3. The journal of Sabre Seesaw

The journal of Sabre Seesaw


  • Grey days and dreamless nights pass, one after the other. I work until I'm tired, I eat when meals are served. I don't think, don't feel, the greyness surrounding me like a soft fog, muffling all sensations and feelings. Blessed fog, whispering that nothing matters. I feel myself fading, and I welcome it.

    –-

    Hells! So much for blessed nothing... I'm just too damned angry to stay in that place, far, far too angry. White hot anger, and with it a realization - I've changed.

    Keep a low profile, stay silent, that's what I planned for this trip.. strange how I can still have such illusions about myself. Of course I couldn't stay out of trouble, of course not. In my own defence, if I had stayed silent we'd be stuck on a bloody reef by now. Stupid me, thinking that rousing the captain out of his stupor for that sort of emergency was the right course of action. It wasn't my place to "disturb" the captain, Keff informed me, driving home his point with a meaty fist to my face. If you hadn't been so busy with the cabin girl, if you had done your -job-, I wouldn't have had to intervene, I pointed out angrily... stupid, stupid me. He beat me again, kicked me in the ribs while I was down, the farking pig.

    So I had to see the healer... Effron, that farking toad-stool Valkuran, the slimy boy-buggering creep! He was -entirely- too happy to lay his hands all over me.. positively dripping with wet sympathy and false concern. You poor boy, he breathed in my ear. You should rest more.. comfortably, with those sore ribs... perhaps I could accomodate you in my own quarters, Sam..?

    I recoiled from his touch, but my eye was swelling up so badly I could hardly see. That at least needed mending. I forced myself to sit still, conjuring up vivid images of what Corana, Mercy and Taria respectively would have done to this bottom-crawling sea-slug of a so-called man. I found myself smiling suddenly, his turn to recoil from the look on my face. I'd be glad to use your quarters Effron, so kind of you to offer, I said with that sickly smile still in place. I trust you'll find -my- bunk sufficient for your own sleeping arrengements then? I'd not want people to think the wrong thing about you, after all...rumours fly so easily. He swallowed noisily and nodded, I left with a small sense of triumph.

    I passed Keff on my way back, that same eerie, cold calmness staying with me. The thought of the sort of pain Pavel might inflict on this knuckle-head caused another smile. Keff scowled uneasily, a hand going to his whip as if I'd threatened him. I simply bobbed my head and passed him by, my lack of cowering clearly confusing to his thug-like mind. I can't openly rebel, but I can certainly refuse to be cowed. He could also meet with an unfortunate accident, if he ever lays hands on me again...

    Anger fading now, but the revelation remains.

    I really have changed. I can't seem to make myself tolerate being treated like a deck-hand again, won't take the sort of abuse I've been dealt lately. I know I'm better than that, I'm worth better too. I'm both capable and clever, far more so than the so called command on this bloody tub.

    I miss being Sabre more than I had thought. With the Sails I had a place, had earned a position, had friends and security of a kind even. I can't help but wonder about that promotion - would it have been me? Can it still be? I miss my life, I'm tired of rebuilding myself, tired of going back to relying on myself alone. Sleeping with a knife under my pillow again - haven't done that since I moved from my bunk to Pavel's, after the various sabotages done to the former. He kept me safe. Why shouldn't I reclaim that life, when it has so much of what I want for myself?

    I know why, I know perfectly well, but maybe it's time to face that fear? Maybe I've changed in that respect too.. how will I know unless I try? Funny, I can stare Keff in the eyes and smile, though he could probably break every bone in my body, but I can't face my own feelings for Pavel. For his own sake as well as mine, I told myself.. but perhaps he deserves a say in the matter too? If I tell him everything honestly, if he still wants me after that.. then perhaps it doesn't have to end in disaster.

    Does it? And what if he -doesn't- want me, or tires before I do..?

    I'm not sure of anything any more, I just know I can't go on like this. I can't be Sam any more, the role chafes, is too small for me. Now bloody what - can I just... keep being Sabre? Am I brave enough, or foolish enough for that?

    I don't know, I can't think, I hurt all over.


  • Ship's Log

    A foggy night, a light drizzle in the air, raw moisture and cold stealing the warmth from my very bones. I've never set foot on a ship with less enthusiasm. I felt like a condemned woman, walking silently to my execution as I stepped off the docks and onto the grimy deck of the vessel. A symbolically fitting sentiment perhaps, given that I'm leaving a part of my life behind. After having seen the state of this barge up close, and the crew manning her, it might be more than just symbolically fitting.

    Lady of the Lake. A fanciful name for such a rotten old tub, a more apt one would be something like Crabby Ol' Crone, or Gutterslut Granny… A clumpsy, creaking, leaking and squeaking excuse for a ship, manned by a surly and dull looking rabble of louts. The captain is a drunkard named Hamrey, the first mate a pig-eyed, ham-fisted fellow called Keff. The latter seems to enforce what little discipline there is with the use of a cruel-looking whip hanging at his hip. Even more worrying is the fact that the only priest onboard is a bloody Valkuran, a grease-faced weasel of a man in his middle years who eyed me with a bit too much interest for my peace of mind.

    I'm Sam the deckhand again. Menial tasks, hard work that occupy my body if not my thoughts. No responsibilities for Sam, nothing more challenging than bobbing my head to the orders barked at me and scurrying to the tasks without idling. I've decided to try and draw as little attention to myself as possible, I'll stay silent, watch and appraise. The Pavel approach... damn, no thinking of him now. My body aches with weariness, I should try to sleep now, though the cold seeps through my cheap blanket and no position seems comfortable in this dingy, smelly bunk.

    So cold.

    Pavel is never cold... He smells good too, like a man should, not like this lot who all stink of old ale and rancid sweat. I wonder who will get to share his bed now - Taria, Caling, even that air-head Velvet perhaps? Lucky them. He should have little problems replacing me, though I can't help but selfishly wish he'll miss me as much as I already miss him. I wonder if he's found the coins I left him yet, wonder if he suspects I lied, wonder.. no, no, I should try to sleep, should leave all my wondering behind. New life, new horizons and all that eh?

    I'm just so cold.


  • I think he knew before I told him. The night before departure we met at the Ferret, shared a few drinks before inevitably ending up in one of the back rooms. Making love was never sweeter, never more tender and intimate, as if our bodies tried to speak the words we couldn't say out loud. As if we both knew it was the last time.

    I lied to him. I swore I never would, but I couldn't tell him the truth, I couldn't. Couldn't bear the thought of him asking why, not when my resolve was so thin, so threadbare that the smallest attempt at persuasion would have made it crumble. So I lied, told him I had to leave, that I'd heard rumours of my ship being sighted. A hunt for the Harbinger, I said, telling him truthfully just what my ship means to me. The best lies are always those closest to the truth. I'll return, I added falsely.

    Perhaps he knows, perhaps he understands, even shares my fears? He didn't question me, just held me tight. Stroked me with his hands, as if trying to memorize the shape and feel of me. My throat constricted, no more words possible. My lips may have spoken lies, but there were none in my kiss, nor in our final embrace. He didn't try to stop me as I gently untangled our limbs, leaving him and the warmth of the bed behind.

    I lied to Deacon, lied to Drelan, fed them the same story about my trip. I had thought that would be the easier part of this, leaving them and the Sails behind, but fate dealt me an unexpected blow. It's down to you, Gurt and Devlin in the race for Lieutenant, they told me, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to stay. Cruel irony, to be offered the chance at promotion, have it dangled in front of my eyes just when I'm about to leave. Startling to realize just how much I had hungered for it, and how ready I felt. Too late now, too late… unless..

    Unless I do exactly what I said I would, go on my trip and return... I could return, couldn't I? What if all I need is some distance to get my bearings back, some time to talk sense into my errant heart? If I do return, I won't have lied, not to Pavel, nor to Deacon and Drelan.

    No... no..

    I can't let myself be that stupid, knowing how weak-willed I am. I haven't the strenght to do this twice, if my feelings should remain the same. No, no looking back. I have to do this, for me... for him.

    Packing didn't take long. My wardrobe is all black and gold silks and velvets, stylishly and cunningly cut at Vanity Plates to flatter whatever feminine curves I possess. I can't bring any of them, they're Sabre's, they belong to the life I'm leaving here. Soft, sensuous clothing.. the best quality I've ever owned. I've grown soft here on land - soft clothes, soft skin, soft heart. Dangerous. The sea will harden me again, toughen up the callouses on both my hands and my soul. My old deck-hand's clothes will do, I'll revert back to that role once more, hide behind the guise of a boy. Safer that way.

    I'll bring my swords, might need them again, if the blood feud finds me, I don't intend to go down without a fight. The bow stays, is too distictive. A lover's gift, part of Sabre's story. Scrolls, jewellery, armour, along with most of my gold I'm leaving behind. My farewell gift to the Sails, one might say. A hefty share to Pavel, hidden in a leather pouch at the bottom of his pack. I tied a golden ribbon around the pouch, he'll know it's from me.

    Time to try out my travelling attire. Simple, padded boots, a warm new cloak. Practical, sturdy clothing. Linen straps tie my breasts down. Feels crushing, constricting, but I'll soon get used to it again. A worn cap finishes the ensemble, shadowing my face from anyone that might recognize me. I'd rather not leave a trail to be followed. Correcting my stance, adjusting my features...ah...there you are again, Sam.

    I've picked a ship, a simple merchant's barge setting out on a trip around the Ice Lake, due to return in about a month. Of course I plan on having jumped ships by then. Going where, I just don't know. Just away, for now. I haven't the heart for planning anything beyond that. I should be excited to sail again, instead I feel empty, defeated. Cowardly, like I'm running away, though I'm actually trying to do the right thing for once.

    Aren't I?

    Too late for second thoughts, my ship is leaving soon. One last look in the mirror, adjusting my cap, tugging my collar higher. Hello Sam, goodbye Sabre.


  • Departure

    Early morning, the grey of dawn slowly seeping in through the shutters on the window. I can't sleep.

    A creeping, jittery sort of anxiety keeps me awake, robs me of rest and appetite, eats away at my sanity. A sense of dread is building in me, a tension like a spring pressed back, aching for release. Dizzying vertigo, like I'm standing on the precipice of some unknown cliff, the waves crashing against jagged rocks far, far below.

    I need space.

    Space to breathe, to think, to clear my head. Need time alone to sort out this tangled mess of emotions that's become my normal state of mind. But my days are spent by Pavel's side, my nights in his bunk, cradled in his arms. I'm drunk with the scent of him, addicted to his presence, my mind hopelessly muddled.

    I held his hand.

    Right in the middle of the marketplace and with several of the crew near, my treacherous hand snuck into his, as if by its own accord. My hand, so small in his, so vunerable. A clenching of his fist, and it would be crushed. Yet I felt safe, sheltered. He smiled softly as his fingers stroked my hand, warmth spreading up my arm, like a wave rising, crashing through me. A terrible tenderness, something washed clean, bared by the passing of that wave. Strange looks from the crew; I dread to think what they saw on my face. I pulled my hand back. It came free easily, was never trapped, just held gently.

    Is this love?

    Part of me longs to call it so, to say it aloud, to lay it all out in the open. To jump off that cliff, to hells with the rocks below. Fall free, rush towards doom or maybe even fly, soar above the waters like a seagull. Would he jump off with me? Would he hold my heart as gently as my hand, if I offered it to him - would he shelter and keep it from harm, or would his fist close on it, crushing, constricting?

    I'm terrified.

    I know he cares for me, I know it. Perhaps it is even more than caring. He holds me like I'm precious, looks at me as if I'm truly beautiful. You make me feel content just by being near, he told me once, that uncharacteristic softness spreading across his face. That is perhaps the best compliment I've ever gotten - that I can brighten someone's world simply by being me.

    Still.

    This is too good to be true, all my instincts tell me so. It must be a mirage or a shimmering soap bubble that will burst if you look too closely. There's bound to be a catch somewhere, a clause in fine print spelling out the cost in letters too tiny to see. Nothing worth having is ever free. Nothing good ever lasts. I know all this, I've payed the price before, dearly. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to leave.

    –-

    Can't sleep, again.

    I study Pavel instead, watching his chest rise and fall with his deep, quiet breaths. He's beautiful when he sleeps. He looks different, the hard planes of his face relaxed, softened. A younger, sweeter, more vunerable side shining through. A glimpse of the man he could have been, perhaps, if not for his past. I don't want to hurt him. I know I could, know I could and would find his weak spots if it came to that. Sometimes I wonder if I am his weak spot, even.

    If I can't leave for my own sake, can I do it for his?

    I think I can.

    For him.


  • The storm

    A storm hit Peltarch yesterday. Not just your avarage autumn gusts and pouring rain, no, a real storm, a tempest. Savage winds whipping the sea into a frenzy, drowning the docks in icy water, flooding houses and tearing at the anchored ships in the harbour. Drelan ordered the warehouse secured, saw to the ships and then had us draw back to the relative safety of the commerce district while the storm raged on. Taria wouldn't stay, couldn't be stopped from going to the docks, and Drelan had little say in the matter. Crew is crew, but church is church - intimately intertwined, yet separate threads in the Sails banner.

    There were whispers on the wind, something or someone egging the elements on. That's what they told us, in accusing tones as we reentered the Docks district when the fury of the storm finally started to fade. Exhausted defenders and volunteers, hollow-eyed workers and store owners, bereft of home and profit. Tired, frustrated and angry, they all looked to place blame, desperately looking for a scape-goat. They found one in Taria, and to a lesser extent in all of us.

    Umberlee and her followers caused this, that was the general consensus of the mob, many of which started pelting Taria with pebbles and rotten fruit. Fools. I heard no voices in the wind - I have never been sensitive to spiritual matters - but if they were so sure that it was indeed the Queen's Wrath they had faced, how exactly does it help to hurl abuse at her chosen? Cursing and shaking one's fist at the storm does precious little to stop it, as any sailor will tell you. You may hate her and you should fear her, but the fact remains that Umberlee reigns over the seas. If she brings the storm, no amount of bravery and defiance will save you. Be small, be humble, be the reed that bends rather than breaks. Cower and make offerings, and her wrath may subside. Sensible advice, for which our priestess was rewarded only with insults. Idiot land-lubbers.

    I suppose it's human bloody nature to always want someone else to blame, rather than have to face the fact that you might have brought this on yourself. Corana and others of the clergy have spoken about the lack of respect for the Queen on many occasions, warning about something just like this happening, but to little avail. Still there is no shrine in all of the city, still the senate wrinkle their fancy noses at the church of Umberlee. People in the docks should know better, you'd think, but perhaps they've been too sheltered for too long.

    The fact that most of us Sails stayed in safer areas while the storm wreaked its havoc did little to make the crowd more friendly towards us, but I don't doubt Drelan's decision. We were just smart, salvaged what we could, then preserved our strenght for the rebuilding after the storm, while the others thought they could somehow fight the storm itself. Mark was there, looking drained and utterly exhausted, as was the Gondar priest, alongside a score of defenders and some adventurers from out of town.

    Such a lot of hostility towards us, so many questions flung at us as if we'd somehow masterminded this. Taria left, about as upset as I've ever seen her while the rest of us rode out this second storm, of accusations, not rain and wind. Mark was quiet, he understands better than most, yet I felt again how distant he's become from us since he left the organization. The Gondar was argumentative, but perhaps the most persistant of all was the druid Wolf. Why would he care so about damage to the city, I wonder. Why not see the balance, see the beauty of the storm, appreciate the sheer force of the elements? Vagabond would understand, hells, he'd be giddy with joy, trying to bring the inland storms out to meet the seas I bet.

    Ah, Vagabond…he knows about storms. He's probably the only one I share that secret thrill with, that rush of feeling both very small and yet more alive than ever, more aware of your surroundings. More connected to the world, to something bigger than yourself, perhaps? I can't quite capture the feeling in words, but for as long as I can remember I've had this fascination with storms. It's even better at sea, like I've told Vagabond. There, the storm is all around you, every which way you turn. I normally hate rain, hate dreary and grey skies, but the storm...the storm wakes something in me.

    He took me with him into the forests of the Gypsy Pass once, when he felt a storm building. He called to it, drew it nearer until it was all around us, tension building, black clouds darkening the skies. Boom, zap! Lightning struck in a series of jagged lights, thunder shaking the ground. He pressed up close behind me, breathing hard, his excitement obvious. I looked back, thinking to kiss him at that moment, but his eyes were on the skies, a bright smile fixed on his face. It was a good storm, so I kissed him later, just before leaving. Poor, sweet Vagabond.. He looked so dumbfounded that I wonder if he's ever been kissed before, let alone done more than that. Perhaps I'll find out sometime.

    Pavel doesn't understand storms. I saw his unease, the clenching of his fists as if looking for someone to punch. He wanted to fight it, shield me against it perhaps while I had to suppress my elation, the strangely jubilant feeling coursing in my veins. We ended up at the Ferret afterwards, about the only place in the district that hadn't been too badly drenched by the waters. We weren't alone, the place was packed with muddied and weary workers and adventurers. We got a table of our own, in a corner. I sat on his lap, his arms around me, rubbing warmth into my icy skin. We were soaked...our clothes wet and clingy. It could only end in one way. The last thing I heard before desire consumed my every thought was Yolande, her soft voice and persuasive manners smoothing a lot of bad blood over with the crowd.

    It's a storm of a different nature, this private one that tears at me, tosses me this way and that like a dingy out at sea. My feelings for Pavel are getting stronger by the day, so out of control by now that we were actually fined 1000 gold for getting intimate under the stairs of the crafters hall in Peltarch... I feel as if I'm playing with fire, as if I'm standing knee-deep in water, holding a metal rod up to the darkened skies, inviting the lightning strike. I must be mad...but I've never felt so alive.


  • The L-word

    You're too much woman for me, he's said many times now. Too intense, too sexy, too much for just one man. Still he keeps coming back for more. He's long since stopped holding back, now he plunges headlong into our embraces with not a thought to the depths of the waters.

    It's different with you, he said after Velvet, hinting at something more.

    I need you, he whispered later, in the heat of passion. Though later modified to almost need, the pause before the word almost was betrayingly long.

    I love you, he blurted out spontaneosly, amused by some comment of mine. A cold chill down my spine, a jolt in my gut. I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, I replied quickly, dryly, hoping to make light of the matter. He simply grinned. You know what I mean, he said.

    Do I?

    Love - the word seems to hang in the air between us, like a third person in the room, waiting, demanding to be acknowledged, or at least confronted. I ignore it, rudely and deliberately, but lately he's been casting these sidelong glances at the unseen presence.

    I don't understand the concept of love, he says, looking at me like I'm supposed to guide him, tell him, as if I'd know the secret somehow. I don't do the love thing, I tell him, a bit too brusquely. It's a sore topic for me and he knows it, so he doesn't press further. He asks others instead, in his characteristically blunt style, but seems unsatisfied with the inconsistancy of the answers.

    Then the three sages visit Peltarch. Wise, learned, respectable and wizened old men, supposedly holding the answer to all of life's riddles. Each person visiting may ask one question, and the sages will answer true. Pavel insists we go, I trudge along with a strange reluctance. The library is crowded. We stand in line, patiently. Well, he is patient, I'm itching to get out, but strangely curious at the same time. What will he ask?

    A question about magic, about the body's abilities to grow resistant to it, it turns out. Relief and disappointment mingle inside me. What will I ask then? Suddenly all the questions I can think of are the sort that I'm not sure I want to know the answer to. I hesitate, try to melt into the crowd, looking aimless, as if not -really- standing in line. I'm shuffled forwards. Oh..er..a question? Can I let him have my question, sirs? The sage nods benignly, pointing to his collegue. Another line, we wait again.

    What is love?

    The wise man hums ponderously, his brow furrowing in thought. His answer is dry and academic, precisely worded yet somehow still too elusive for my liking.

    "Love is a feeling of strong appreciation and affection, which may or may not be reciprocated."

    Beside me Pavel nods in thoughtful acceptance, while I feel like arguing several points quite forcefully, feel like questioning the so called wise man about his own experience. Appreciation, affection….to me they are misguiding and insufficient words to define this most powerful, dangerous feeling. Love is a storm, it is lightning and thunder, it is ship-wrecks and forest fires, destruction and elation all wrapped into one. It consumes you, leaving only charred remains, broken floatsam, debris washing ashore on some forgotten beach. Love is a tidal wave, sweeping you up and shattering you against the jagged cliffs. Love is a beast with razor sharp claws, ripping you to shreds, to bloody ribbons. Love -hurts-! I want to shout all this at the sage, but I can't, my mouth is dry and no words will come.

    "Did you have a question, young miss?" Oh no..not me. I shake my head mutely, then squeeze out a short reply: I was just curious...about the same thing as him. A knowing, patronizing smile from the sage. I hold my tongue and we walk off together, both alone in our own thoughts. He looks somehow content, pleased with a clear answer, perhaps. I am torn.

    I ponder the answer in my head, forcing myself to look at it cooly, calmly, as if it was the whole and actual truth. Affection and appreciation...let's see. I am admittedly fond of Pavel, I care about him, enjoy his company on almost every level, both as a lover and as a friend. So aye, fine, affection and appreciation both...damn. As for strong...a matter of definition there, a tiny hole to wriggle out of. Certainly not a weak feeling, no... I can't deceive myself all that well. It's strong. Fark.

    May or may not be reciprocated...that is the cinch though, isn't it? The difference between riding the wave or drowning, crashing and smashing oneself to bits.

    I love you Sal! In my head I can still hear Liara's desperate cry, pleading, demanding, begging me to stay, to love her in return. I couldn't. She drowned in the waves, leaving me to my guilt.

    Then my turn...I begged, just like her, every bit as needy and pathetic. He couldn't, wouldn't. Rage tore at me, jealousy blinded me. My hand, the knife, his blood.

    I don't want this, this madness, these memories. Don't want this repeated, don't want the hurt again, don't want him hurt either. Love will tear us apart, but I can't stay away, I can't end it. I just can't.

    We sit at the campfire in Jiyyd, him beside me for once, not standing back and observing in his usual manner. His arm is around my waist, it is welcome there, it fits, belongs there. The fire crackles, the night is calm and quiet. Other people move about, shadowy creatures that hardly even register in my mind. We sit as if in a bubble, just Pavel and me, cradled by the velvet night. My hand creeps across to cover his, to stroke his fingers softly. He smiles, gives me that soft smile that seems reserved just for me. How do you manage to always touch me so deep inside, he asks in a low voice, his eyes shimmering in the faint light from the fire. I can find no witty answer to that, can't find my tongue even. I stare down at our intertwined fingers, glad for the night to cover my face, afraid of what he might read there.

    The word hangs in the air.

    I worry sometimes that we've become too close, I whisper to him. He is quiet, waiting, his hand still in mine. I think up all these wise and sensible reasons to end things, but everytime I see you, they melt away into nothing.. My voice is low, barely audible, but he nods, holds me closer. I think he understands, but the darkness hides his face aswell as mine. We sit like that, in that quiet, close embrace until the last of the embers die out.

    I think I have to leave, have to make my escape before I say it, before I manage to wreck everything like I always do. No messes, no love, that was the promise I made to myself. I'll miss him, I think he'll miss me too, think I might even hurt him by leaving, but ultimately I'll spare us both if I manage it. May Umberlee harden my resolve - I am weak, and the word burns bright in my heart, beckoning to be spoken.


  • Distractions and imprisonment

    It's getting worse. I thought it would subside, thought that the hungry, frenzied phase we've gone through would satisfy us, would take the edge off whatever madness it is that drives us. It didn't, instead it's only getting worse. Deepening, intensifying.

    Desire. Sometimes the very sight of him can make my mouth dry with it. I've long admired the way he moves, glides almost, so completely in control of his beautifully muscled body, but it's the little details that capture my attention to the point of distraction lately. The sinews playing along his forearms, the soft, tawny hairs covering them. His hands, so strong and so cruel, so capable of arousing my passions…my mind drifts, melts into a puddle, all thoughts dissolved into just wanting, longing to be touched by those hands. The little depression between his neck and his collarbone, begging to be touched, kissed...his golden-brown hair, tinged with copper, surprisingly soft and silky to the touch. He's letting it grow out for me, a hint of a curl at the end of each strand.

    When he's close it's even worse, his body heat and the scent of him entoxicating my senses, robbing me of all clarity of purpose. I'm reeling with it, trying to fight an undertow so strong as to wrestle all control from the helm. It's a pointless struggle, ending in a spectacular shipwreck each and every time. He's just as doomed, wanting me with a fervour I'd relish, find empowering if not for the fact that it goes both ways. Usually so calm and cool, so in control, Pavel will go blurry-eyed, stuttering with desire and with the effort not to rip my clothes off, wherever we might be at the time. Mind-melt, distraction or even brain rot we call it, this attraction that neither of us seem quite capable of fighting.

    Get a room, people tell us, their tones varying between amusement, envy and disgust. We do, all the time, we've frequented every inn in all of Narfell (apart from Norwick, obviously), but at those times, when the world fades and there is only that dizzying need to touch, a room is just not near and fast enough. We've joked about needing a portable room, perhaps a tent, but it's only a joke in part. I swear it's just a matter of time before we get arrested for public lewdness, at this rate...and knowing Peltarch, the fines are bound to be painfully steep, if they don't just toss the pair of us straight in jail (in separate cells, obviously).

    Jail...Hawk's in jail right now, locked up on some bogus claim of obstructing justice. It started with Gen, hurrying past us at the commons, followed by a running, redfaced guard. Instead of asking guardswoman Lisa, the bloody farker demanded her whereabouts of us instead. Hawk and I lied, poorly, stupidly...I'm ashamed, thinking back, I can lie better than that, can twist and wriggle out of situations like that as slick as an otter, usually. But Pavel was standing against the wall further back, the fading sunlight bronzing his skin, turning his hair to copper. I was distracted, unfocused, and yes, just plain stupid.

    I lied, then grew angry, talked back, talked us right into the trap they no doubt wanted us spring. 300 gold fine, for each of you, Lisa demanded coldly. I refused sullenly, Hawk aswell, but Pavel...he payed my fine without a moments hesitation. I was livid, kicked his shin as I approached - giving coin away for that made-up, stupid, fake charge? It was a trap, he explained calmly, wincing just a bit at my kick. It's only gold, he began, but my look must have convinced him against the wisdom of persuing this particular line of reasoning. I don't want you in jail, he mumbled finally, and as they dragged Hawk off, I couldn't help but agree. I don't want to be in jail, I really don't. I kissed him then, kissed him for being a better bodyguard than I had ever thought, in that he would protect me even from myself.

    The interrogation a week earlier, that's what had my blood boiling so fast too, why I lost my temper with the guards. They took myself, Pavel, Taria and Hawk in off the streets, questioning, insulting and trying to bully us into talking one by one...I was first, had to wait locked in a nearby room after they were done with me. A long, harrowing wait, Hawk joining me after a while. I flirted with him distractedly, to take my mind off the panicked look on Pavel's face as he entered the building. He won't stand being locked up, he'd rather die than be caged again. I fretted inwardly, imagined the carnage if they were to try and contain him, but luckily they released him immediately and ourselves shortly thereafter.

    After Hawk was imprisoned, we ended up in the Ferret, drinking and distracting ourselves thoroughly. I was on Pavel's lap, kissing all thought and all my pent up anger and worry away when Drelan stormed in, giving us a dark, disgusted look. He'd heard about Hawk and demanded a full account of what had happened. You couldn't tear yourselves away from each other for long enough to report something like this to me immidiately? he asked, piercing me with that blue gaze of his. Damn Drelan! Again I felt like a guilty child, Pavel being the jar of cookies I couldn't keep my hands from. I murmured something lame about being upset, needing time to cool down before acting, but Drelan looked less than convinced.

    Does he have a point, I wonder now, sitting awake with my thoughts as Pavel slumbers in the nearby bed. Does what I have with Pavel distract me too much, does it keep me from my duties, distance me from my crewmates? I don't know...certainly Drelan himself is a lot less friendly than he used to be. Not that he's cold to me exactly, just that we seem never to talk like we used to. It's always work, work, work, either this problem or that, some situation needing mending, some deal being struck, and then he's off again with his cloak swirling behind him. Not that he needs me to talk to, he's got Candy and Yolande to confide in, to advise him on all sorts of matters. I kinda miss it though, our little chats in the past...but the change has little to do with Pavel, I think. More likely Drelan just finally figured out I'm no lady, and stopped treating me as such. I think he still respects me as a crewmember. I hope...because I'm not doing all that badly.

    I do actually manage quite well, inspite of, or maybe even because of the distractions. My sales are up, I'm adding scrolls to the inventory with certain success, and gold is flowing in due to my and Pavel's need to busy ourselves with things other than each other's bodies just to keep our minds somewhat in functioning order. I don't know...I do worry though. I worry that my focus is slipping, even more so that the walls I've so carefully constructed around the ruins of my heart are crumbling. I care about Pavel, I do, it's useless to think otherwise. Just looking at him now, sleeping peacefully with his arm flung out over my side of the bed, almost cradling the space usually occupied by me makes something inside me ache. Fark. This is bad..I should stop, should pull out now while we're both unhurt. I'm just not sure I can. I know that as soon as he wakes, as soon as my skin touches his, all these thoughts will evaporate.

    My own little prison of desire, or ours even. We'll see who's strong enough to break out first, neither of us are likely to stay confined for long, no matter how comfortable the lodgings are. I just hope our friendship is still there when the dust settles.


  • New crew, old ghost

    The Black Sails are expanding suddenly, unexpectedly. A certain captain Sasha's ill luck or bad choice in passangers led to the destruction of her ship, and Deacon, ever the opportunist, didn't waste much time in recruiting her and her entire crew. The details of their deal is unclear to me, but it seems mostly a form of alliance at present. Captain Sasha retains control over her own crew, but they will wear our colours, work for and with us. Whether this alliance is temporary or permanent remains to be seen, but in either case it's undoubtedly an interesting developement. Hawk seems less than pleased, grumbling about how the new crew showed up right about the same time as the troubles with the little whiteclad assassins started, obsessing over possible connections there. I'm not too concerned myself, I'll leave the paranoia to our top man in that field - Drelan. If there is something dodgy about the newcomers, I'm fairly confident the Lieutenant will find out and take appropriate action.

    It's also interesting comparing our crew to the new one. Already we've inofficially established a certain correlation between Deacon and Sasha, and the likeness between Drelan and Sasha's right hand man are even more obvious. The latter, like the former, is the strong, silent type, though Drelan doesn't have the excuse of having had his tongue cut out to explain his bouts of silence. Taria was instantly smitten and started speculating who'd win the fight between our Drelan and theirs. Sasha's sister is one of a kind though - there's something not quite right about that girl. Just being blonde doesn't account for that level of dimness. Velvet must be -the- most vapid creature I've ever met, and like a cat in heat, she seems to constantly rub herself against the nearest male creature she finds. At the warehouse, that male happened to be Pavel.

    You've got pretty boots!, Velvet giggled, batting her big, vacant eyes at him. You've got pretty…boobs, he replied, grinning like a child in a candy store. I felt myself grow silent, watching with a certain strange detachement. I stayed calm, acted amused, but inwardly I wanted to scream: Of course the boots are pretty, you slag! I gave him those, they're my boots! Pretty soon Velvet and Pavel were all over each other, while I was just standing there with a grin frozen on my face, trying to chat on with whoever it was I was talking to, doing my best to appear breezy and unbothered, but the truth is I wasn't. I wasn't unbothered and it chocked me, it still chocks me to realize that.

    I was jealous.

    Why? Why would I be jealous, I'm never jealous, not since a long time ago, not since... And why would I be jealous of someone like Velvet, someone with all the mental capacity of a cabbage? Perhaps it's just the way she looks...long, blonde hair, legs up to the ceiling, big breasted and curvacious. Everything a man looks for in a woman, some might claim. I'm sure I look small, plain, even bony in comparison, but at least I have something larger than a walnut under my head of hair. Velvet's head is probably just stuffed with more of that blonde hair, insulation for a minuscule brain.

    Hawk's comment snapped me out of my daze suddenly: ...Sabre's got him on a short leash... He looked at me, almost expectantly, as if I was supposed to pull at that imaginary leash and forbid Pavel his fun. I wouldn't, I couldn't - there shouldn't even be a leash in the first place. Pavel is a free man, he can do what he pleases, just like myself. I'm not greedy, I heard myself claim calmly. Ain't the possessive kind, I added, remarkably casually. Even as I said the words, I felt myself willing them to be true, forcing my feelings to the contrary back down into the murky depths.

    Jealousy, that green-eyed monster, that mean-spirited ghost of the past... I thought I'd banished it for good, yet here it was again, rearing it's ugly head. You won't get me, I thought, I won't be that person ever again. I won't...

    I won't care, I'll hardly notice his hand on her leg, her breast..her hands squeezing his rear..their lips meeting...

    I forced myself to feel nothing, then Drelan lost his temper and ordered the pair of them outside. Velvet skipped ahead, giggling inanely, but Pavel lingered, hestitating. Will you be alright on your own Sabre, he asked, an unspoken plea for permission. No I won't, stay with me! shrieked the green-eyed monster, but I kept my silence. I looked at him - so excited, his cheeks flushed, his eyes lit up. He looked...beautiful. Pavel's already missed out on so many good things in life, I'll be damned if I'm going to rob him of any others, I thought. He doesn't really need my permission to have fun, but what kind of friend would I be to him if I denied him that?

    Is friendship really all there is between you; all you want from him?, the monster asked insinuatingly, trying to bait me. Oh, just shut up! I thought. I picked up a metaphorical oar and whacked it firmly over the head. A resounding thud, then the beast sank slowly back under the surface. Go, enjoy, I told Pavel, and I meant it. When he still looked hesitant I shooed him off, practically ushered him out the door before I could change my mind.

    He wasn't gone long, returned looking relaxed, satisfied. I'm glad for him, I am, relieved also that I managed to avoid being a spoilsport. Steal your happiness wherever you find it, that's what I've been telling him and apparantly I'm an excellent teacher. It was fun, he told me later, it was sex, pure and simple. It's different with you, Sabre, it's more...more intense, more close. In my head, a shrewd little voice filled in the blanks: more than just sex.

    I wish that didn't make me so damned pleased.


  • The Rule

    Just one rule.

    It's very simple:

    Don't die.

    The Black Sails are not a very organized crew, with few outspoken rules to follow. That's not to say that rules don't exist, though perhaps rules are not the right word to use. Expectations, or a code of conduct rather? No one expects a motley crew such as ours to actually behave, but there are nonetheless a few basic guidelines to follow: always strive for profit, don't betray business secrets to outsiders, don't try to cheat or double-cross your crewmates and so on.

    Most of all, it's a matter of loyalty. You're expected to stick together, a one
    for all and all for one sort of thing, though without the noble pretences.
    Deacon is very insistant on us wearing the colours, I guess to him they are an outward sign of that loyalty. They do serve a purpose - like a wasps or a snakes bright markings, the black and gold is a warning sign to others not to mess with the Black Sails. Swat one wasp, and the whole hive will come for you, is the intended message. It is a form of protection, but it also brings some unwanted headaches, such as being constantly viewed as a filthy pirate and an evil Umberlant.

    I had some issues with this at first, both with what was expected of me from within the group and from the outside. I kept stubbornly clinging to the notion that it was just a job like any other, and that I would simply take whatever I could get out of it and leave. I acted loyal enough, I followed the rules if not strictly then at least seemingly decently. But somewhere along the lines the colours seeped under my skin, the pretence became so well rehearsed, so convincing that I started believing in it myself. I don't think I mind though. It's not all bad, feeling that I belong, whether it's true or not.

    It's mostly Drelan's fault, or credit, depending on one's viewpoint. Though
    Deacon inspires many ideas and dreams the bigger dreams, to me it's definitely Drelan that awakened that slumbering sense of loyalty in me. I think he actually cares for the well-being of the crew, looks out not just for the bigger picture but for our lives and our health aswell. Deacon is by far more ruthless, though perhaps he needs to be. Perhaps caring is a luxury you can't afford in his position, and perhaps that too is ultimately for the greater good, good for that bigger picture at least. My mother would certainly agree. She had no qualms whatsoever about sacrificing lives if the need arose. Just one thing mattered, in her mind. Not crew, not riches really, certainly not me, though perhaps I do her unjustice there. What did matter, what always mattered most was the Harbinger. The ship was the one love that was always true to her…but I drift from my point.

    Leadership..rules... Ah yes, -the- rule. Don't die. Mine and Pavel's invention, somewhere along the lines of our working partnership. It sounds simple enough, like pointing out the obvious, but there is a purpose behind repeating that little phrase before heading out into the fray. It is both a reminder to caution, and a word of warning.

    • Don't be careless or reckless because we won't risk our lives to save yours. Don't play a hero, and don't expect heroism from us. Think, plan ahead, and if things turn for the worse, run and live another day. Don't let greed blind you into taking stupid risks, there is no profit in dying. Hope for luck, but don't ever count on it -

    It's all so rational and easy in theory, but in reality I've struggled to stick to the rule on numerous occasions. Pavel on the other hand is very good at that rule, and he makes sure I keep it too, as best he can. The not being a hero part I've got well and truly covered, the greed I'm trying to keep under control but the running really isn't my strongest suit. I'll have Pavel work with me on that, though I very much doubt I'll ever be as fast as him.

    He ran from the kobolds that ambushed us in the foothills. I couldn't, I was swarmed within seconds, beaten down and carried off to their cave to be "punished" for ridding the world of so many of the little farks. Help arrived just in time though, with the aid of the Far Scouts I managed to swim out through an underground channel. Pavel later spent a great deal of time and effort caring for my wounds, looking regretful, as if he'd failed somehow. He was new as my bodyguard then, perhaps that's why it stung him so, but we both agreed there was nothing else he could have done. He could have died defending me, but it would have ended up with my capture either way, they were just too many. Besides, I told him, your escape was the one thing that gave me courage, that made me talk back to their chief and maybe bought me the time I needed to get out alive. It really irked them that you got away, and I rubbed their scaly little faces in it. Of course, the fact that you would likely go get the rest of the Sails and bring bloody vengeance right back to them didn't sit well either. He smiled at this, looking somewhat more pleased. The rule comes first, agreed? Agreed.

    We've managed pretty well since then, though death has been nipping at our heels many times. People around us have fared worse - Caling, Gen, Taria, all three have fallen recently. Caling to those whiteclad little men, causing such a stir in the city, Taria and Gen to the hordes of hobgoblins overrrunning us in the cave. In the city, I fought when I should have run, when Pavel yelled at me to run. Foolish, foolish, I was cut down, nearly broke the rule, but in the caves I stayed back. I ran, I dodged. I lived.

    It is good to live, but I can't help feeling bad for the others. It was beyond my abilities to stop though, I won't feel guilty for living, I won't. I'll just work harder at making the others follow the rule in future, all of them. Sticking to the rule requires teamwork, after all. Perhaps that will be my guideline as a captain, my own rule of thumb when it comes to future command? Go for the loot, the thrills, the fun, but stick to the rule.

    The one and only, the desceptively simple rule:

    Don't die.


  • Freedom

    Sitting in a dark corner in Oscura, at the Shiney Coppers. Alone for once, a flickering candle the only source of light, just enough to write by. The sounds and the bustle of the inn are strangely muted, but then it's Oscura. There's always a weird sense of calm here, as if not only sound but even emotions are muffled by the cave walls. Not only sunshine is blocked out but also the harshness of reality, the sharp and ugly details. Everyone looks prettier by candlelight.

    It isn't hard to understand why so many seek refuge here, not hard at all. But shelter for one man is another man's prison. There are slaves here, slaves of different kinds. Some do menial labour, some are artisans or pleasure slaves, others fight, like Pavel did. He was a slave here for more years than he'd care to count, forced to fight in the arena for the entertainment of others. In common for all the slaves, highly valued or not, is that somehow…it is generally agreed upon that they are not quite people. Townsfolk look past them, through them, talk to their owner instead of directly to them. As if having been made a slave also robbed you of your humanity. Perhaps it does, if you accept being seen that way? Perhaps it's even alluring to some, to let go of being responsible for their own lives.

    Pavel didn't think so, he was never the submissive sort. He escaped, got away from his prison. Prepared to run before I caught him, made him return. Back to Oscura - he was probably more than anxious, maybe even afraid though he managed pretty well not to let on. You are one of us now, I assured him. They can't just take you back. So he followed, as always I managed to persuade him. And I'm glad I did, I'm a little bit proud even though I had precious little to do with what happened. In a meeting discussing the Sails future in Oscura, the lady Deliera set Pavel free. Burning a single piece of paper was all it took, so simple an act, but so profound it's effects. We toasted silently to each other as the meeting progressed - he looked happy, but at the same time stunned, a bit lost even.

    Freedom is like sunshine perhaps, like the clear skies and the open sea. Big and bright, beautiful and open, but also sharp and unforgiving, nowhere to hide or take shelter from the wind. Exposed to the elements, perhaps also to facing yourself, the choices you make and your own flaws? No excuses for the mistakes you make freely. But at least they are your mistakes. There's so much more room for maneuvre out in the open, for choosing your own path, your own goals. Pavel's been thinking long and hard about his own goals, I think. It's interesting seeing him approach life with such an honest curiosity, even though many people seem bothered by the bluntness of his questions.

    What do you want in life, Sabre, he asked me. A big question. I found myself fumbling for the right words, coming up with a partial answer at least. I want to be stronger, I said finally, truthfully. To be strong and free, just rich enough and powerful enough to be able to make my own choices in life, to go or rather set sail wherever my fancy and the winds may take me. What does he want? He searches still, squinting his eyes against the sun, but to enjoy his freedom is one thing I know he strives for. I think I'm being a pretty good guide when it comes to that.

    Places like Oscura offer protection but also limitations. Me, I'm an open skies kind of girl.


  • Try a little tenderness

    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.


  • Roughness

    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.


  • The Pick-on-Sabre club

    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...


  • Add and subtract

    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))


  • Tom-boy and a close shave

    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...


  • Death

    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.


  • Family

    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.


  • Bad omens

    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.


  • Good and Evil

    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.