked up. Things had been going unusually well, with me not getting beat up by the stinking greenskins quite as badly as I tend to and Grak taking a satisfying number of hits instead. We were leaving the forest, packs bulging and spirits high, Mercy cheerily chopping her axe into the nearest living thing she found along the way. Unfortunately, what she found was a termite mound...
The salty wench proceeded to chop the top off the mound and then deftly stuffed the insect-ridden thing down my backside! Words cannot describe the horror and torment of feeling angry ants crawling, biting and stinging places where no ant has any business being. I screamed like a banshee and headed for the nearest stream of icy water, Mercy and Grak cracking up with mirth behind me. Drelan remained as stoic as ever, though I could have sworn I saw the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, if only for a second. The termites were properly drowned (a small offering to Umberlee, curtesy of her loyal priestess Mercy), but the pain was crippling. I could barely walk, and no one seemed overly keen on carrying me up to Peltarch.
In the end, Drelan of all people had to tend to my sore backside. No way in hell was Grak going to get to lay his grubby hands on me, and Mercy I was still livid at. So it had to be Drelan. He escorted me to a room at the inn, had me drop my britches and and then rubbed some cooling ointment over my back and rear. Of course he treated me in manner both gentlemanly and professional, but then he's Drelan. That man has a strange way of making me feel like a such child sometimes. Ogling and leering would somehow have made the situation more familiar and less humiliating. My embarrassement seemed to puzzle him, especially as I'd previously been generous enough to offer him practical lessons in the art of seduction, stressing that my nude classes were particularily instructive. All to better help him with his frosty girlfriend, of course. I have no plans to snare Drelan, none at all, but if I did wish him to see those sides of me, I'd prefer them to look less red and swollen...
We managed to get back up to the city, with some considerable soreness on my part. I had made plans to see Aarron that evening, but in the state I was in, there was little point in it. I couldn't sit, let alone have tea. I ran into him at the Commons, but somehow I couldn't quite bring myself to cancel our meeting. He just looked so good, so un-Norwickian that I invited him along to the bath house, where I planned to soak for the next hours. I'd predicted that he'd laugh at me, and he did...a lot..but what I'd forgotten was that he does in fact have some useful skills. He's actually a cleric and not just a spoiled nobleman. Aarron healed my mauled behind right there in the bath house, using a very hands-on approach and smiling benignly to the gawking onlookers. An act of simple charity; it is a cleric's duty to heal, he claimed. Apparantly it was quite a severe injury, as his hands lingered for a considerable time.
That time the Norwick effect was just a temporary setback. This time was far worse and recovery will take at least a month. Bloody bugbears, and bloody stupid so-called defenders! I remember the bugbear rushing at me, huge axe swinging. I remember hanging from that huge, hairy hand, I remember his coarse, barking order: Stop firering or I'll break her neck! Then the world went dark.
I woke up at the friar's feeling strangely limp and crumpled, like a rag doll tossed aside by an angry child. "Don't move", someone said, K'yaria I think it was. "Don't move, don't talk Sabre", the voice continued. "You'll be alright..." Then there were hushed whispers, anxious tones discussing something. Deacon's voice, ordering someone called Nyda in, Paci leaning down over me with thinly veiled concern, promising a lollipop as soon as I felt better. I just lay there, feeling strangely distant and somehow angry that they should see me so weak and helpless, especially Deacon.
A blonde, beautiful woman kneeled beside me, firm and sure hands gripping my neck. Blinding pain, then the world slowly shifted back into focus. The crew were all standing around me, looking worried, like they really cared about me almost. "Gimme that damn lollipop already Paci", I grumbled, watching the relief spread on the faces of my crewmates.
Nyda has ordered no training, no lifting, no strenuous activities of any kind in fact...meaning no tea or rum either. I'm convalescing, and I'm bored out of my mind. As soon as I feel up to it, I'm off to Peltarch to at least share my misery with a less dreary crowd.
-
I met a stranger in today, someone startlingly familiar yet alien to me. She was thin and small in stature, yet appeared curvacious thanks to the cunning cut of the shimmering silver and blue dress she was wearing. A beautiful woman, her expression haughty and confident, her posture elegant, one hand delicately placed on a nobleman's arm. Something jarred suddenly, something about that hand…calloused, sinewy, a worker's hand. Blue-green eyes, raven hair, golden studs and hoops decorating her face...the woman was me, but she was a stranger.
"You can go by the name Lady Sabina", Aarron whispered to me. "I'll introduce you to the right circles, teach you how to move, act, think like a noble. By the time I'm done with you, I bet not even your crewmates will recognize you. We can fool them all Sabre, Peltarch society and Sails alike. Manipulation and deception, my dear, that's what politics are all about."
I stared at the lady in the mirror, saying nothing. Aarron had dragged me off to the seamstress without saying a word as to the purpose of the visit until we arrived. I tried half-heartedly to back out, but frankly I was too curious about the result to put any real effort into it. "Oh, you have no choice, my dear", said Aarron in that infuriatingly arrogant tone that makes half of me want to kick him in the privates, and half of me want to do much more enjoyable things to that same area.
Could I be this person, did I want to be her? I looked long and hard at the stranger infront of me. If I did choose this, it was certainly not for Aarron's sake, or for the reasons he outlined for me. Power, he said, ambition, bettering yourself, reaching higher then your station... I want none of those things, and I will certainly not change myself to please anyone but me. I'm simply curious to know, is there a Lady Sabina in me?
I've kept the dress, hidden away at the bottom of my pack. Ironically, as soon as I changed back into my sailor's garb, Aarron's mind was suddenly on whole other topics than courtly behaviour.
-
It seems I'm off the hook. I've spoken to Deacon, or rather, he taunted me mercilessly about tea-drinking, but there seems to be no more repercussions than that for now. I can't really tell if he was upset or not - perhaps there was a certain sharpness in his jokes, but I might as well be imagining things. He never actually ordered me to stop my little fling, just warned me to caution, filling me in on the history of rivalry between the Sails and the Seafarers, between the Ashald family and himself.
According to Deacon, this is far from the first time an Ashald has taken a keen interest in the female members of the crew. I wonder, should I feel upset, cheated or used, hearing Aarron may have had ulterior motives for sleeping with me? I've given the matter some thought, and decided that I don't really give a rat's arse. I'm not a bloody victim, I got exactly what I wanted out of our tea time. I should stay away in future though…I should.
I was never very good at shoulds, musts or ought to's. I bumped into Aarron a few days ago, and things very rapidly turned torrid. He snuck me into the Seafarer's guild, to his private room there. I recall we had words... I know he talked about his family, about ambition and expectations. He talked on and on while I made a pretence of listening, but all the while, all I could think of was how disturbingly neat and perfect he looked, and all the possible and enjoyable ways in which to ruin that perfection. As Aarron's mind is significantly less clean-cut than his looks, he soon caught on to what I wasn't saying.
Fascinating, that difference between proper outwards appearance and the things that man says and does to me. Fascinating also how soft his hands are, the clean fragrance of him and how he manages to be so sharp and so utterly stupidly arrogant all at once. I guess that's nobility for you. Reversely, Aarron seems fascinated with the seedier side of the block - the brash, gritty, salty sailor side of me. I suppose I count as forbidden fruit to a man like him, and therein lies the attraction. I'm quite sure that it isn't my great beauty and culturered manners that enticed him, just as it wasn't his warm and caring nature that captured my attention. Aarron fits perfectly into my no-nice guy policy. Come to think of it, I don't even like him, but the tea...oh, the tea is hot.
-
The third degree and other side-effects of tea consumtion
Fark.
Dammit.
Sod.
Crap.
Farkfarkfarkfarkfarkfarkfark, bleeding hells and sodding feck!
Drelan pulled me aside earlier today for a private talk, concerning my "tea" with a certain Senator, who apparantly belongs to a family and an organization considered as our competition, and as old enemies of Deacon himself in particular….fark.
How Drelan found out I don't know, I can only assume the crew onboard Aarron's ship gossiped like bloody fish-mongerers. Word is they only -just- returned to Peltarch, I guess like most sailors they hit the inns the first thing they did and talked their stinking little gutter-mouths off. How matters little though, the fact remains that I had to explain my own, very -private- affairs to the Lieutenant, trying to assure him that they are just that, private.
Oh, I've been interrogated before, scolded and shouted at, even beaten up on more than one occasion, but this...this was worse. There's just something about Drelan, something about that piercing blue gaze and that seemingly infinite calmness that is very unnerving and made me feel about five years old again, caught with my hand in the cookie jar. The fact that I was telling the actual truth didn't matter, I still felt like a guilty child, and I'm not entirely sure I convinced him of my sincerity. He finished the talk with the rather omnious words "the captain knows"... fark, just fark.
Afterwards I sat on a bench outside the Inn, feeling like all the wind had been knocked out of my sails, when Drelan, damn that man, comes and sits down next to me and tries to cheer me up! He was so nice that I couldn't even be angry at him anymore, so nice that I abandoned the treacherous thoughts I'd been consoling myself with, so nice that I seriously considered skipping out on future tea times...but we'll see about that last part. He asked me why I was so upset, and I told him it's because I treasure what little privacy I have. That's true enough in its own way, but the real truth is that I hate how small I felt and how easily my confidence crumbled. I hate how someone can still have that effect on me, hate that I'm not stronger than that, hate... no, I don't hate him, not Aarron either (who undoubtedly knew -exactly- what he was doing), just hate myself and my disgustingly weak nature.
The captain knows...the words still ring in my ears, though I've padded my senses with enough alcohol to stun an oxe. Perhaps it won't be so bad - it's not like I've been crew long enough to know any secrets worth telling, and I rather doubt that Deacon is the type of man who is possessive of his bedmates. But then again, he's unpredictable and often hard to read. He told me this about the bard fellow Elor, who tends to cling to me like a household cat at times, mistaking me for someone who would actually feed and care for him: "Either you kill him or I will." There might be a story behind that statement that I'm unfamiliar with, or he was just yanking my chain again, but still...can't say I'm not dreading having that talk with Deacon.
One might think that after all this, I'd have some serious regrets about that tea, but I don't. Even if I'd known all the facts beforehand, I'd still have done the same thing, just a bit more discreetly. I'm itching to see Aarron again but perhaps it might be wise to wait until I hear what the captain has to say...but meh, since when have I been wise? I'm bloody dying for a cup of tea.
