Unique

Hello, all.

This week's prompt was one I took from a notebook of mine, which has a bunch of prompts I wrote down in it. Well, to be accurate, it was two prompts. They were "Unique" and "Family".

Enjoy!

~~

They called you unique.

You had always been different. You were the half-blood child of two races that did not get along. How your parents managed to fight off the hatred that seemed to be ingrained deep into their very souls long enough to create a child, you never knew. But you were their only child. Your mother made it no secret that shortly after, they’d fought, and she’d come out triumphant. 

From childhood, you had endured the bullying. From your mother’s family, from your older half-brothers and half-sisters, other children, even some of the adults. When they called you different, they meant it as an insult. They meant it to crush your spirit, to destroy your confidence. To them, you were just something that they could unleash their hatred on, without fear of repercussion; without a battle, a war, death.

You ran away from home when you were still young. Your half-brothers followed you, to try and drag you back - because they believed you did not deserve freedom. You did not deserve to be happy. You were a mixed-blood monstrosity, whose only purpose in life was to be constantly beaten down by those you were forced to call “family”. 

You evaded them all for years. They set traps, tried to corner you. You were never able to settle down in one place before they found you and destroyed any chance you had of living a normal life. 

Eventually, the youngest of them cornered you. Of all of your half-siblings, he had been the nicest to you. That wasn’t to say he’d been kind, but he hadn’t been as bad a bully as the rest of them had been. Maybe it had been because he’d been the victim of the bullying before you’d come along, and he knew how much it had hurt, to be looked down upon, no matter how hard you tried. 

But there was no kindness in his eyes anymore. He was angry and frustrated. Without you there to endure the bullying, it had been turned back onto him, and all the respect he had earned had disappeared like it had never existed at all. 

He didn’t give you much of a choice. In his anger, he’d forgotten that he was only meant to capture you. That your family had wanted you alive, to keep you a captive victim of their cruelty. Instead, he’d come at you with a dagger, intent on torture and murder. You hadn’t been able to see the boy who’d once given you kindness when there was no one else around to see it.

You were the one who killed him. He’d been too fixated on getting revenge on you, and he’d failed to consider the fact that going straight for the kill was a bad idea. You’d disarmed him quickly, grabbed the dagger before he could recover, and slit his throat when he came at you again. 

Your other brothers had followed. One by one, they’d come at you; no longer seeking to capture you, instead determined to kill you for murdering their brother. And one by one, they’d fallen to the same blade that had ended the youngest’s life. By the time the oldest of them had confronted you, it hadn’t been him leading you into a trap.

It had been you leading him.

They’d arrived, soon after. You never even knew they were coming. You just woke up one night, and there they were, settled around your little camp in the woods; stoking the campfire, digging through your pack, and calming your horse. It was like they’d always been with you, even though you’d never met any of them in your life. 

And they’d called you unique. 

They’d offered you a proposition; to forget who you’d been, and become someone new, as a member of their order. A new name, a new family, a new life. You had the natural skill to become something great, you just need the right hands you guide you. 

You had agreed. They became your new brothers and sisters, your bonds forged in the blood of those who’d wronged, and the gold of those who’d been the victims. 

Mantra

Today's blog post is another Elder Scrolls Fanfiction One-shot I wrote - this time, a newer one, not an older piece I edited. Also, a different OC to the one I used in the last piece.

It is, unfortunately, kinda short, but trying to get it longer just didn't feel right. It feels better short.

Enjoy!

~~~

“I can do this.”

It was the mantra Mist lived by.
It was what she told herself every morning, when she fell out of bed before everyone else and slipped upstairs while the other Whelps - as Skjor liked to call them - snored and mumbled in their sleep.

“I can do this.”

It was what she told herself every day while she was outside, training. It was what she said every time she stumbled and fell, battleaxe clattering to the stone, from a swing too wide, or overbalanced when she lifted it too high over her head.

“I can do this.”

It was what she said when exhaustion tried to knock her to her knees, and her arms trembled with the strain of wielding a weapon almost as big as she was.

The Companions had accepted her into their ranks - reluctant as some had been to accept her joining. She just had to prove that she belonged there, same as the rest of them.

Nightmares

This week's post is an older piece of work I edited. Originally, it was written during Nanowrimo of 2015.

This particular piece is fanfiction, written for Elder Scrolls: Skyrim. Because I can.

~~~

Fire danced in Cassandra's dreams at night. She could still smell the smoke, still see it billowing - thick and black - into the air and blotting out the sky.

Which fire she saw, and which sky was blotted out varied from night to night. Some nights, it would be the moons and the stars blotted out by the rising cloud of choking black. The blaze she saw was a house in Cyrodiil, completely engulfed by the greedy, glowing orange light. Save for the crackling of fire, there was silence, and tall, dark silhouettes moved about from a safe distance, searching the surrounding area, while from an even safer distance, hidden amongst the trees of the nearby forest, she watched in silent, terrified horror.

Other nights, it was the sun and the bright blue sky that was marred with the dark cloud. The fire was in the trees, in the undergrowth. It chased her as she sprinted through the forest, uncaring of the damage she did in the process as she struggled to stay ahead of the blazing heat and crackling roar at her back. From somewhere behind her, growing more and more distant as she ran, horrified screams could be heard. Valenwood was being scarred; a stray flame from a spell gone wrong destroyed every hope she had left for a normal life amongst her own people and left her an outcast.

On every night that the fires danced in her dreams, she woke with a jolt, shaking and sweating and biting back a scream. The two burns that marred her skin ached at the reminder of those distant memories. On her right leg, the burn she'd received while escaping the Cyrodiil house fire ached. On her left wrist and palm, the burn she'd earned from the Valenwood forest fire throbbed.

Some nights, she'd sit alone for hours after waking, arms wrapped around herself as she fought to even out her breathing. She'd listen to the gentle noises coming from elsewhere in the hall; the steady, even breathing of the others who slept in the Hall of Attainment, the constant, gentle hum of the glowing font in the middle of the Hall, the howling of the wind outside, and eventually, she'd be lulled back to sleep - a lighter, dreamless sleep.

Other nights, someone would come running despite her best efforts to stay quiet. Sometimes, it was Onmund or Brelyna, who'd sit quietly in the chair in her room, not even uttering a sound of complaint when she clutched their hands so hard, she thought the bones might break if she squeezed any tighter. Other nights, it was J'Zargo - who'd mutter quiet complaints but would stay nearby regardless, sometimes sleeping in the chair once he'd dragged it to the bedside, or poking around through the books stacked on her desk - or Enthir - who'd just sit and talk to her quietly, distracting her from her past until morning came.

Sometimes she'd look up at her doorway, sensing someone watching her, and see Ancano standing there. He'd always have the same irritable look on his face, but he'd never speak. Not since the first time, when he’d argued with Mirabelle in the doorway of her room. Sometimes, she thought she was just imagining him. As soon as someone else entered her room to check on her, he'd disappear, as if he'd never been there in the first place. He never mentioned it, and no one else did either.

But sometimes, she'd feel a hand on her back, when no one else showed up - not the uncertain hand of Onmund or the gentle hand of Brelyna, but a stronger, firmer hand. Those nights, she closed her eyes again as soon as she felt that hand so she didn't look up. So she wouldn't be left alone when she needed someone there to keep her calm.

The hand would stay, never moving, until her breathing had evened, and her arms had uncurled from around her chest. Only then, when she had shifted and slumped back onto the pillows, would the hand move. If the Thalmor did or said anything to her, she was never aware; she always fell asleep very quickly after that.

And for some strange, rather vexing reason, she always slept the best on those nights, her dreams not haunted by the flames and smoke of her past.

She hated it, but at the same time, she longed for it.

Morsha

This week's blog post is the backstory of a character that a friend created for me for a tabletop RP game we play, as well as a character that's going to feature in a novel I'm planning on writing.


~~~


Morsha had been alive for over three hundred years.

She was originally born a human. A Commoner, living in a small town. As a young adult, she had found a job as a servant in the house of the noble family that owned the land her town was on. They were not the nicest of people - the head of the family was a cruel man, his wife snide and unimpressed, and their daughter a spoiled brat. But a job was a job, and they’d paid well enough, despite their attitude, so she’d stuck with it.

Things changed when their daughter got sick, though. Morsha had been forced into being her personal maid, enduring her yelling and screaming and complaining, while the mother verbally abused her every day for “not making sure her daughter was comfortable and well taken care of,” and the father spend thousands of gold pieces trying to find out what was wrong with his daughter, and why she wasn’t getting any better.

In the end, it turned out to be a serious disease. One that had no known cure. The father had spent thousands more trying everything he could to cure his daughter, but nothing worked, and she slowly got sicker. In a last, desperate attempt, they found a Sorcerer who was willing to capture her soul upon death and put it into a new body, so she could continue living her life.

The family hired a Sculptor to create a new stone body for their daughter. He worked for months, slowly carving the new body to suit what the daughter wanted. It was not exactly the same; it was taller and prettier, possessing claws instead of fingernails, wings that she did not possess, with longer hair and wicked looking eyes.

The body would be stronger, able to withstand many attacks, and resistant to both sickness and death. Anyone who saw it knew that the body would be used for dark purposes by the daughter, once she inhabited it.

The Sorcerer had given the family a necklace, with a pendant that had a small, enchanted gem set into it. The gem was to act as a temporary container for the daughter’s soul when she died since it was likely that she would die before the body was finished.

However, Morsha was the one who ended up with it. The daughter deemed it ugly and refused to wear it, despite it’s purpose being clearly explained to her. Instead, she decided that her servant would be the one to wear it and that she would just have to stay by her side until she died so that her soul could be captured as intended.

But as death drew closer for the daughter, her parents forgot that Morsha was the one with the necklace. They banished her from their daughter’s chambers moments before she passed away, and did not even give her the chance to leave the necklace behind.

When they realised what they had done, they blamed Morsha for their daughter’s stubbornness, and their own foolishness. In his rage, the father murdered Morsha, forgetting that she was still wearing the necklace, and had her body disposed of. The mother took the necklace from Morsha’s corpse and placed it at their daughter’s side, hoping there might still be a chance for their daughter’s soul to inhabit the gem. Neither of them realised that, upon death, Morsha’s soul had been dragged into the gem.

When the body was complete, the mother and father took the necklace to the Sorcerer, convinced that the gem, which had begun to glow due to Morsha’s presence inside it, contained their daughter. As per their agreement, the Sorcerer transferred the soul into the body.

It was at that point that they’d realised their mistake. For where their daughter had been a fair-haired, green-eyed girl, Morsha had been a red-haired, amber-eyed girl, and as the body began to gain life, the colour of the hair and eyes began to change to match what Morsha had looked like.

As Morsha gained sense of her new body and moved stiff stone limbs to gain feeling in them, the mother and father had demanded that the Sorcerer remove the soul from the body immediately - for they would not have a servant wandering around in the likeness of their daughter. The Sorcerer, however, refused; once it has been done, the only way to fix it would be to destroy the body.

They wouldn’t do it. They couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Despite Morsha being the soul inside, the body still resembled their daughter. And while they were trying to figure out what could be done, Morsha had taken the opportunity to slip out and disappear.

It took her some time to adjust to her new body. Being in a body that was not skin and bone - being a Gargoyle - had its ups and downs; she’d had to learn each of them on her own, as she’d not dared remain nearby to learn from the Sorcerer.

Over the next thirty years, she spent most of it on the run. The Noble Family had hired many mercenaries to hunt her down, claiming she was a monster that had murdered their daughter in cold blood. Those she hadn’t been able to evade enough that they eventually gave up and went on to find jobs that would actually pay them, she was forced to kill, before they killed her.

When the mercenaries abruptly stopped coming, she dared wander home. She hadn’t seen any of her family in thirty years; she’d waited for the opportunity long enough.

Reaching home, she’d discovered a horrible and painful thing; after she’d disappeared, the Noble Family had had her entire family executed for Morsha’s “crimes”. That had included her infant sister, who’d only been six months old at the time. Enraged by their cruelty, Morsha made the journey to the Noble Family’s manor, intending on getting revenge for her murdered family.

Arriving at the manor, however, she learned that her previous employers had both passed away; the wife four years previously, and the head of the family only a few months before. With no heirs or relatives that could take over their estate, the manor had been practically abandoned. A butler who had worked for the family for many, many years was the only one who remained, tending to the empty house, the gardens, and the graves of the Noble Family all on his own.

Morsha spent the next hundred and fifty years or so on her own, for the most part. She inhabited the manor, ignoring the butler until he passed away in his sleep. She let everything overgrow, let the manor fall to ruin, and lived in only a couple of the rooms. Over time, she located where her previous body - by then only bones - had been dumped, and gave herself a proper burial in the town graveyard, alongside the rest of her family.

She only left the town for good when rumours of a monster began to spread, and brave adventurers and mercenaries appeared, seeking glory by killing the monster living in the old manor near the town.

In her subsequent wandering, she came across a place known as the Guild. Those that she met there did not bat an eye at the sight of her - with her grey-blue skin, bat-like wings, and claws - because there were others there that were, to be blunt, much more frightening than a Gargoyle.

So Morsha joined them, for even the smallest, frailest looking human was not afraid of her, as many of the villagers and townsfolk she had met, in all her years as a Gargoyle, had been. She would not claim that she had been happy; but she had been content, from the moment she’d stepped through the Guild’s double doors.

Through another's Eyes.

Wow, it's been a month since I last posted anything here... My bad, I am so sorry. Writer's block is a BITCH.

Anyway, here's something I wrote relatively recently. Hope you enjoy!

~~~

I remember the battle.

It was a great battle - an army, against an army. I’d fought in many battles before, at one master’s side or another. I changed hands quite often - sometimes, I even changed sides. But that was to be expected when one master died, and another took you up in their place.

My master in this battle was a skilled warrior, and one of the few who’d possessed me for more than one battle. Most didn’t survive long; they killed my master, and then either they, or someone else, claimed me from the battlefield after everything was over, and then the next battle, the cycle repeated.

My master had owned me for so many that I’d lost count. But I knew it would not last. He was neither young, nor immortal. His movements were not as fast as they’d been the day he first claimed me. His strikes did not possess the same force, his parries trembled visibly beneath the strength and force of younger opponents.

I remember the ring of steel, clashing against steel. The roar of hundreds of human voices, roaring out war cries, screaming out in pain, moaning and groaning as they died, filled the air. The ground was stained, the dirt dark with blood, littered with bodies. My fallen brethren littered the ground too, abandoned in the dirt until the victorious side in the battle could gather them up and cart them off for their own use.

I remember hearing their voices on the wind, clear despite the noise of the humans. Many of them had been afraid, fearing a lonely existence in a dark, dusty room where they could not see the sunlight again until time dictated they could be used again. Others feared destruction, feared that their use had come to an end, and that they would be abandoned on the battlefield, left to rust amongst rotting corpses.

I’d whispered reassurances as I could, to those closest to me, but I’d been just as afraid as they were. My master’s strength had been failing, the longer we spent on the battlefield, and it left me fearing for my own fate. I would have urged him to retreat, to recover his strength, but he could not hear my voice. He never had been able to, and I doubted he ever would.

To him - to many humans - I was not a sentient creature to be listened to; I was just a thing to be used. I was the sword in his hand, the tool that ended the lives of hundreds of opponents, and brought my master fame and glory.

I was not surprised, during that battle, when I felt the dirt beneath my blade. I’d clattered to the ground, metal ringing on the scattered pebbles and abandoned brethren on the ground as I came to rest. Part of me had been expecting it, from the moment my master had drawn me from my sheath. Though my vision was limited, I’d still been able to see him fall, a spear buried in a weak point in his armour. I’d heard him hit the ground.

I’d heard the wet squelching as the weapon was yanked from his body none-too-gently, the mocking voices of both my master’s victorious opponent and the spear’s clear in the air over the battle. Both spoke almost exactly the same words, in almost exactly the same tone; taunting me, taunting my dying master, as they stepped over my master’s body, and moved out of my sight, seeking their next opponent to kill.

I remember my Master’s last words. I could always hear my master on the battlefield, no matter how loud it got.

“I am sorry, Zwei...”

I’d retreated into myself then, content to wait in the darkness of my blade until a hand wrapped around my hilt once again - a new master, another battle - and the roar of battle had dulled to a muted hum on the edges of my consciousness.

When I opened my eyes, some time later, it came as a shock.

Cuddling

Hello, hello, Jasha here! I missed last week's post (oops! I'll have to remember to make up for that), but i'm on time with this week's! This week's prompt was "You don’t like snuggling or a lot of touching, but when you’re asleep, you’re a cuddler, for better or worse." and our challenge was the Alphabet Challenge, which each sentence had to start with the next letter of the alphabet, starting at A. It was also decided, last minute, that we would start the alphabet backwards if we reached the end of the end before we finished writing.

So, here is my post! Hope you enjoy it!

~~~

As it was, when she and Quinton first started dating, Xandra knew that he was not very physically affectionate, and would not often initiate anything. But if she was the one to initiate it, he wouldn’t pull away unless he wasn’t feeling comfortable - for the most part. Cuddling was, generally, out of the question - he just wasn’t interested in wrapping his arms around her.

Despite that, however, Xandra loved him. Even if he did often sit on the opposite end of the couch to avoid her using him like a pillow. For the most part, she was fine with it; she had her moments where she needed something more than idle conversation across the room, but she adapted to his needs quickly enough, while he adapted to hers.

Generally speaking, though, while she was fine with things how they were, her friends were not too happy about the situation.

“He’s taking advantage of you,” they would tell her, when she met them for coffee. “If he really loved you, he wouldn’t spend so much time avoiding you!”

“Just because you want your boyfriends to be affectionate with you,” Xandra would tell them, every time they started up the argument again, “doesn’t mean I have to want that myself.”

Kelly, her so-called best friend, was one of the worst of them for insisting that he didn’t really love her. “Look, Xandra,” she’d often say, whenever they were out together - Xandra had quickly learnt that it meant she was about to point out a good-looking guy, or a cutesy, affectionate couple, on the street. “Maybe he’s the one for you,” or “wouldn’t you like to be like them,” she would continue, while Xandra did her best to ignore whoever she was pointing out.

“No means no,” was often her response, though she knew such a thing went in one ear and out the other with her friends, “I’m fine with things the way they are, so how about we drop the subject now?”

Other than her friends being insistent that he wasn’t the right man for her, however, her life was as peaceful and normal as anyone could ever hope for. Plus, she had a secret; one she dared not tell her friends, because she knew better than to trust them with secrets.

Quinton was a cuddler was he was asleep.

Rather early on, when they’d moved in together, Xandra had noticed that he seemed to actively seek out something to hold when he was asleep. Sometimes, if he dozed off on the couch, it was pillows or blankets - once, it had been his laptop - but when they were in bed, no matter if he fell asleep facing towards her or away, she’d always wake up wrapped in his arms. Time after time, she’d literally have to fight her way out of his arms if she woke up before him - which she often did.

Unfortunately, he was not only a deep sleeper - she was certain he’d sleep through the end of the world - but he was also a clingy bugger. Very rarely would he wake up while she was struggling to free herself - more often than not, he’d wake up some time after she’d taken a shower in the mornings.

When he did wake up, however, he was often surprised - if not by the fact that he’d been cuddling, then by the odd positions they often ended up in during her daily struggle to free herself.

Xandra would ignore his expression each time, wriggle free of his arms, and wander off to the bathroom.

“You’re going to be late for work again, if you don’t get up,” she would call over her shoulder at him as she closed the door to the bathroom behind her. Zoned out, as if unsure if he should be confused, embarrassed, or something else entirely, was a cute look for him, but she didn’t have the time to admire his expression.

Yes, Xandra was quite content with her life indeed.

Fine Wine and Sea Wash

Hello, hello!

This is technically my first official post. My other post was a filler, and something I wrote during Nano of 2016. 

This week, I teamed up with two others (The Writer and Inkblot) to do a little challenge, of sorts. We agreed to use the same prompt - "Whatever doesn't kill me...had better start running." - and the same set of names - Alexia for the main female, Damon for the main male, and Blair for a unisex extra. 

This is, due to several false starts that wouldn't flow and felt painfully forced, and a lack of time in the end, part one of...I dunno, might end up being a bit of a series, might be just a two parter. We'll see, I guess. So, enjoy part 1, part 2 should be coming at you, hopefully soon!

~~~

“The ocean is no place for a respectable young lady!” The voice was shrill, loud and strict, and it was accompanied by the ear-splitting crack of a solid stick - a cane, perhaps, or maybe just something picked up off the ground some time in the past - coming down on a wooden surface.

Alexia jumped, eyes snapping away from the window, back to the source of the voice. She was met with the stern, disapproving face of her tutor - a woman whose name she had forgotten almost as soon as she’d learned it. Which had been fairly recent, as the woman was only the newest link in a long chain of tutors who had been hired - and, often not too long later, fired - by her mother.

She had long since given up attempting to learn the names of her tutors as they came; her mother was more interested in finding someone who could significantly distract her from her “foolish daydreams of the ocean”, than she was of her education. The tutors were only the daytime distraction; Alexia knew that, come evening, there would be a suitor in the entrance hall, and a chaperone hovering nearby, ready to lavish her with gifts she never used, and praise that was as hollow and meaningless as the polite smiles they wore.

“I was only looking at it.” She tried to defend herself, but the frown on the woman’s severe face deepened - Alexia wondered if the woman had ever smiled - and she knew that the woman was not convinced of her lie.

“There is nothing out there, Lady Solarin, except for cutthroats and thieves. They are not safe, nor are they worthy of the company of a well-bred young woman such as yourself.” The woman sniffed, striking the table again when Alexia’s eyes began to wander. She jerked back, snatching her hand to her chest when she noticed just how close the stick had been to striking her hand, and stared at the woman, aghast. Her mother would never approve of a tutor that struck her students, but she wouldn’t stop one that came close.

“It hardly seems all that bad!” She protested, flicking another glance at the window. She didn’t allow her gaze to linger, though, as the woman seemed prone to smacking the table, and Alexia valued her fingers being unbroken too much to risk her wrath a third time.

The woman sighed, lifting the stick from the table, and strode across the room. Alexia watched her go curiously, only to frown in frustration and disappointment when she drew the curtains across the window, blocking her view of the clear blue sky, and glittering blue ocean.

“Lady Solarin,” the woman said as, deed done, she strode back across the room to stand in front of the table Alexia was sitting at, “allow me to put this simply. You are a blue blood; a noblewoman of high class. The only ones who exceed you are those of royal blood.”

“So?” Alexia demanded, crossing her arms across her chest in a display of stubbornness. The woman frowned down at her, hands twisting around the stick, as if she should very much like to strike her for her audacity, but was restraining herself because she knew what the repercussions of doing so would be.

“You are like a fine wine, one that will grow even finer with age; delicate and sweet, with a sharp undertone. Only the rich deserve the pleasure of your company, because only the rich can afford you.” Alexia resisted the urge to launch herself over the table and wrap her hands around her skinny neck; the way the woman spoke, it seemed as though she were implying that she was something that could be bought, for the right price.

“Those... sailors down at the port, and out on the ocean are like sea wash; coarse and unrefined. No matter how fancy the bottle may appear, they’re nothing but filth inside.” Her tutor turned away from her, waving the stick oddly. Alexia followed it with her eyes warily. “Do you understand?”

“What I understand.” Alexia started, after a moment of contemplative silence. She wondered if she should pick her words carefully, but decided against it. She’d never been one for politeness. “Is that you just implied that I’m something that can be purchased, for the right amount of gold.”

The woman turned to her, an eyebrow raised. “Is that not how it goes for Noble Families? Your younger brother is the first born son; he is the heir to your family’s estate.” Alexia clenched her fists, narrowing her eyes at the woman. “As the only daughter, your parents need to find you a suitable husband to marry, to expand your family’s reach. How else would they do that, except to promise your hand to the highest bidder? I doubt any man alive would marry you for your personality.”

“I,” Alexia hissed, rising to her feet slowly, fists trembling with rage at her sides, “would rather spend the rest of my life amongst the people you call ‘sea wash’, than I would consent to marrying someone who believes I belong to them!” By the end of her sentence, she was yelling, but she hardly cared who heard her. As the woman gaped at her, seemingly unprepared to deal with a student who dared to raise her voice, Alexia spun on her heel, the layers of her pretty, fancy dress swirling around her, and stormed out of the room, banging the door shut as loudly as she could behind her.

~~~

Alexia jerked into consciousness at the sound of an almighty bang - not that of a door slamming behind an enraged noblewoman, but the bang of something exploding. The air around her was hot, but beneath her the floor was cold and wet. She hacked out a cough - one that tasted of smoke and blood - as she rolled awkwardly onto her stomach, and pushed herself up onto her hands and knees.

She could hear noises all around her; the crackle and pop of fire, the thundering of boots overhead and yelling. Lots of yelling. As she forced her eyes open, and lifted her head, another loud explosion filled the air, and everything around her rocked dangerously. She was sent tumbling sideways, and crashed into the curled wall of the Lunaris. Somewhere beyond the wall, she heard the loud splashes of several things hitting water, and the increased sound of yelling. She felt things crash into her as anything that hadn’t been lashed down was sent tumbling across the ship as well, and a wave of water washed over her, soaking her already wet clothes completely.

She paid it little mind, though; upon impact against the wall, her side had exploded with pain, and as she rested a hand against it, she discovered that the fabric of her shirt was torn, and the skin beneath it tender and wet in a way that certainly wasn’t water. She almost didn’t want to look, but she knew she wouldn’t have much choice, in the end. Live or die, she’d see it soon enough; there was no point in avoiding the inevitable.

Pulling her hand away from her side, she lifted it into her line of sight, and grimaced. Her fingers were stained with red, though the water still splashing around her washed it away quickly enough.

“Fantastic.” She hissed as she clenched her fist, twisting her head in an attempt to view the damage to her body. She had been in worse situations before; she could handle it. But it didn’t stop her from gagging slightly as she swallowed thickly, tasting blood on her tongue.

“Alex!” A voice drew her attention from her wound as the ship around her rocked awkwardly again, and she looked up, in the direction of the voice. Standing at the far end of the hold, clutching a noticeably bloody cutlass in one hand, and one of the support beams with the other, was a man in torn, bloody clothing. “You’re alive!”

“Apparently.” Alexia grunted back, pushing herself onto her feet as the man slid the cutlass into his belt, and began to wade through the water flooding the hold - which, she noted, was steadily increasing, and was already at knee height - towards her. “What’s going on?”

“Pirates, that’s what.” The man responded as he reached her, hands already outstretched to grab her shoulders. “Are you alright?” He asked, already forcing her this way and that to examine her.

“Damon, are you seriously asking me that?” Alexia snapped at him, not in the mood for stupid questions. He had the good sense to look sheepish as he shrugged off his bloodstained coat, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She accepted it gratefully, sliding her arms into the sleeves and not caring that it was slightly too big.

“Sorry, force of habit.” without preamble, he wrapped an arm around her back, and swept the other one under her knees, knocking her feet out from under her, and lifting her into his arms. She squawked in outrage, but struggling in an attempt to break free of his grip only caused her pain.

“Put me down, Damon!” She growled instead, glaring at him as he slowly waded back towards the stairs. Another explosion rocked the ship, and she yelped as he stumbled, hitting the wall with his shoulder and her head. There was an awful snapping, cracking noise overhead, and a voice yelled, over the chaos, “it’s coming down!” before the loudest splash she’d heard so far came from somewhere nearby.

“Well, there’s goes the mast.” Damon grunted as he pushed himself away from the wall, pointedly ignoring her demands to be put down. “About bloody time, I was starting to wonder how much more that thing could withstand. Blair owes me a round at the next port.”

“If we see a ‘next port’.” Alexia grumbled, rubbing the back of her head with one hand. The other was clutching his shoulder, keeping her in place as Damon struggled his way through the quickly increasing water. “You know, at this rate, you’re gonna have to put me down and swim.”

“Don’t worry, Allie,” Damon grinned down at her, “we’ll see the next port. It’s yours, after all; remember?” He didn’t seem too bothered that he was reminding her of the fact, and he ignored the disgusted grimace she made at the mention.

“I’ve told you not to call me that on the ship...” She grunted, instead of addressing the comment about the port. The less she had to think of it, the better.

“Who’s gonna hear? Most of the crew’s either dead, or abandoned ship on the row boats.” There was an almighty splash as Damon suddenly jerked out of the increasing water, and Alexia frowned as she realised he hadn’t need to put her down after all. “The only ones still around are those determined to stay with the ship, and Blair, who’s waiting on us.”

“I knew that the captain lived by something he claimed his father told him...” Alexia shifted her weight as Damon began the ascent of the awkwardly tilted stairs, “But I didn’t expect much of the crew would live by it as well.”

“Yeah, the captain lives by ‘whatever doesn’t kill me had better start running!’ but it’s hardly a noticeable number of the crew that follows those ideals.” Damon shrugged, and Alexia tightened her grip to prevent herself from falling. He might’ve had a decent grip on her, but with the awkwardness of the ship’s tilt, and her own discomfort, she still feared that he might drop her.

“You do know that I live by that too, right?” She asked curiously, peering up at his out-of-place grin.

“I’m not leaving you behind.” The grin dropped immediately, as did the cheerful tone of his voice.

“Wasn’t asking you to.” She responded quickly. “I was just saying.”

Damon’s grin came back, as the ship groaned awkwardly, and shifted. He dropped her legs, allowing them to hit the stairs, and grabbed onto the railing next to him with his free hand to keep them from falling back down the stairs.

“The captain can go down with his ship if he so chooses,” Alexia grumbled, reaching out for the railing as well and hauling herself awkwardly up the stairs, “I want off.” ‘

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, lass.”