[hr][hr][center][img]https://s9.postimg.org/tznya388f/strange.png[/img][hr][img]https://68.media.tumblr.com/0932819b33be06e4c32904e74e47a0e2/tumblr_onoy0hlU1s1rk4nywo2_540.gif[/img][hr][@Nallore][@BlueSky44][@FantasyChic][@mnkee][hr][h3][color=#0099cc][b]The Port of Tortuga: April 4th, 1719 - 3:49 PM Local Time[/b][/color][/h3][/center][hr][hr]	What makes for a good story? Is it the plot, the action, the heroes, the lovers, the villains? Does it need to be performed or is the written word just as powerful? Those are apt questions to pose, but I have another: need it make sense? Need it be comprehendible, something that can be explained simply and tied up with a sweet little bow? Need there be nothing inexplicable, nothing peculiar? 

	If that's the case, then I am afraid this is simply not a good story. No, my friends, this is a horrifying tale. It is a death rattle. It is the last stroke of the clock before midnight. Save the monologues, save the critical analysis, leave it all behind! Blood will have blood. Power comes with a price. Happiness gives way to suffering. Life is conquered by death. Love is spoiled by hate and jealousy. Trust disappears as animosity grows. That's the tale we are here to tell. Nothing more, nothing less. 

	As Edgard made a detour on his way to the docks, there was a brown skinned woman sitting on a crate along the same path. She stared forward blankly, as if in some sort of trance. Maybe it was the shock of the blood and carnage--bodies littered the ground here. Edgard had deduced a loss of sanity for himself - why couldn't this be happening to her?

	[color=#b5ccf2]"How uncouth of you, [i]Edgard[/i],"[/color] Alisanne's voice whispered, until in the next moment she stood beside him once more. She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, with a bloody smear then forming on her forehead. [color=#b5ccf2]"I suppose I should offer some proof,"[/color] she said, sighing with exasperation. [color=#b5ccf2]"Watashi wa anata no tame ni anata o koroshimasu."[/color] It was near perfect Japanese. Alisanne and Margot used to communicate in a variety of languages other than French as children, in order to isolate their brother. Japanese had been Alisanne's favorite. [hr][center][img]http://68.media.tumblr.com/0ca86ee0593b72d11a675894e7e85259/tumblr_oenbzow7fO1v97eq3o1_500.gif[/img][/center][hr][center][h3][color=#0099cc][b]The Devil's Triangle: April 4th, 1719 - 3:49 PM Local Time[/b][/color][/h3][/center][hr][hr]	Septima shook her head slightly. "No. Second death is far worse," she said simply. She didn't give any explanation for her words or any sort of indication as to why she knew what she did. To Septima, she was simply telling the truth. And at any rate, she was far more interested in the flask. 

	Anastasia seemed to be lucky so far. The liquid in the flask had a bitter metallic taste to it. It had a strange sensation that quickly enveloped Anastasia's entire body, until it would feel like a swarm of bees were underneath her skin. Yet at the same time, it was relatively painless. It was like she had gained a new muscle, one that was begging to be used. Should she try, she can move at incredible speeds--speeds that would allow her to hold her own against Pietro Maximoff, had they had the fortune to meet. 

	"What gift did the flask give you?"