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Post by Ak'ka the Bonegrinder on Apr 11, 2023 14:45:42 GMT -5
Sol City was probably one of Ak’ka’s least favorite places to find work. Pompous assholes, the lot of ‘em, and each one with their heads so far up the king’s ass that the sun elf bastard probably shit out bootlickers daily. More than that, though, was the feeling of unease in the air. Folks kept their heads down. Didn’t talk as much. The obnoxious gold buildings seemed a little dimmer, even in the sun. Almost like they weren’t people anymore, just bodies that hadn’t stopped walkin’ yet, and they all knew it.
But she guessed she couldn’t complain. Most people ‘round here weren’t used to seeing people of Ak’ka’s ilk. But the perks of being the biggest, the meanest looking, and the toughest meant that stuffy nobles were willing to swallow their pride ‘cus they thought she had something to offer them. The good news for them - her muscles weren’t just for show.
Ak’ka was the meanest and the toughest.
And most importantly, she needed the solars to live, which meant she couldn’t be picky ‘bout the kind of jobs she took. Not at the moment, where Sol City was one bad day away from being wiped off the map completely.
… She guessed she couldn’t blame the nobles for wanting to leave, either.
A protection job wasn’t her first choice for work, but her client - some finance guy who acted like Ak’ka was supposed to know his name and worship the ground he walked in - was willing to pay top dollar for her services.
“I hear they call you the Bonegrinder.”
Most people didn’t risk approaching Ak’ka during her free time. Most preferred to give her a wide berth while she enjoyed her drink and meal. Not this guy. He just strolled on up to her empty table, taking a seat like he belonged there before getting right to business. Ak’ka should have been more annoyed, but honestly, she admired the brass balls on this guy. Okay. She’d bite.
“Who’s askin’?”
“The name isn’t important. Not now. All that should matter to you is that you’ve been hired for a job. My boss has heard of your reputation. Says you just appeared out of nowhere one day, and nothing - not man or beast - has been able to bring you down since.”
Ak’ka leaned back in her seat with a shrug. That’s what happens when you pop back outta the snow after an attempted murder and have nothing left but the clothes on your back and the chill of vengeance burning in your heart.
“They say you’re the best of the best at what you do.” The man continued.
“You say that to every lady you meet?”
The man swallowed and fiddled with his collar. Clearly, he hadn’t expected so much stubbornness on her part. “My employer is quite well off. You’d be rewarded handsomely for your service.”
“I won’t be coerced into crime, if that’s what you’re proposin’.”
“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that.” The stranger waved a nervous hand, leaning forward. “See, my boss is… concerned about the state of the city right now. He’s looking to…”
“Evacuate.” Ak’ka finished for him with a swig of her drink. She’d seen these types before… fairweather friends to the Capitol, didn’t wanna bother sticking around when things got tough. They thought they were the most important, that saving their lives where what mattered most. She hated cowards like that. But she didn’t have to like them to get paid to do a job, and fear bred desperation. Desperation meant folks were willing to throw more coin at a problem ‘till it got solved. That part, she liked. “Why all the secrecy then?”
“Our destination isn’t exactly public knowledge.”
Ah. He had some sorta secret property out of the city then.
“Fine. Got it. I know the drill.” She’d done this gig plenty of times in the past. Names and faces changed but they were always the same no matter how much they wanted to pretend they were different. Well, if they wanted some strongman to shut the fuck up and guard their journey without asking question, then she could deliver. “When and where?”
“Tomorrow morning, before the sun rises. Meet me at the port - we set off by ship. Once we reach the shore, we will still require your services for land travel.”
So a couple months, probably. A couple months defending someone who was expecting to be attacked, based on the fact he was hiring muscle in secret. Ak’ka considered his offer for a moment.
“Two hundred solars a day.”
The man sputtered. “Two hundred - that’s absurd!”
“You said you wanted the best of the best, yeah? If you want your boss outta this city with his pretty little head intact, that’s what you’ll pay. Capiche?”
The man swallowed. Nodded.
“Good.” Wood scraped against wood as Ak’ka pushed her chair back, standing from her seat. In a single swig she finished off the last of her drink, slamming the mug on a table. She flashed him a toothy grin. “See you tomorrow then.”
She left him with her tab.
The miserable weather seemed to bother everyone but the half-orc currently overseeing dock workers loading the ship. She towered over everyone around her - her sheer size and stature, coupled with her nasty glower, and the mangled mess of unmeltable ice-reinforced bone that made up her right arm, no one was exactly looking to fuck with her, or mess up the operation.
Good. That was how she liked things.
After about an hour of watching grunt workers loading heavy boxes and gilded furniture onto the ship, a couple guys finally mustered up the courage to approach her - one familiar figure, the other not. She nodded at the man she’d spoken to in the bar the night before, before gazing suspiciously at the suit-clad man standing beside him.
Two guesses as to who he was.
“M-Miss Bonegrinder.”
“Ak’ka’s fine.” She said stiffly.
The servant cleared his throat.
“Right, Miss Ak’ka. This is Lance Delacour - he is very pleased to let you know that he accepts your proposal, and he looks forward to working with you over the course of this journey.”
That makes one of us, Ak’ka thought. But she was at least smart enough not to bite the hand that fed her, so she kept that to herself. Instead, she turned to face this Delacour guy, eyes narrowed. A lesser man probably woulda shit their pants being subjected to her scrutiny.
“… Right. So what’s our destination?”
The servant spoke up for his boss, nervous. “We’d prefer to wait until we’re on open waters… you’ll have to forgive us for the secrecy, but it’s necessary. Our men are almost done loading up Master Delacour’s private Galleon - with any luck we’ll set off in an hour. We’re still waiting on some others to arrive, as well…”
Ak’ka didn’t bother to ask who others were. It was none of her business. “Got it. Just let me know when it’s time to leave.”
Not one for small talk, Ak’ka left the two alone in favor of helping a couple of guys struggling to lift a red-velvet couch up onto the ship. With a wave of her hand, she commanded the two to move back, giving her enough space to hoist the thing onto her shoulder and lift it onto the ship.
And preparations progressed as normal, everyone getting ready for the voyage ahead while the sun rose around them.
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Post by Arlette Noir on Apr 11, 2023 21:55:26 GMT -5
Ebony[1], of the finest import; a haft carved with simple taste, paradoxically favouring a practical appearance in spite of its elegant form. The morning is waning; she's late. But they'll have to wait, as this is a crucial first step on any venture. She glides a hand over the smooth wood that basks in the window-light, meticulously examining for any blemish or splinter. She turns it over and does the same again, but no flaw attracts her eye or touch. Such a simple, beautiful thing; none could see its danger. Devious and deadly...
It's ready. As is she.
Standing beside the messied bed, she takes one last look out the window. It's a dreadful, grey morning. With luck, she'll be permitted to remain below-deck for the bulk of the journey. She reaches down with a gloved hand and takes the strigiforme mask, placing it upon her face and pulling the string over her head. Her vision is focused through saucer-eyes, and the sound of her own muffled breath marks the true beginning of the day. She clutches the ebony staff, and strides out along the darkwood floor. She doesn't notice that there remains a hint of blood on the trigger.
She stands out among the crowd. Whether this is intentional or the side-effect of some form of vanity is unclear. But she's tall, graceful and dressed to the nine, albeit in an attire that speaks more of the debonaire than the lady. Her owl mask peaks over many heads in the crowd, a looming figure that's garbed from head to toe in white and cerulean fabrics. Ominous is one word, but beautiful is another -- beautiful in a mysterious, but cruel manner. Somehow, it's a fitting sight beneath the grey sky.
She can see the galleon in harbour. Its promise is simple: a voyage across the sea, in flight from the growing unrest of Solarian's rule, and they need mercenaries to ensure that the sea-dogs stay far away. Actual conflict, of course, is rare, but security is a boon that she'll provide without complaint. It's simple and dull, but it pays; such are most jobs in the life of a mercenary. She wouldn't complain; it's easy work.
The humidity leaves much to be desired. It clues at a simple, slow, tedious journey. Stopping but for a moment as she stands before the looming vessel, she breathes in the salty air. But it's then that she already catches an unexpected sight, striding along the deck and aiding in the preparations. It's an orc, or perhaps a half-orc, and a hulking one at that. They lift boxes under which a lesser man's back would snap like a twig. It's an impressive sight, to be certain; and perhaps this beast of burden will make some of the labour less tedious. It's a vain hope, of course.
Their eyes meet. It's for only a moment, but a pointed one. She thinks little of it. Before long, she's climbing the ramp and onto the unsteady vessel. She feels a wave of disdain at the loss of the solidity of land, but she'll grow accustomed to it in time -- so she hopes.
"Ms. Arlette?" A semi-familiar voices draws her eyes to the semi-familiar figure of the very man who hired her two nights ago -- or whom spoke for the employer, at the very least. He approaches with clear apprehension... and takes her look as acknowledgement, as she offers no verbal response. "Wondrous to have you aboard, Ms. Arlette. I thank you again for-"
"Where are my quarters?"
He's swiftly caught off-guard by the interruption carried on a voice of black silk, eyes briefly widening before he regains his composure. "Oh, I'll- show you to them shortly. Now-"
"I'll find them on my own, then." Again, she interrupts. And again, it disarms the servant. But this time, she gives him not another drop of daylight. She turns to the door that must lead below-deck, and walks away.
"M-Ms. Arlette!" the servant calls after her. "We could really use your help with... oh..." Realizing that she's truly ignoring her, he decides not to waste his breath. But dejected, and somewhat humiliated, he remains.
Off she walks, heedless and distant. Another journey begins.
1. (Hidden Blossom Blade) La Culpabilité
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Post by Ak'ka the Bonegrinder on Apr 12, 2023 17:51:24 GMT -5
The sea life wasn’t really meant for Ak’ka. She was raised in the mountains - liked bein’ able to feel solid ground beneath your feet and feel safe knowing it wasn’t gonna shift and rock under you. There were storms up in the mountains, yeah, but they were sturdy. Unyielding. The change of the sea made her queasy. Most forms of travel did, come to think of it.
A drifter that didn’t like to travel.
Even she could see the irony.
But she was at least good enough at recognizin’ when something wasn’t meant to be. Things that didn’t stand out quite right. Call it intuition. Ak’ka sure as hell didn’t feel fear, but she could recognize when something in front of her meant business. And the woman strolling up to the side of the ship, the silence of her gait audible even with the distance between them, definitely meant business. Ak’ka straightened, hoisting up another one of the boxes just a bit too heavy for human dock workers to carry, when their eyes met.
Friend or foe? Couldn’t be too careful. Every bone in her body was on high alert, ready to leap over the side of the ship and take care of this intruder before she could become a real threat -
And then the moment passed.
Delacour’s nervous servant approached her, speaking with the lady in hushed tones. Over the roar of the waves, the shrieking of the gulls, and the chatter of the hired hands, Ak’ka couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they didn’t talk for long. The masked lady gave him the cold shoulder before stalking away with the same prompt footsteps Ak’ka’d seen earlier.
A no nonsense kinda lady.
She liked that.
Ak’ka moved to set the box down with the others and made her way to the pitiful dejected servant. If she wasn’t on a mission, she would’a felt kinda bad for the guy, getting rebuffed as quickly as he had. She clamped down on the man’s shoulder, nearly causing him to jump half a mile high, letting out a nervous squeak.
“M-Miss Ak’ka-!”
“Yeah, save it.” She stopped him before he could launch himself into a long-winded apology. “So tell me something. What’s up with the masked chick? She obviously ain’t with your entourage.” Not with that killer’s walk.
It wasn’t that she was offended that they’d hired another set of hands besides her for this journey. More mercs meant more eyes on the dumb, soft shits that needed protecting. But what rubbed her the wrong way was that neither Delacour nor his man thought to tell her they’d have another sellsword on board. And it wasn’t one she was familiar with, either…
Ugh. Working with strangers brought complications. Made things messy. Especially since Ak’ka didn’t know if she could trust the masked chick or not. She wouldn’t just be keeping an eye on threats outside the ship, but from the inside, as well.
The servant hummed, clasping his hands together as he attempted to formulate the words, tongue moving faster than his mind in his desperation to placate the large woman. “I cannot claim to be entirely familiar with the mercenary scene, when Master Delacour decided to embark on this journey, Arlette came highly recommended by a friend of his. He claimed he was fond of her practical attitude… and after having spoken with her, I can affirm that she’s indeed a professional.”
The more professional than a brute like you went unspoken. But Ak’ka could hear it all the same. She could always tell when folks thought like that. Didn’t bother her none - the opinions of others didn’t matter as long as she got the job done.
Ak’ka shifted her weight to her other boot, the wood letting out a heavy groan in protest. “Didn’t look like she was… the friendliest type.”
“That, she is not.” He agreed. “When I met with her, she shut down any attempts at small talk that weren’t related to the job. Stern, efficient, professional… perhaps a touch rude when it comes to non-business related matters.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “I, uh, changed up my approach when I spoke to you afterwards.”
Ak’ka remembered. It was the man’s straight to business attitude that caught her attention in the first place. Guess she had the masked lady to thank for that.
She didn’t like small talk, either.
Bottom line was, Ak’ka found this Arlette chick interesting - a feeling that probably wasn’t mutual. Not like that mattered, really. Either this Arlette chick liked her, or she didn’t. Didn’t change the fact they were gonna be stuck on this ship together, working the same job. But if all she was made of were sharp words and an attitude, then Ak’ka could handle that.
The Mountain of Mortak was born with thicker skin than most blades could pierce.
“Is… is that all, Miss Ak’ka?”
Ak’ka blinked. She’d been lost in thought.
“Yeah.” She clapped the servant on the shoulder again. “Look, don’t worry about miss Fancy Pants. Your man Lance is in good hands, if she’s as competent as his friend says.”
“… He would prefer if you called him Master Delacour.”
Ak’ka barked out a laugh. “You’re not paying me for respect.” Pulling a hand out of the pocket of her owlbear pelt cloak - a gift from Ger so many months ago - Ak’ka waved him off and got back to work. Still a lot of shit to be moved if they wanted to be out of here by sunrise.
Thoughts of the Arlette chick and her intentions were a far-flung memory by the time the ship was ready to depart. Even with fewer hands aboard - Delacour’s game was apparently secrecy over efficiency - with the half-orc’s help they managed to get everything onboard in a timely manner.
An awful lot of fancy things for someone in such a hurry to flee the country. He was probably just one of those guys that cared more about his gilded worthless crap than his own life. Or maybe he just thought both were more important than anyone around him.
Either way. Ak’ka had pretty much loaded up all the furniture and supplies they needed, and the dock workers all fucked off to parts unknown - leaving Ak’ka, the servant, Delacour, Arlette, and just enough crew to maintain the ship behind. Even as the sun rose the sky felt pretty damn bleak while the crew hoisted the sails, pulling the ship out of the dock.
They were on open waters now.
"Call me if there's any threat that needs taking care of." Ak'ka shouted to the servant before making her way to her new home away from home for the time being.
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Post by Arlette Noir on Apr 15, 2023 18:16:56 GMT -5
...
...
...
When one's eyes are closed, they can hear a song. The melody is of the waves that crash endlessly against the starboard side, with aiding instruments from the billowing sails and creaking of the hull, and with lyrics that come from the shouting sailors above. It's a dull song; perhaps it held some appeal at the journey's beginning, but no song remains entertaining when played for days without interruption.
Arlette opens her eyes. Her only 'good morning' is the oaken planks that greet her eyes, all bathed in the sickly-grey light that heralds yet more baleful weather. Another morning. It's been an uneventful journey, which is a boon and curse in and of itself. Similar was Delacour's executive decision for them to sail through the night; this trek will be over sooner, to be certain, but a shorter trek also means she gets paid less. And with the pay they offered, it's a disappointing change in plans.
But there's little she could do about it. Pestering her employer would hurt her reputation. So she rises from the mahogany chair she'd slept in, ready to wade through another day. She isn't sure when she'd fallen asleep, nor why she decided to do so in a chair instead of the bed. The bed...
She steps back, unquieted. Is that where the bed was before?
...
This isn't her room.
"Merde, Arlette!" she curses herself in a hush. Sleepwalking is no jest, especially on the open sea. She must've been so tired that she'd neglected to take the proper precautions. What if she'd strolled onto the top deck and fallen overboard? Or what if somebody's seen her? Self-determined anger washes over her, frustrated by what she'd consider a rare instance of incompetence.
...That said, it seems that this is one of the other unoccupied rooms. Fortunate; falling asleep in someone else's room could lead to some severe misunderstandings. But she still left her mask and La Culpabilité in her room, which spells an uncomfortable walk through the hall before she can be properly equipped. Not a good start to any morning, but she supposes she'd ought to do it quickly -- get it over with, as it were. And so she keeps her hood low, and skulks out of the door.
The halls are quiet, as they usually are, though the brouhaha of the workers top-deck seeps in through the low ceiling. That same silvery light shines through dirty, paneless windows, and trickles in through the boards in the ceiling. No torches, lanterns, or other flames adorn the walls; such fire-hazards would be a loathsome convenience.
As another bit of fortune, it seems she isn't far from her own room. Keeping her cerulean fabrics close, she turns the square-pillared corner to see...
'Drat. It's that orc, or half-orc.' Arlette's spoken as much with this brute of a woman as she has any of the other crew members: not at all. She's as-of-yet unsure whether her appearance, in place of another, is a blessing or curse; in one aspect, the orc's prodigious height means that Arlette can more easily hide her face beneath her hood as they pass. But in the other aspect, the orc's sheer bulk and width makes them difficult to avoid in such a narrow hall...
No easy solution seems possible. At least, not without risking further indignity. So Arlette walks forward, keeping her head down and hoping that this orcish woman is as interested in conversation as she is.
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Post by Ak'ka the Bonegrinder on Apr 18, 2023 8:32:44 GMT -5
The next couple of days on the sea were quiet.
If Ak’ka were a more suspicious person, she’d probably say they were too quiet. But there was no point bothering with shit like fear for the future. Worry, anxiety - that was better left for folks who needed it. Like the folks manning the ship day and night, walkin’ around like they expected to be killed any moment. But when you walk around lookin’ for the hangman’s noose you’re only invitin’ it to tighten around your neck.
And she didn’t like the grim cloud of death that followed the ship around one bit.
But travel was fine otherwise, she guessed. Ak’ka was mostly just used as a glorified handyman - lifting shit that other folks couldn’t lift, going around tying rope, whatever they need. Didn’t bother her any. She was still getting paid at the end of the day. And with time, the other crewhands started to relax around her, too. It was pretty easy to chip away and melt the burly woman’s icy exterior with a promise of drinking and a good time - and once she was in a familiar setting, the way she smiled looked less like the horrifying grimace of a warrior who wanted to eat the flesh off your bones. And she liked hanging out with the guys well enough. The folks at the bottom had nothing to do with the noble pissants manning the ship.
And there was no lubricant that loosened the tongue quite like alcohol.
Rousing drinking games with the crew turned into bitchfests, giving Ak’ka a pretty damn good picture of what this Delacour looked like on the inside. She heard stories about how he made a couple of bad deals overseas when he heard that Sol City was going to shit in an attempt to secure someplace safe to flee to. But when he started gatherin’ their proffered supplies with none of the promised coin, they started gettin’ real pissed.
“Pissed enough to start sendin’ killers after us?” Ak’ka remembered asking, taking a swig of the ale they’d given her. The cheap shit always burned like hell going down, but she was still way less gone than the guys around her, whose faces were red from the drink and the anger. One of the sailors slammed his mug on the table, shaking his head.
“Pissed enough that Delacour won’t tell us where in the hell we’re pullin’ into port.” He slurred. “Pissed enough that he gotta do all this sneakin’ around and hirin’ brutes to act as body shields.” He stopped ranting, averting his eyes. “Uh. Bein’ of no offense to ye, missus.”
Ak’ka only flashed him a toothy grin. “Oh, I’ll show ya just how brutish I can be.”
And ranting turned to arm wrestling - arm wrestling stopped being fun when she broke enough wrists and no one else wanted to challenge her. So arm wrestling turned to a long night of card games, where Ak’ka lost a fair chunk of her coin and then won even more. And gambling turned to a bunch of folks passed out in the middle of the sailor’s bunkers until the sun from the windows woke them up.
Time for another day of mind-numbing, back-breaking work.
The walk of shame back to Ak’ka’s room was less a walk and more like a looming stalk through halls that were way too small for her to comfortably fit in. Wasn’t like she could make herself smaller - and dingy little ships like this weren’t built for big gals like her in mind. It was just the reality of life.
The hall was still filled with that weird, grave quiet as Ak’ka stomped back to her room, desperate for some kinda noise to fill the silence. Some kinda life to this ghost ship.
Ak’ka didn’t feel fear, but she could sure as hell feel unease.
The quiet rustling of fabric and the sound of light footsteps against creaking old wood caught Ak’ka’s attention. Ak’ka looked up, surprised to see that mouse of a merc slipping through the hall, hood firmly secured over her face. Arlette, she thought her name was. Hadn’t seen the chick’s face yet, but those fancy fabrics were over-the-top enough that it was pretty damn hard to mistake her for someone else. But what was she doing out here? So far she’d kept to herself, only poking her head out when she needed food or other stuff - if it weren’t for the fact they were shacked up a couple doors down from one another Ak’ka would’a forgotten that Arlette was even here at all.
What was she doing up and about now?
Her pace was rushed, head subtly bowed like she was tryin’ to avoid meeting Ak’ka’s gaze and stay out of her way. Unfortunately for her, Ak’ka had the grace of an elephant and the social skills of a rampaging bull. If Arlette didn’t wanna talk to her, fine, but Ak’ka figured she may as well introduce herself and share what she learned last night. Only polite, after all.
Even more unfortunate for Arlette - in these tiny halls, bumping into the woman who was quite comfortable in her largeness was pretty damn unavoidable. Especially when she wanted to talk to you.
Arlette tried to sneak by her right - before she could wriggle away like a rodent fleeing the hawk, Ak’ka’s arm darted out with surprising speed for someone of her stature, and unsurprising force. She smacked the wooden wall with a THUD that rattled the panels, effectively blocking Arlette’s only escape route. Her mangled arm - the ice-covered bone, the mark of another battle won through the skin of her teeth, the part of herself she’d lost and replaced with a weapon even more deadly - was shoved right in Arlette’s face.
“Oi.” Ak’ka grunted, fixing Arlette with a stern look. Not an angry one, yet. But even if she didn’t seem aware of it Ak’ka moved around with an unwavering intensity that scared most folks away. “You’re the other merc, yeah? Don’t think we’ve met yet. Name’s Ak’ka. If we’re gonna be stuck in this death barge together for the next couple of months, thought I’d introduce myself first.”
Silence.
… Okay. She wanted to play this game, then.
Ak’ka’s arm did not budge. Arlette could try to squeeze past her, but Ak’ka would simply step to the side and effectively block her path. “Look. You don’t gotta play nice with me, but I figured I’d give you a warning. Apparently Delacour’s stolen from a bunch of shit from folks overseas. Got a lot of enemies. I heard ‘bout it from the sailors and thought I’d do the polite thing by passin’ it onto you. Look alive, yeah?”
Advice offered in good faith - she didn’t give a fuck if Arlette took it or not.
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Post by Arlette Noir on Apr 21, 2023 14:11:17 GMT -5
THUD
...Of course.
Ultimately, it'd been unavoidable. Trying to circumvent the orcish lady would be like trying to row through a dammed river. Her only hope could've been the woman's apathy; but when that hope proved false, fate made its intent clear enough. She now stands, halted, in the pervasive presence of this tower of a woman. Arlette hasn't raised her head enough to see face-to-face, but she knows on instinct that they're looking down on her.
"Oi." As if the strike that nearly left a crack, and which rocked them nearly as much as the ship's own wavering, in the wall weren't hint enough. The woman's voice comes through with that growl that's so archetypal of orcish blood, though not as pronounced as a pureblood's normally is. And there's a strange melody to it, an accent from somewhere far and beauteous. A half-orc, more than likely, though Arlette can't place her other heritage. It doesn't matter much; this lady obviously inherited the former's strength.
Arlette looks up, just enough to see the limb that's been slammed into the wall to stop her. And now she can see, in fine detail, the anomaly that stretches out from the half-orc's body. How it shimmers in a way that skin never should, and how it's cracked like stone. Not a splotch of that greenish flesh flaws this prosthetic sculpture of nevermelting ice, as pure-blue as the fields of the Frost Gale. But it is not totally devoid of life's macabre indications; at its centre, lending anatomical structure, is the silhouette of what can only be bones, barely outlined in the morning light that trickles from the ceiling and shines through the tundric glass. It's... unnerving, but she hides the discomfort beneath the hem of her hood.
"..." The half-orc said something, but Arlette was too distracted to hear. What she is privy to, however, is what they say next.
“Look. You don’t gotta play nice with me, but I figured I’d give you a warning. Apparently Delacour’s stolen from a bunch of shit from folks overseas. Got a lot of enemies. I heard ‘bout it from the sailors and thought I’d do the polite thing by passin’ it onto you. Look alive, yeah?”
'Look alive'...? Just what does she mean by that? Does this woman think that there would be an assassin among their crew? No; such a killer would only be a threat to Delacour. And besides, a ship in the middle of the Luna Sea is a poor place to get away with murder, with the lack of escape routes. But does she think that they'll be followed?
...Would that happen? It's difficult to think, with the combinedly distracting influences of the commotion above and this woman's smothering presence. But if so...
Ah. She's been quiet too long. She should be leaving.
She looks up, if only slightly -- enough that Ak'ka can just spy, uncovered from her hood like a diamond from a cloth, something as white as the skin of a corpse. Her voice carries an unmistakable eloquence that could only have come from either years of practice, or a high birth.
"Unless you're planning for us to jump off and swim away, it changes nothing." rebuts a velvet tone with an implaceable accent. Its smoothness is unexpected, disarming.
Perhaps it's that exact unexpectedness that creates an opening in the half-orc woman's guard. Or perhaps they were simply done holding Arlette back. It's the former she'll consider as she slips under that frozen appendage, through to the other side. There she stands for only a moment more, delivering this last dismissal before she strides away:
"We were both hired to keep this vessel, and its contents, safe. I should hope that a real threat will not deter you. And if it does, then we have no reason to speak."
Is it noon? It's difficult to tell; the sun hangs somewhere in the sky, but so obscured by the ominous clouds that time of day is left to the more instinctual parts of the mind -- those animal parts that only feel. 'Noon' sounds right, and on a day such as this, it is sufficient.
It's been some more days since that encounter with the towering, half-orcish woman. And here she sits on the top-deck, on a bench not far from where a simple wooden door leads below. So very little has changed: they're still sailing through the night, still eating the same egregious meals; and every day is still so dull, without even a single disturbance in the monotony.
...Except...
She shakes the thought away, staring down at the planks of the deck. The waves are the only sound that give her any solace, lapping against the hull; but even those are becoming so very static. At last she's deigned to stay on the top deck awhile, if only for a change of scenery. Across the deck, the crewmen still scramble about, a skeleton crew that makes up Delacour's 'day shift.' She wonders how they can operate for so long, but the answer is likely the simple sin of overwork.
It's so quiet... not in the literal sense, as the deck is plagued by the calls of a dozen sailors. But it's simply so dull. She wishes she could sleep, but she's exhausted her weariness. No, she's wide-awake, and wishing otherwise.
She hears a bit of laughter, the hearty and yet raspish kind that only a sailor can conjure. Across the deck, she can see that half-orc woman -- Ak'ka, as she's learned. She looks content. In spite of the journey's simplicity, the orcish's sanity is nearly as intact as when Arlette first arrived. How does she manage it?
...?
A ship. Arlette can see it, just past the orcish woman's arm and off the starboard. It's of a decent size.
...
'It will be nothing.' she assures herself. 'Just a passing ship. A coincidence.' Try as she might, Ak'ka's words have not been kind on her. And she almost curses them; at least without them, it would be only the boredom that she might contend with.
'Just a passing ship, and nothing more.' she thinks, averting her eyes to the deck once more.
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Post by Ak'ka the Bonegrinder on Apr 25, 2023 12:12:33 GMT -5
A couple days passed after Ak’ka and Arlette’s encounter in the bowels of a ship, and Ak’ka was still thinking about it. She wasn’t sure why, really. Wasn’t like Arlette managed to get under her skin any more than your average chump. Insults usually slid off her back. Maybe she was rattled by the fact that Arlette implied she’d run away. Could be that glimpse of the woman’s skin she’d gotten, bone-white and unnerving, nearly the same sickly-gray shade as Ak’ka’s own.
It was tough to pierce through thick orc hide.
Not impossible.
She could take a hint, though. Arlette’s blunt nature and dismissive words were answer enough - she wasn’t interested in being friends, and that was just fine with Ak’ka. She didn’t need to hold hands and sing Kumbaya or whatever, just wanted to know where they stood. She’d warned the other chick to keep her eyes peeled, and it was up to her if she chose to listen or not.
Days passed, and the mounting tension grew. Ak’ka remained as relaxed as ever, much to the chagrin of the crew. Their pace was beginning to wear on folks. With only so many hands to man the ship, even in day and night shifts, they couldn’t keep this up forever. Even the sturdiest of knots began to fray holding together all that tension and weight. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.
And everyone was just holding their breath, waiting for the recoil.
Ak’ka helped where she could. She was no stranger to a good day of hard work, and by now, she was familiar enough with most of the men on the day shifts that they felt comfortable enough asking her to move around boxes or move sails. Some cloudless nights, she sat on the deck with the tired men, watching the stars while passing around her flask. Some nights she joked and told stories about her battles back in the World’s Crown for anyone who was interested.
Some nights the sailors sung songs about wandering in search of a home that no longer existed.
Attempts to lighten the mood were about as useful as a bandage on a gaping axe-wound. Tension and anxiety still bled through the cracks. And all of that came to a head on a cloudy afternoon when one of the lookouts spotted a ship in the distance.
There were only a couple of guys abovedeck - Ak’ka, snacking on some jerky while watching gulls pick at a dead fish floating through the waves, the day shift crew, and Arlette, perched on a bench like an owl watching a bunch of mice skitter around. There was a weird kinda quiet, only broken by the creaking of the wood and the roaring of the wind against the sails. Eventually, a couple of sailors approached her, watching the sky.
One of the older seamen grunted in displeasure.
“What’s the matter?” Ak’ka asked, offering him a bit of jerky that he gnawed on. “Look like a storm blowing in?”
He remained quiet for a long time.
“Too early to tell. There’s still room for Salina to cry today yet.”
The thought of a storm didn’t bother Ak’ka too much. If they were delayed reaching their destination, they were paying her by the day. It just meant more money for her in the long run.
She glanced back at the masked woman, curious. Admittedly, she had no idea what kind of arrangement Delacour had struck with Arlette. Arlette turned to look at her, and their eyes nearly met across the ship.
Ak’ka turned away, focusing her attention on the sailor.
A few minutes after Arlette noticed the ship, one of the sailors watching the sea from the nest called out a warning call.
“Vessel approaching starboard!”
Ak’ka’s shoulders stiffened.
It was probably just some trade ship, but… didn’t hurt to be careful. She stood, a disc in her lower back popping as she straightened to her full height. She squinted, but from here, she couldn’t really make out any of the ship’s features.
“Any idea what that’s all about?” Ak’ka crossed her arms, glittering ice over cold flesh.
“Trade ship from Zeinav, I reckon.” The sailor responded. She had to agree. It was sailing in the opposite direction as them. If it really was just a normal ship, then it would pass them by harmlessly in the direction of the golden port they’d just passed. Maybe it would skirt a little close, but nothing would happen.
Ak’ka couldn’t help but think about what she’d learned a few nights ago.
There were enemies abound.
She narrowed her eyes. “Right. And what exactly are they gonna think of a Sol City ship that ain’t flying any merchant flags?”
The sailor didn’t have a response for that.
“We should probably give ‘em a wide berth. Just to be safe.”
The sailor snorted. “Delacour’ll be mad if we divert from the course. This is the fastest possible route to our destination.”
“You wanna arrive there in one piece?” Ak’ka retorted.
He took a step back.
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but it ain’t my choice. If I had any say in it, we’d be playing safe and turning tail.”
Ak’ka tilted her head, considering. She wondered if she should march belowdeck to speak with Delacour, but she doubted he’d bother listening to her with how far his head seemed to be stuck up his ass. Whatever. Wasn’t her life and merchandise he was gambling with. She was just the hired muscle, there to step in and intervene if things got ugly.
Guess they’d just have to wait and see if they got ugly or not.
Her unspoken question, unfortunately, was answered by the sound of a distant clicking, and a mechanism firing from the other ship as it skirted close. Delacour’s ship gave a violent lurch as something struck the side of the hull - Ak’ka braced herself against the side of the rail, but other sailors weren’t so lucky. A few crew members were thrown to the ground, alarmed shouts of confusion as they scrambled to figure out what was going on.
“A canon?” Ak’ka shouted, peering over the side of the boat to get a better look at the damage. Not a canon - a harpoon. It stuck out of the side of the ship, connecting their boat to the other one with a long, thick cord.
Ak’ka swore under her breath in orcish before cupping her hands over her mouth.
“We’re under attack! Get to your stations, whatever the hell you’re supposed to do in this situation!" Did they even have enough men to deal with this threat? They were a trade ship, probably not equipped with canons. But if they had any… she hoped to gods that the sailors knew how to use them.
Ak’ka grabbed a cloth from her belt, going through the quick, familiar motions of wrapping her fists, even the ice-covered one, in preparation of battle. From this distance, she could make out the men on the deck of the other ship, waiting. The closer they got, still connected by this tether, more connections were formed with grappling hooks and arrows, giving them plenty access points to cross over to their ship.
This wasn’t just an ambush. This was a raid.
No big deal. Ak’ka had faced hell before and come out on the other side. Wasn’t overconfidence to say she could handle a couple of thugs.
She wasn’t sure she could say the same for the other merc, though.
Where the hell was Arlette?
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Post by Arlette Noir on Apr 28, 2023 17:58:43 GMT -5
POW
There's a sound like the crack of thunder, but all its echoes and reverberations instead concentrated into a single, explosive pop. That sound, great enough to send ripples across the waves -- she's heard it before. It's unmistakable, and it brings a pang of terrible realization.
Her head snaps to the starboard side. That ship is much, much closer than it was before. Like a stranger in the night, silhouetted on black, its approach is no longer an innocence. Arlette begins to rise from her seat, no longer caring about the aches; but a sudden, tremendous force shakes the deck beneath her! She stumbles toward the railing and, for a nauseating heartbeat, she sees the waves below and believes she might go beneath them. But she clings here, to the railing, saving herself that fate.
If only she could so quickly, so easily save herself from the encroaching doom that she sees as she turns her head, again, to the starboard side. From that other ship, arrows and harpoons are fired, embedding themselves in this one's hull and entangling the two vessels in what is sure to become a deathly dance. It outsizes them, both in bulk and in crew. And, as she watches, the attackers' deception of an innocent-white sail is eclipsed by the red cloth that unfurls in front of it. This new banner's canvas is blemished only with an image, in black, of a corvid that's perched atop a humanoid skull.
A red sail -- not black.
Mercenaries -- not pirates.
'Ak'ka was right... damn her!'
Arlette stands, and struggles to steady herself as she hears the groaning of the penetrated hull beneath her, the anchors which drag the ships closer. This isn't mere intimidation; they are here to kill. Around her, she can see the crew scrambling in confusion, all in fear and grasping for any semblance of organized hope that they could survive. All until the fateful moment, another tremendous shockwave that has many a crewman fall to the ground, as the two vessels' hulls graze together. They're locked, now. And only now can she look up to see men leaping over from the other ship, landing on the deck with blades in their hands and a murderous, yet professional intent in their strides. Their skin is the swarthy red-brown of Zeinav -- humans, mostly; and while many wear light or are without tunics at all, their faces are obscured by maroon cloth.
Arlette endeavours to gain her bearings, holding her cane out to defend. But around her, she can see the scraps of the crew that would dare try to defend themselves. She sees them brandish sabres, only to be cut down without even a shred of mercy. Curved blades slice through their flesh to spill virgin blood upon the planks. They're barely holding their own: they're without training, they're without numbers, they're without equipment and they're without hope. Seeing them fall to the deck, in pain...
It can't stand. She won't let it.
Steel keens through the salted air, only to be met with rigid ebony, leaving only a nick. Before her stands one of those corsairs, a cutlass in hand. But with the emotionless saucers of her strigiforme mask, she stares back at him, through the clinch of his sword and her cane. It was a jolted reaction, quick and visceral, and it saved her life -- and in doing so, perhaps it could save others.
She allows the heel to fall away as she steps sideward from the sword's arc, and thrusts the handle forward to bash into the bridge of the corsair's nose through the cloth. He reels back; dazed, but not enough that he cannot deflect a retaliatory swing. Twice Arlette strikes and advances, but both are defended against and retreated from. The third -- a cleaving swing to the corsair's core -- is evaded altogether as he steps back. She realizes quickly; he is not a graceless fighter, but nor is his defence without weakness. Now, they stand paces apart, ready for the duel to come.
Arlette breathes, feeling the heat wash beneath her mask. She's ready; this evil will not go unpunished.
"One who would find profit in blood... There could be no simpler evil." Her voice is a calm fury, like the eye of a storm. She clutches the cane, feeling its every detail as she has before, and feeling the little nick in its sheen. This is her weapon. "You have invited punishment. I will deliver it."
He stands in bemusement. He wouldn't have expected such a speech, and would've been a fool to. And at the suggestion of punishment, he simply lets out a prong of laughter like the rough caress of sandpaper. He stands ready, cutlass in hand and alternating from foot to foot; but so does she, standing calm and stoic, ready to face this evil.
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Post by Ak'ka the Bonegrinder on May 5, 2023 22:45:22 GMT -5
The warning call’d been sounded - they were under attack. But it was obvious just watching the sailors fumble around with weapons they didn’t know how to use. Hands that had been trained in tying knots weren’t meant to wield swords - not like this. And with the mercs boarding the ship…
It was about to be a bloodbath.
“Damn khe gith ve skator!” Ak’ka hissed between clenched tusks. The half-orc had shit all to take care of the mercs before they boarded - nothing to do but wait for them to actually get onboard. Sailors scrambled around in a blind panic, tryin’ to cut off the grappling hooks connected to the ship’s side railings with all the success of someone trying to plug up leaks in a dinghy. One by one more cracks appeared the more that the sailors tried to cover them up. And there was still that damned harpoon, pulling the two ships closer with each passing second.
Yep, a collision was gonna be unavoidable. Ak’ka retreated from the side of the deck, wrapping her arm firmly around one of the masts. “Brace yourselves!” She shouted in warning just before the two hulls crashed against one another.
Wood clashed against wood with a nasty SHRIEEEEEEK that grated at her ears. The sailors that didn’t manage to grab onto something stable were thrown to the ground, prone figures inviting death from the Zeinavian mercs that were much more prepared than them. Men with curved blades - Ak’ka thought they were called scimitars - fanned out, all unified with a single goal in mind. Destruction.
She didn’t recognize the flag they were waving, but that didn’t matter a damn bit if they were just gonna get gutted and drowned here and now. And given the sorry state of this lot it wouldn’t take long for that to happen.
Not if Ak’ka could do something about it.
“Get behind me!” The order was shouted to the closest crewmembers in the fray, the only people Ak’ka could feasibly worry about at the moment. The half-orc had been in enough battles by now to know when to cut your losses, and when things were worth fighting for. She couldn’t save the first wave of crewmembers that threw themselves at the other mercs like lambs to the slaughter, but she could sure as hell protect every life she could.
No hesitation. Ak’ka didn’t flinch - not throwing herself against tens of enemies. She’d faced down hundreds before, where she was the only thing standing between her village and certain destruction. She carried those battles with her even now, as she hurled herself into the fray with ice-cold fury, and a roar that shook every last merc around her to the very core.
The Bonegrinder had entered the battle.
Seeing the furious orc woman charging at them forced a couple of the mercs to change course, directing their attention from the slaughter of sailors to taking out the bigger target. At once, in a coordinated rhythm, three swordsmen rushed up to meet her challenge - they moved like coiled vipers, striking out with their swords in a complicated rhythm.
In seconds, Ak’ka was surrounded, keeping her arms close to her face while curved blades cut at her torso, tryin’ to cut deep enough to force her down. Three versus one wouldn’t be so hard for her to handle if it weren’t for their fancy footwork - each time Ak’ka tried to throw a punch at one, another stepped in and blocked her with their scimitars, throwing her off-balance. The blows weren’t strong, but the misdirection messed up her battlesong, the drumbeat of her heart in her ears and the sweet, sweet cadence of blood and destruction.
She grunted, shifting her weight before spinning herself around and plant her boot right into one of the merc’s chest to knock him over, but in a flash of steel, the merc on her left stepped in to block her shoe with their sword, forcing her to shift and finish her spin, raising her ice-reinforced bone in the air to block the counterattack that followed a couple seconds later. The blow chipped at ice and bone, but before she could reach out with her other arm and grab the merc by the throat, he started to step away, ready to begin the dance again.
To hell with this. She was losing her patience with these damn games. She needed to break this formation, somehow. The tattoos on Ak’ka’s shoulders tingled, orc runes and symbols that only decorated tribe leaders, back in the past. The symbols that represented the strength to carry one’s clan with their own arms.[1] She didn’t have a clan to carry anymore, but Ak’ka needed that strength right now. An extra pair of arms sprouted from her torso, catching her assailant off guard.
The second pair of arms grabbed him by the shoulders, crushing bone and cartilage under the weight of her grip. The merc let out a startled yelp, eyes wide as he stared up at the fearsome half-orc with all the fear of a peasant praying to an unmerciful god.
That was the last noise he ever let out before Ak’ka drew her head back, ramming it straight into the bastard’s skull.
The force from her thick head cracked his own instantly - he went limp in her arms, unconscious or dead. Ak’ka didn’t really give a shit either way. All that mattered was that he made a pretty good shield to protect her from the second merc’s attack as she whirled around and used the poor shit’s body to block the blade aimed right for her back.
“My turn.”
Ak’ka’s lips split into a grin before she threw the body to the side and cracked her knuckles, taking a step forward.
Didn't take much longer to break them after that. 1. Extra Arms Tattoo
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Post by Arlette Noir on May 16, 2023 4:14:54 GMT -5
Wood SCRAPES as the blade carves a valley through the ebony haft. But it holds -- holds for long enough for the blade to be diverted upward, just over Arlette's head! The force feels as bold and powerful as the crashing waves behind her. But as a wind endeavours to drive a ship off its course, she stood steadfast, feet firmly planted on the swaying deck, and drove it aside -- death defied.
But the victory is as short-lived as it is subtle. All the strength in her stance is crumpled as she feels the buccaneer's boot propelled into her knee. In a heartbeat, she's kneeling before the dark-skinned corsair with her knees on the rough planks; in another, his cutlass whistles toward her again! Her avoidance is a desperate lurch for survival that sends her tumbling along the perforated hatch before rising just in time to parry another slash. Were it an impact of metal and metal, sparks surely would've flown.
And now, they stand at measure again, haft checking blade. There is no offensive to pressed; it is as if a game of Chess had reverted from the middle game to the opening, waiting for that first play again. But not all is the same; they have traded blows, they have fatigued themselves. And Arlette -- she is frustrated. This man, now pacing so casually before her, has allowed no opening in his defense. Years of experience are clear in his every feint and step, and his techniques are foreign like an exotic dance. How does one develop such talents, aside from a feverish practice in taking innocent lives? The thought nauseates Arlette as much as the sea's on sway, but every avenue to dole her contempt is either blocked with a blade or voided with a serpentine evasion. And all the while, the battle on the deck still rages. Crewmen are dying while she's occupied with this brigand!
But no. She will remain calm. Even amidst the crashing waves, the buffeting wind and the clashing of wicked swords, she will not allow her emotions to overcome her. At least, that is what she believes at first; but then she sees it, just over the brigand's shoulder. It's the orc, Ak'ka. She's fighting... and she's winning! Foe after foe is sent sprawling with even singular jabs from her monstrous fists, and some enchantment of the flesh has granted her yet more appendages with which to rip and tear through the corsairs! She makes it look like a trivial task. A mere mercenary, and a mere pugilist, shining where Arlette's own light is so dim...
It cannot be allowed. Such inaction would, in itself, be an evil. With blood-curdling fury, she returns her gaze to the cloth-masked killer before her.
"You will not leave this place, murderer...!" she whispers with sibilant spite and unwavering eyes. She knows not and cares not if the brigand hears her. "You face a harbinger of Luna's Light...! A knight of the full moon never falls to darkness!"
She raises her staff, ready to strike. And, like clockwork, the brigand raises his blade to defend. Yes; she can still see the other corsairs, in her periphery, fleeing from the orcish bulwark. Of course, it is so typical of a sinner to be craven. Arlette would readily give her life her fight such a vile foe. But these murderers would not do the same. They value their life far more than victory. And so, if she strikes where the corsair must either retaliate or defend, she knows that he will choose the latter out of fear for himself. That is, even if she were to strike in a manner that left her own defences open...
She diverts. She does not swing downward, but instead thrusts with the heel, at the corsair's chest. It should be foolish; if he were to swing now, he would cleave through her. And he begins just that. She can see the way his muscles flex to bring the blade around. But she won't retreat from her attack. Even as she thrusts, she glares into his olive eyes. The blade continues its fateful arc, closer and closer to her death...
But it relents! Technique turns to desperation, offence turns to defence, but it's too late. The heel of the ebony cane strikes at his sternum, and Arlette can feel a concave. A pained breath is forced out of his lungs. He reels, but keeps the cutlass at defence -- not finished.
She swings, and swings, and swings again; every one is blocked, but drives the brigand back! They trap one-another in an unceasing rhythm of offence and defence. From the left, to be blocked; from the right, to be parried; and then she has him. He thinks he knows the pattern. But when she should follow to strike from above, and indeed when he raises his blade to defend there, she instead runs a hand up the haft of the cane, to the handle -- and hooks a finger around the trigger. She pulls, and sparks detonate from the collar as it detaches! The handle slides away with a keening, to reveal a steel blade: the owl's hidden talon[1], brought forth to glint in the sunlight for a single beautiful moment... before it is painted with the brigands blood. It was too late for him to predict, and much later for him to defend. And now, a crimson chasm runs from his side to his shoulder. He wobbles; and then his blade clatters to the deck, and then he follows with a thud and a rattle.
Arlette breathes. She's found respite, however brief. She clutches the unveiled sword in a hand, and its scabbard -- a weapon, still -- in the other, and basks in this victory. But she's... tired. Her muscles scream, and the air she breathes feels like sand in her throat. A battle yet continues, and yet she allowed this singular corsair to exhaust her. No; the blade's only just been drawn. She takes a breath through lungs that feel as if punctured, gathering what energy she has in preparation to face more of these sinful foes...
But it is drawn out of her, in a deathly rasp. There's a POP; something pierces her back -- burning metal -- and lingers in her chest like a regret. In an instant, all strength is gone from her: though she tries once to remain on her feet, the world revolves in her vision until she feels the rough planks of the deck on her side.
The white-clad woman falls into a white heap, the components of her weapon falling at either side of her. And standing over her is a figure whose form could obscure the sun. Feathered wings, a towering form, a curved beak, and a still-smoldering flintlock pistol clutched in its talons. It is a great man with the features of a raven, one eye gouged, donning the heraldry that marks him as the attackers' captain.
He raises the pistol and breathes in the black fumes with pleasure; then opens his one blue eye to look across the chaos, and releases a bellowing croak as deep and grating as a demon's: "WHERE'S DELACOUR?!"
1. Hidden Blossom Blade
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Post by Ak'ka the Bonegrinder on May 19, 2023 11:41:30 GMT -5
It’s funny, really, how easy things come back to you. Sometimes you slip out of practice of something and feel like you’ve lost it forever - but when you come back to that it all becomes muscle memory, just like ridin’ a griffon. How long had it been since Ak’ka stood on the battlefield like this, the only thing standing between her people and an army of enemies, the last stand against destruction at the hands of an enemy clan hellbent on burning down her life and taking what was hers? It took a mountain to bury Chief Ak’ka of Mortak. A mountain to quell her rage and stop her from raining hell on her enemies. A lifetime spent wearing the blood of enemy tribesmen like a Medal of Honor, her fists alone against tens of enemies. Once, war had been her arena. Easy for her to think she’d lost touch at it with nothing to protect but herself and no armies to fight - not anymore.
And yet, now that the gauntlet was thrown, the war cry already sung, Ak’ka found it was too easy to step into that role again.
And gods, how she’d missed it.
The bloody sting of her knuckles scraped raw from overuse, the burn in her muscles and the drumbeat of her heart. Men after men jumped at her, each gunnin’ for the opportunity to be the one to fell the titan. They could come at her all day if they wanted. Each one was knocked down like another domino in the line, leaving behind a trail of snapped spines and bloody, pulpy messes where she’d bashed them in. She was a threat, plain and simple - and the more they tried to take her down, the sloppier they got. Easy to take advantage of weak points in their stance with blows that hit like anvils and ice that stung with the cold of the executioner’s axe. Screams of the damned followed her wherever she went - if these Zeinavian mercs were gonna drag them to the depths, she’d at least make ‘em regret ever thinking they’d found an easy target.
And she was gaining ground. A Pyrrhic victory, with sailors dyin’ all around her, stumbling around with their weapons like newborn babes who knew nothing except that they had to defend their lives. These mercs were well-trained, and far deadlier with their scimitars. But by the gods, Ak’ka would keep as many of ‘em from dying as she could.
One of the mercs charged her, yelling wildly in an unfamiliar language with his sword raised - Ak’ka braced herself, digging her heels into the ship and held one set of her arms in front of her face, the other catching the guy before the metal could slice her. The poor bastard flailed wildly while she used his momentum against him, throwing him over her shoulder and slamming him downwards into a nearby crate. She clasped her hands together, raising her fists overhead to drive her arms down into the merc’s face and cave his skull in, when a yelp from the quarterdeck caught her attention. Didn’t sound like a sailor getting whacked - no, that panicked shout was somethin’ entirely different.
Ak’ka looked up to the raised platform to see one of the merc’s dragging Delacour’s mousy servant from his hiding place by his scalp. The skinny punk kicked his feet in the air, flailing his arms wildly, with all of the success of a minnow trying to escape a shark’s maw while he was dragged further to the depths. The merc kept a tight grip on him, dragging him closer to their ship, still suspended to theirs through cords and wires.
“Shit!” She spat, taking off on a warpath towards the stairs, shrugging off would-be attackers and obstacles like they meant nothing to her. Screams and clanging metal echoed in the air as the battle raged on around her, the smell of death hanging in the air. She ignored it all, vision turning red in the corners of her eyes as she locked on her target. She threw herself up the stairs in two steps, launching at the assailant with a roar. Hastily, he dropped the servant to defend himself with his blade, raising the flat end towards her like he was trying to block her punch - too little, too late. Ak’ka’s momentum carried her forward, sheer mass and speed giving her enough force to snap the blade clean in half.[1]
He stared down at the remaining chunk of his useless weapon clutched in his hand before raising the jagged edge, ready to stab it in Ak’ka’s torso. Not before she grabbed him too - while her hands were full, another merc tried to take advantage of the opportunity and charge her from behind - she planted a boot in the front of the first, kicking him straight into the wooden rail protecting sailors from falling off this part elevated deck to the deck below. Wasn’t gonna do much good for the assailant now, who broke the railing apart before slamming into the ground below, taking the top part with him on the way down and leaving behind a series of jagged wooden stakes jutting upwards.
Perfect.
Ak’ka spun him around in the air before slamming him down, impaling him on the pieces of wood from neck to sternum. The merc let out a wet gurgle and raised his hand to Ak’ka - pleading for her help or one last pitiful attempt to attack her, Ak’ka didn’t know. Not like it mattered anyways, as he died seconds later from the blood filling from his lungs. She turned away, yanking the servant to his feet.
“Get to safety.” She growled.
“Where am I supposed to go? There’s nowhere safe-“
“I don’t give a damn! Get below deck, hide in a barrel! Stay outta sight and let me do my job!”
The anxious, stuttering mess nodded before scampering off. Ak’ka started jogging after him, when a booming voice brought all combat screeching to a halt.
“WHERE’S DELACOUR?”
Ak’ka turned to look over the mangled remains of the body on what was once the guard rail just in time to see the birdfolk standing over a heap of a mangled body, a smoldering firearm in one hand and a blood-red coat that fluttered in the salty wind. The fury of the ocean churned in his single, visible eye as his gaze swept over the ship. From up above, Ak’ka could see it all, but her gaze was only focused on the woman lying at his feet.
Arlette.
The realization sent a wave of dread through her heart.
”WELL? DON’T YOU ALL JUST STAND THERE… BRING HIM TO ME!”
Wasn’t like Ak’ka knew the other merc all that well. Hell, Arlette hadn’t even been friendly during their first conversation. But something about the sight, a woman so strong reduced to a mangled heap - it sent sparks of fury through her body.
Not again.
In their fear at the mercenary captain’s appearance, the ship had fallen silent - all except for the THUD of something hitting the ground. Ak’ka jumped down from the quarterdeck, taking a step closer to the captain. Eyes blazing, staring him down as if meeting his challenge. Her body burned with something deep, more ancient than even her fury. A feeling she’d buried down ages ago, bubbling to the surface and fueling her.
She’d failed her old man, once. She wasn’t gonna make the same mistake with Arlette this time.
“Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen.” She grunted, taking another step forward. The mercenary watched her, pitch feathers on the back of his neck ruffling.
“That was not a request, orc. Bring him to me, and the rest of your ship and crew will go free. He has a debt to pay, and it will be reclaimed, whether it be in money or in blood.”
The raspy words would’a sent a shiver down a lesser person’s spine. But Ak’ka didn’t have time for fear, nor did she care for it. His threats bounced off of her like arrows striking an impenetrable shield - they would not pass so long as Ak’ka was focused on one thing, and one thing only. Breaking this feathery fuck to pieces, and grabbing Arlette.
“Like I said. Not gonna happen. I need him alive so he can use that money to pay me for saving his sorry ass.”
“Bring him to me or I will make work with you like I did your friend here.” The smoking barrel of the gun was pointed at Arlette’s back once more. Ak’ka couldn’t stop the guttural growl that escaped her lips, smoky cold air blowing out of her mouth and curling around her.
“Over my dead body.”
”That can be arranged.”
The captain hoisted his gun once more at the same time Ak’ka raised her foot, stomping the ground-[2]
BANG.
The wall of ice jutted from the ground in a second, catching the bullet before it struck her. A second later Ak’ka launched herself over it, leaping through the air. The mercenary sidestepped her fist before she hit the ground, swinging the butt of his firearm at her - with her second pair of arms, she grabbed it before it could strike at the back of her head and knock her unconscious. With a vicious YANK she pulled it out of his arms, but she was met with more resistance than she expected. He was stronger than he looked, and wouldn’t be letting go of his gun that easily. The two had locked themselves in a vicious game of tug of war, both tugging at the rifle but neither able to pull it from the other until Ak’ka let go with one hand and raised it to poke the merc in the eye. A dirty trick, but an effective one - it forced him to let go of the rifle to back away to protect his face. Ak’ka bent the rifle head upwards, the metal moving like putty in her hands until it had about as much use as a fancy hat stand. Tossing the now - useless weapon to the side, Ak’ka stepped forward again, cracking her knuckles.
Before she could charge, though, the merc reached into his coat and pulled a second, smaller firearm from his belt, whipping it into the air. Caught off-guard, Ak’ka leapt to the side - not fast enough to dodge the bullet that lodged itself in her shoulder. 1. Bull’s Strength, Heavy Enchantment 2. Glacial Wall
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Post by Arlette Noir on May 20, 2023 21:26:21 GMT -5
There are few things more concisely visceral than to feel burning lead penetrate your hide and leave its granular fragments in your flesh. It's as if a metal fist had struck Ak'ka in the shoulder with the speed of a lightning bolt, causing her muscles to immediately seize and the pain to shoot the length of her arm. And the pressure -- the tiny pellet heedlessly pushes aside what it doesn't rend, begetting a sensation like her spinati were being grabbed and wrenched. But that is all familiar, from having experienced both arrows and bolts in the past. The burning -- that is a new sensation. It's a unique agony, like the apex evolution of the heat that comes from an insect's bite. It's as if a fire had ignited, using her sinew as the fuel and scorching the rest.
Ak’ka’s free hand flies to her shoulder, choking back a gasp of pain. She ain’t ever been shot before - by bolts and arrows, sure, but this is new technology. Not the kinda stuff they have in the mountains, where simple tools like axes and swords get the job done just fine. What is this feeling? It’s like someone injected fire straight into her heart. And no amount of ice will soothe the burn.
She is acting on instinct at this point - she’s a creature of instinct, really. No point in overthinking when you can let your body and your experience do the job. It usually knows better than you anyways. But this… this shit is something new. She has no idea what to do. All she knows is that she needs this burning feeling to stop. Every muscle in her arm screams as she flexes her hand, but she’s not gonna sit around and let this wound fester. With one free hand, she reaches up to her opposite shoulder and digs her finger into the wound. It’s a small wound, and she can’t rightly see it, but that don’t matter. She’s not gonna go down here, not to something as tiny and insignificant bullet.
Sloppy. In her haste, she’s left an opening for the merc to attack.
The attack comes, as anyone should've expected. But even that cognizance couldn't have dreamt the speed with which that attack would arrive. A broad-bladed cutlass -- drawn in the fleeting lull of Ak'ka's attention -- arcs through the air as a howling gale and keening just as loudly[1]!
Damnit! She can’t afford to take another blow head-on here. That scimitar in his hands doesn’t feel like any normal blade. Not with that amount of force behind it. Her only choice is to dodge. Ak’ka steps to the side, twisting her entire torso to the side to avoid losing a chunk of skin to that nasty weapon. Her shoulder screams in protest, but she ignores the pain. If she doesn’t, she’s gonna be feeling a hell of a lot worse come sunrise. Assuming she’ll even live to see it.
As she dodges, the force from the sword carries the captain forward, like he’s bein’ pushed by some invisible force she can’t see - strong enough to propel him right into the ice wall she’d made seconds ago, shattering it into pieces. Ak’ka’s eyes narrow. Yeah, there’s something funky about that blade. She needs to get that thing outta his hands, pronto.
No way around it. If she can’t get close to this guy, then she’ll have to use the only weapon she’s got with any kinda reach. Ak’ka grunts, still stubbornly ignoring the tear in her shoulder as she reaches for the strap on her back and unleashes the six foot tall pine tree, clutching the trunk with all four arms. Before this guy gets the opportunity to recharge the magic in that blade, she winds her body back and swings.
The corvid captain cranes its neck, with that bloodshot, blue eye dilating to see Ak'ka's advance. Though raven in feather and countenance, something about him is very much like a vulture -- perhaps it is how his eyes fill with greed for opportunity. Great wings of black, filthy feathers unfurl and beat with a tremendous gust of wind! Its talons scrape for a moment against the planks, before they leave the deck altogether; so that, when the trunk makes its arc, it buffets only empty air. And in the same wingbeat as that tremendous liftoff, the captain whose form now blots out the sun aims the barrel again and a BANG promises that same burning lead!
Her tree hits air - the momentum forces her to spin around until she isn’t facing the captain anymore. The only thing she can see is his shadow overhead, wings beating with a fury, a hand with something held in it lifting through the air. She already knows what he’s holding before the bang.
She stomps her foot on the ground again - this time, she ain’t trying to protect herself from the shot. In one movement Ak’ka drops the tree and forms a wall of ice[2] under her feet. The sudden force from the wall jutting upwards throws her into the air, high enough that she can reach out to him -
And before he can fly higher in the sky, Ak’ka manages to wrap a heavy hand around one of his talons.
With a hulking, near four-hundred pound orc woman hanging from his ankle, there’s nothing the bird could do but try to shake her off. But it’s too late. He’s already caught, and there is no escaping the bonegrinder’s grasp.
With one arm secured tightly onto him, it’s easy for Ak’ka to grab onto his other talon with her other arm and hoist herself up. A feral grin paints her face, soaked and blood and viscera from the battle. If any onlookers were watching at this moment, it would be difficult for them to tell which one of them is the hero and which one is the villain in this scenario. Not that Ak’ka cares about that right now. All she knows is that this bird is about to be in for a world of hurt once she gets to him.
There’s nothing the poor bastard can do anymore. Like a spider trapping a fly, Ak’ka heaves herself upward then grabs onto his leg - then his chest - he can scratch at her and try to remove her all he wants, but nothing’s gonna stop her from wrapping one set of arms around his torso, and grabbing one of his wings with the other set. You never feel more powerful than the moment you hold someone’s fragile bone in your hands, knowing that one tiny movement will break it forever. And that’s just what Ak’ka does.
With a SNAP, she breaks the wing, and sends them both hurtling to the ground.
It's difficult to distinguish which sounds are the cracking of planks and which are the crunching of bones. They land on what was a barrel containing rations, and what is now a pile of debris and salted meat. The combined impact of both falling masses feels as if enough to rock the vessel itself, but surely this is just an illusion. It was enough, however -- and this is no illusion -- for Ak'ka to feel the captain's body concave into itself. Hollow bones fragment and rend his innards, just as the bullet did to Ak'ka before. Vengeance. And when all is bled and done, there the corvid wretch lies, wheezing with punctured lungs. His cutlass juts out of the deck just beside him, and one failed attempt to grasp it is enough for the captain to realize that he is done.
"O-... Orc... scum..." Hatred claws its way through a gurgling, cracked beak. And then a sharp breath drags agonizingly inward, as if keelhauled through his throat, and he falls... whether into unconsciousness or death is not yet clear.
His voice anathema is the last sound he rattles, and so too is it the last sound that graces the deck aside the still-rushing waves. The battle has ceased, like an unveiled truth whose speaker realized the fault too late. Around Ak'ka, the killers gather, but with none of the arrogance they had before. They are stunned into silence, inaction and fear.
1. Cyclone Razor (Captain Foul) 2. Glacial Wall (Ak'ka)
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Post by Ak'ka the Bonegrinder on May 26, 2023 22:32:09 GMT -5
“O-... Orc... scum...”
Those were the last words uttered by the birdfolk captain before he croaked. Ak’ka loomed over him, fists covered in blood and scraped so raw that even the bandages over her knuckles were scraped thin. Her chest heaved as she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow.
Overhead, thunder rumbled.
Enemy mercs started crowding around her - Zeinavian pirates decked out in wrappings and holding their weapons like safety blankets. Fat lot of good the blades would do ‘em. As they’d just witnessed, their master couldn’t even hold his own against ‘orc scum’ with one of those fancy enchanted weapons. Those scimitars were crutches for men who’d already given up. She could see the defeat written all over their faces.
She bent down and picked up the scimitar, running a hand over the runes on the metal. Complicated magic - stuff she’d never understand. No one moved, or even dared breathe while the Bonegrinder stood there, bathing in the spoils of her fight. Pirate and sailor alike all waiting for her to do something. She held their fate in her hands now - would she react with cruelty, or mercy? Ak’ka ignored them, turning back to the captain.
She reared her head back and spat in his face.
“Listen up!” Her voice boomed louder than the thunder and the brewing storm. She raised the scimitar over her head, metal catching the sunlight peeking through the clouds. “The Bonegrinder just wiped the deck with yer captain. Wanna meet the same fate as him? Act up again and try me. Or you can do the smart thing and submit now. Surrender to me and join Delacour’s Crew to replace the unfortunate shits you killed. But ya get to live. Your choice.”
The mercs just stared there, mouths hanging agape at her order. Her fist clenched ‘round the hilt of the blade, veins in her arms bulging. She was exhausted and sore from the fall, but she’d beat them down if she had to. The horrifying half-orc glowered at them, a challenge in her eyes and a beast simmering underneath her skin - quiet for now, but ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice.
One by one, the mercs dropped their weapons.
“Yeah. Right choice.”
Ak’ka tucked the scimitar in a loop on the waistband of her trousers - she’d figure out what to do with it later. Right now the battle was over, and they had a ship to repair, the dead to take care of, and the injured to be treated.
Oh, right. Arlette.
The woman was still unconscious where Ak’ka left her, a bullet in her back, only the rise n' fall of her chest serving as the sign she was alive. Ak’ka winced in sympathy. The wound in her shoulder still burned. They’d better at least have some sorta medic on this ship to take care of these injuries. How the hell did you treat a bullet wound? If they didn’t, she’d probably be fine, but Arlette took a nasty beating. Ak’ka kneeled down in front of her, putting a hand on her shoulder with as soft a touch as she could manage. She wasn’t exactly the gentlest woman.
“There, there. You did good, kid. Even the most experienced can get ambushed.” She said, grabbing her by the torso, careful not to jog the bullet embedded into her flesh, before hoisting the woman up and over her shoulder.
As she stood, she realized all eyes were still on her, watching, waiting for some command. “Well? Don’t just stand around, get to work! I ain’t the damn captain, you don’t gotta wait for my word. Go, we’ve got shit to clean and a ship to repair, yeah? Everyone too injured to work, come with me. We’ve got a medbay to find.”
She started stomping forward, blazing a trail ahead of her through the broken wood and debris, when she stopped as it occurred to her she had no idea where the fuck she was going. Ak’ka stopped, snapping her fingers. “Oi, where’s that mousy guy? The servant?”
He hadn’t gotten very far. At the sound of her voice, he popped his head up from behind a crate, still a nervous wreck but at least alive. He scampered up to her, nervously glancing at Arlette with a pained look.
“My, my, this isn’t good… one of our mercenaries, already down. That’s half of our hired hands!”
Ak’ka raised a brow. Was she supposed to feel bad for this guy? He was the one who only hired two people to protect Delacour from danger. ‘Course it would go like this if they had enemies after them. He was damn lucky that she had solved the crew problem already.
“That’s what you got me for, yeah? I got two extra arms.” She flexed her arms just to make her point. “But there ain’t gonna be another victory like this if we don’t get this chick some medical attention. Tell me you folks at least got a doctor somewhere, or I’ll throw you overboard with the rest of the bodies.”
The servant knew better than to fuck around and find out if she was exaggerating or not. Given that he’d just watched her fillet several corpses six ways to Sunday, it was probably a smart choice.
“We have a doctor, yes. A practitioner of medicine, though - not a healer. He possesses no magic.”
“He know how to remove a bullet?”
“He’s a navy doctor - I should hope so.”
“Good enough for me, then. Lead the way.”
Arlette was given a nice and cozy bed in the medical wing, which was just a fancy term for a couple of cots pushed together in the corner of the sleeping quarters. Doctor didn’t seem to have much fancy equipment, just a couple of tools that were this shy of rusty and a bottle of nature’s best medicine… a bottle of pure liquor.
Ak’ka made sure the princess got all nice and tucked in before standing.
“Oi, where are you going?” The doctor demanded, chewing on the cigar stuffed between his lips. He was the kinda jaded sort that made it hard for Ak’ka to believe he’d be a capable doctor… but even on the waves, his hands seemed pretty stable. That was good enough for her.
Ak’ka stretched, wincing at the burn that still tugged at her shoulder. Yeah, she needed this bullet outta her, pronto.
But that would have to wait.
“We’ve got a ship to repair, and as far ‘s I can tell, I’m one of the only ones who can lift the heavy shit.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry your pretty head off. Take care of Princess over here. She got the worst of it.”
She didn’t wait to see his reaction before picking herself up and getting back to work.
The labor was backbreaking and grueling, which was exactly the kinda shit she was used to. Even with her injuries, she could lift and move things just fine. The crew, plus their new additions, started with the bodies, tossing them overboard. She heard a few muttering prayers to their respective gods and wondered if she should bother chiming in, but it didn’t feel right considerin’ how many of these folks she’d personally sent to hell. Tossing them gently into the waves seemed nice enough.
Once the waves were gone they had to clear up the cargo and assess the damage to the hull. The biggest wreck came from the harpoon sticking in the side… luckily enough they had a bunch of spare wood left behind from all the wrecked boxes, and a brand new shiny ship to steal from. If the old mercs felt any kinda way about taking apart their old vessel to repair this one, they didn’t show it. Ak’ka figured they were just getting used to their new employment. People could be bought, sure, but coin meant nothin’ if you didn’t have your life to use what you earned. They’d made the smart choice.
She stayed out there for a couple’a hours until the sun started to set and she couldn’t ignore the bone in her shoulder anymore. The ship would probably be up and running today or tomorrow, depending on how fast the crew worked - until then, they’d be sitting ducks, prime real estate for another attack. She needed to be in top shape if that was gonna happen again. Doc had to be done with the Princess by now, right? He could surely take a look at her shoulder now.
With that in mind, she made her way back down to the sleeping quarters, idly wondering if Arlette was already awake.
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Post by Arlette Noir on Jun 9, 2023 21:46:07 GMT -5
"Agh! Allez au diable!"
The quarters are far from empty and far from quiet: there is no laughter and few words spoken, but there are groans of pain and misery from the dozens of crewman that've been infirmed to the same shabby cots that they'd rested on before this brutal attack. They wallow in the lamplight and the straw, staining it with their lacerations -- some still open and some shoddily stitched with gut-string. The woe is palpable in the air, but not altogether without silver; while they writhe and lament their injuries, an unspoken air of relief shows graciousness that they -- or anyone -- survived at all.
But this particular complaint doesn't come from any of the writhing crewmen. And, though its source is obvious by its voice and indignant tone, its source cannot be seen. This is because it bellows for behind a makeshift curtain, made from patchwork blankets and hung from bunkposts, that hangs around one corner of the room. This, of course, is where Arlette had been interred prior, though the curtains are a new (and plainly rushed) addition that vaguely resemble the dividers in a true medical ward and, in fact, seem crafted in mimicry of those more sanitary environments. It's from beneath these curtains that lamplight spills onto the gnarled planks, with shadows that flicker in tandem with the flame; and it's from behind these curtains that faint movement and frustrated voices are heard.
"I thought you said you know what you're doing!"
"Aye, I do." answers the familiar voice of the ship's only doctor, still slurred by the audible muffling of a cigar clenched in his teeth. "Without the maga of those fancy-pantsy church heal'rs, there aren't many painless ways to extract a dozen shards of lead. Of course, it'd help if ye'd just take a swig of-"
"I'm not intoxicating myself; I must return to my duties as swiftly as is possible."
"Scupper that, lassie. Ye'd best act slow for a time; remember that I'm the one who'll be re-stitching ye if ye manage to loosen 'em with yer shufflin' about. Savvy?"
"Just finish whatever you're doing. I'll be as cautious as I deem appropriate."
"Hmph. Landlubbers."
Not long after, another yelp comes, followed by a faint clink of metal in a ceramic bowl, but not with more argument -- not for the moment.
Ak’ka was dead tired after a long day’s work when she finally made her way back to the medbay. The Bonegrinder was no stranger to labor or battle, but considerin’ the fact she’d been shot in the shoulder earlier, and fought a merc chicken, she was justified in being exhausted. Not that she’d let the others see that. Nah, to everyone else, she had to be a mountain. Unmovable, untouchable. Couldn’t let ‘em see her slipping. The sound of voices behind the curtain hiding the bed she'd left Arlette in, though, made her pause in front of the door.
Arlette and the doc, from the sound of it. She was awake, then? Ak’ka may as well pay the little masked lady a visit, then. Make sure she was still kicking and all that. The sound of a yelp coming from inside earned a snort from her as she threw the curtain aside. What she found inside wasn’t unexpected, but still a bit of a shock to see in person. The doc, in the middle of surgery on a very awake and irritated and in pain Arlette. She still had that mask on, but she was wearing probably the least layers Ak’ka’d ever seen her in. Probably for ease of operating on the bullet wound, but it was still weird to see. Almost… like it wasn’t right.
Ak’ka froze, looking between the doc and the swordswoman.
“Uh. Am I interrupting somethin’?”
As the patchwork veil is swept aside, upper corner lazily flopping to the floor, the sight that awaited behind is a strange and unexpected one. It is a matter of hue, and a contrast that could not have been predicted: there is the amber lamplight, shining through the now-discarded curtain; there are the dark planks that are universal throughout the hold and the ship as whole; and there are the dark, seedy clothes of the ship's medic and the metallic glints of his tools. But there's another colour that outshines like the moon on the night sky, and with much the same tinge. There, Arlette is seated (it could be no one else, as only the medic is otherwise present), bereft of any upper wear save a wrapping that covers the exclusive parts; but her skin is not fair or warm or dark or any such human tone, but white -- flawless, alabaster-white. And her hair, too, is of an absolute white, like he most perfect of silk, tied into a pony-tail that flows long down her well-toned back. But the feature that is most perplexing and, indeed, the most damning are her ears -- ears pointed with all of elf-blood's regality, which would jut out just as so if it weren't for subtle bands that literally lash them back to the side of her head. This woman, by every newfound examination, isn't a human at all, but one of those of Lunala's descent: a moon elf, and one of noble beauty. But why she would do so much to hide this heritage is as mysterious as any guise she's worn.
Still, she wears that strigiforme mask, with hits saucer-eyes gazing at this unexpected visitor. The mask does little to hide the indignance of a secret so unabashedly, unapologetically stolen.
But it's the medic that first speaks, as he continues to work on the bloody chasm in Arlette's shoulder.
"Ak'ka; good to see ye, lassie. Are ye at last ready to sit for a damnable second and let me see that wound, or are ye still intent on carving yerself to the brisket?"
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Post by Ak'ka the Bonegrinder on Jun 15, 2023 21:30:59 GMT -5
Neither the Doc or Arlette responded to her question.
… Well, then Ak’ka figured it was fine if she made her way inside, right? The half-orc awkwardly stumbled through the small, crowded space in the sleeping bunker-turned-medbay with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, ‘till she made her way over to an empty chair on the other side of the bed. That was when she saw the weird color of Arlette’s skin, and immediately froze.
Ice, crawling up her skin, filling her lungs.
Ak’ka shook her head, shovin’ that memory deep where the sun didn’t shine. She didn’t need to remember a time she was so cold she was more ice than person, skin white and not gray from the cold. A feeling she didn’t think she would ever warm up from. Still hadn’t. But some of her skin color had come back after months spent on the road. Arlette’s was as ice-cold as a blizzard, with all its harshness. Maybe if she was more eloquent she would compare it to a porcelain bowl. And maybe it wasn’t too far off, considerin’ the next detail Ak’ka noticed.
Huh.
She hadn’t pegged the other merc for one of the fair folk, but the thought unnerved her for some reason. She wasn’t the kinda woman who cared who she kept company with - if she cared about someone based on the point of their ears or their looks or whatever, then she’d be a big fuckin’ hypocrite. At the very least that explained her eloquence and her big, fancy words, the kind of vocabulary someone used when they were tryin’ to package insulting and condescending words with pretty intelligence. And the way she moved with those weird weapons like she was dancing.
No, this didn’t make Ak’ka nervous around her. She didn’t get nervous. But it put her on guard. Not out of hate, but anticipating some from Arlette. She pursed her lips but said nothing. If Arlette was going through all this shit to keep the fact that she was an elf secret, then Ak’ka was no snitch. Didn’t matter one way or the other to her.
Still, she kept her posture relaxed as she ambled over to the chair. The old piece of furniture creaked and groaned under her weight - for a minute she wondered if it was gonna break apart. But it held, thankfully, and Ak’ka leaned back, ready to sit and wait while Doc finished stitching Arlette up. She brought her arms up to rest them behind her head, wincing where her shoulder pulled.
“I ain’t movin’ anymore, don’t throw a bitch fit.” But there was no heat in Ak’ka’s voice. Just fatigue. She turned to Arlette, raising a brow. “You, uh, alright there, Princess? You took a pretty nasty hit out there.”
That was an understatement.
A projectile to the back was no laughing matter. A couple inches closer, and she mighta lost serious use of her legs, or worse.
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