AmongHeroes

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Atticus smiled and settled his head down once more, a smile of relief upon his face. It was a smile conjured from a mixture of happiness that this was the first time in months that-besides her feeding from his neck-he had been this close to Siya, coupled with the feeling of safety granted by the walls of this very room. So much had taken place here, not a year ago, that Atticus would count as life altering, or at least the beginnings of such an alteration.

He looked back to Siya and sighed. “Well, I could think of a few ways to get that energy back,” he said speaking of her quip about other means to return the blood she had taken from him.

With a languid groan he rolled over and leaned up to kiss her. It was a compulsory kiss, one that he followed upon the heels of her light and delicate touches over his face. Her lips were as amazing as he remembered, soft and dangerous, and they spurned a wave of memories and emotions that sent the demons upon his skin to shouting, hooting, and gyrating for more. His eyes, now so close to hers, glowed enough to light the high features of her beautiful face, calling forth another smile to his lips.

“Fuck a year, don’t let me miss a day without that.”

He leaned down to kiss her once more lightly upon the forehead, before he pushed himself up. A laugh escaped him as he had to balance himself against the wall. Siya’s method of travel had affected him more than he had truly thought possible for a demon. With several hard blinks, and a shake of his head, he stepped over Siya and moved towards the expansive table of liquors and delicacies that sat beneath the massive half-moon window. There is something more powerful within her, Atticus thought, and as he made it to the table, he forcefully did not finish his own thought; that whatever it was could be inherently dangerous.

With Cornelius preoccupied on the phone, Atticus plucked his own way through the bottles of exotic liquor, using the task to further quell his recent thought. He selected a bottle of ancient whiskey of Dwarf manufacture, one from the highlands of Scotland if he wasn’t mistaken. Atticus read the label. It was over five-hundred years old.

“This will do just fine,” he whispered.

He took two chilled granite cubes from a small ice tub nearby, and placed them into two crystal tumblers. Then, almost reverently, he poured the bright amber liquid of the Scotch into the tumblers. The aroma was sharp and plentiful, and his mouth watered for the warming feel of the liquor.

With a tumbler in each hand, he made his way back to Siya, and handed her a glass. He sat heavily into a plush leather couch nearby, and raised his own tumbler in a silent toast before taking a first sip. As hoped, the Scotch burned pleasantly upon his tongue, clearing his nostrils, and warming him from belly outward as he swallowed and breathed.

Atticus was about to comment to the others to feel free to join in, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the room darkened as if the world itself had been hit with a dimmer switch. It was not an unpleasant darkness, and it lasted for only a brief moment before the light of the fires and the twinkling lights of London in the distance, returned.

He blinked, looking about until he saw them all, the entire group that had gone off to search for the Ankh, and ultimately Max. Atticus stood, his drink still in his hand, and almost simultaneously he spotted the man of the hour amongst them, well amongst Veti anyway.

A flood of happiness, regret, guilt, and once again joy filled him. The tattoos had quite a time keeping up with the shift in emotion that went through the Incubus in that short moment, before at last his feet made up his mind for him. He crossed the room, setting his glass down upon a side table, before thrusting a hand in front of Max.

“I knew I couldn’t get rid of you,” Atticus said with a broad grin, and a bright, glowing spark in the crimson of his eyes.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Zakhar licked his long tongue over the points of his canines, and snapped his jaw in annoyance. This creature, this Lady of Ice was a fool.

“We do not answer to you, Ice Queen,” Zakhar spat, his voice heavy with a thick Slavic accent and the guttural sounds of a werewolf. “The Lupus Naturae partnered with you, to further both of our ends; we bring to you the means to free Fenris, and you aid us culling the defiled from the world.”

Zakhar snarled. “Never was is stated that I bow to your whims.”

The Lady of Ice looked down from her seat on the dais to the massive and beautiful wolf-man that stood before her. His coat was snow white, save for the puckering of scars, and a single, thin black line, that ran from the tip of his nose, and down to the base of his bushy tail. The hair about his large wolf’s head was thick, and bristled from his neck almost like the mane of a lion. His physical prowess was impressive, but The Lady was not the least bit intimidated.

“You are not serving my whims, wolf,” she said in a slow and intensely stunning voice. “You are merely fulfilling your end of the bargain. Release him.”

Zakhar growled. “The Lupus Naturae will give you the means to free the god-wolf, it is your task alone to act upon those means.”

The wolf thought that he must restrain himself. Though she appeared as fragile and delicately resplendent as a China doll, the gorgeous creature that looked down from her frozen throne was no defenseless flower. Zakhar was in her realm, and the only thing that was keeping him alive was the power granted him by the Lupus Naturae. Without the unspoken threat of their retribution, Zakhar would have already been dead. Probably convinced to slit his own throat, or worse, by The Lady’s iced and sugary words.

She stared back at him with her crystalline eyes, unspeaking for several long moments. The wolves were nothing more than cursed dogs in her estimation, and she cared not a whit for their campaign of genocide. They were the lot of them barbarians, carrying of the thin façade of a society, with their pompous tribal leaders and their packs of roving mongrels. If she did not need them, she would enjoy eradicating their filth from the Veiled World.

A slight smile tugged at her porcelain face. In a short time she would not have to eradicate anyone, for the coming storm would accomplish all of that for her. These wolves were so blinded by their hatred and fear that they would fail to see what their own hubris was bringing to the world until it was too late.

“Let us not hang ourselves upon technicalities, dog,” The Lady said. “Do not insult me by trying to pretend that the Lupus Naturae does not also wish the emancipation of the great god-wolf.” She leaned forward upon her throne, a delicate eyebrow rising as she did. “Your kind is simply too afraid to do it yourselves.”

The hackles upon Zakhar’s neck rose at The Lady’s insult. He took a step forward, a clawed finger pointing to her. “Watch your tongue, witch. That is a cavalier claim you place on my kind. It is not fear, but respect for the nature of things, that stays our hands. You know not what you trifle with.”

Truly, it was Zakhar that was ignorant in this matter. The Lady of Ice assured as much, for her plan did not work if the world of today perceived that it was in its twilight. Neither Zakhar, nor the Lupus Naturae could fathom what was to come. The Lady merely looked back to the wolf, her face placid. The end was coming, Ragnärok was coming, and The Lady of Ice meant to survive, and with her own hands mold the new beginning to follow.

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas closed his eyes at Antonia’s first presses against the muscles of his shoulders and neck. The stress that seemed to melt free with each new touch of her fingers brought a welcoming sense of clarity to a mind marred with alcohol and a lack of sleep. As she began to whisper into his ear, Thomas’ eyes opened slowly, the copper iris’ starring distantly across the Parakeet as she spoke.

He let out a quiet sigh, she spoke truly. Thomas was being too hard upon the first mate and the sea-artist. Whatever their reasoning, his expectation to be treated as just another member of the crew was too lofty a goal. That realization brought another sigh from his lips, as a part of him longed for the simplistic joy of just being a sailor once again. There was a familiar romanticism to being high in the rigging, releasing sails, and balancing upon the spars, without any further care than the task at hand and the gold promised at the end of the horizon.

Thomas forced that thought from his mind, as it was nothing more than a passing fancy. A smile came to his lips with Antonia’s teasing about him longing for a kiss from Nicolette or Jax. He did not reply, instead reaching behind him to pinch her thigh, which was more like a gentle squeeze through the thick folds of her skirts.

He looked to his First Mate as he noticed her rise partially from her chair, and then abruptly resume her seat. When she spoke, her tone made his brows rise in surprise, and his manner evolved into one of apology.

“Please, Madame,” he said with a slight wave of his hand, “be at ease. I sit before you as a captain at the behest of no king, and I do not require such formal address.”

Though his voice and expression spoke to a manner of reconciliation, he had no intention of withdrawing his disappointment fully, and thusly he offered no apology. Antonia’s words were a potent elixir, but not a soul alive possessed speech required for Thomas to completely rescind his natural inclinations.

Thomas looked now to Jax. “I assure you that your evening has not been in vain, the weight of your purse notwithstanding. I have brought you all here because among my crew you are the most paramount to the Skate’s success upon the high seas, and your stake in this coming matter bears your opinion to be heard.”

He brought his hands into his lap, and looked between all three of them. “As you well know, these are the months that the Spanish treasure fleets sail from New Spain to Havana, and thence on to Cádiz. We also know that attacking the fleet is nothing short of suicide, for their numbers are too vast, and their cannon much too plentiful.”

At this comment, the corners of Thomas’ mouth creased to a frown. “Now, some weeks back, you may recall a hurricane that passed through the northern Windward Passage. We were at the southern expanse of its fury, and thusly bore little harm from it, but…” Thomas leaned forward, his expression brightening. “There was a Donnish treasure ship, sailing amongst the fleet, which did not receive such favorable treatments.”

“We have it on good authority,” Thomas said without looking to Antonia, “that this ship was spotted aground within the Serrana Islands, east of Guatemala. As of now, we four are the only known people in Port Royal capable of grasping this opportunity.”

His eyes looked to each of them in turn. “The task is daunting, but the rewards would be unimaginable. What say you?”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Good to have some fresh posts to take in tonight. I've been away on some unplanned work, so I haven't been able to enjoy my daily dose of Pieces until just now. I myself will be getting back to writing a post for tomorrow night.

How is everyone? Anyone had a chance to see Winter Soldier yet? And Guardians of the Galaxy: who is unnaturally excited? (If it isn't apparent, Marvel is my cocaine).

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas took Antonia’s proffered tangerine and ate each wedge with slow, silent movements of his jaw that allowed him to hold the fruit in his mouth as long as possible. It gave his mind someplace to expel the mounting frustration he felt without showing it outwardly on his features. His face was placid and still, save for the occasional chewing, and his copper eyes were distant and seemed to focus on nothing in particular. Behind those eyes was a mind that wrestled with the game at hand, and was inexorably moving towards a slurry of disappointment and annoyance.

Did they think him so foolish? Did the both of them think him a vain man, a man so lashed to his ego that his favor only fell upon those that stoked it? Thomas worked daily to appear the man in contrast to such men, so abundant among the scoundrel captains of the Caribbean. His reputation was supposed to have been built upon a foundation of reality, that his deeds spoke of his nature, and not instead filled with bloated tales of self-worth and embroidered heroics. Thomas was a confident man, to be sure, and he was never one to diminish his own abilities to anyone. He enjoyed the thrill of winning and the pleasurable kiss of victory, but he only found it pleasurable upon the lips of his own guile and sweat. What was transpiring here made his heart fall to his gut.

Jax seemed to be teetering on the knife’s edge of enjoyment and disinterest, and so thusly was not taking the brunt of Thomas’ repressed ire. The First Mate however, had shown her colors. It was clear in the tactful skill at which she lost that her mind had counted and manipulated cards more than a handful of times. She was no green maiden at this art, no, she was tactician. A tactician that in Thomas’ mind was taking the strategy of valiant retreat for an end he did not comprehend. Thomas had been taking money from the pair of them the entire night, and he himself was not playing at the level he was accustomed to. He was too distracted by his own displeasure to do so.

When Nicolette pushed the last of her silver into the pot, Thomas laid down his winning hand without hesitation. He looked between both her and Jax with an expressionless face, though his eyes were now sharp with the irritation restrained behind them. Without a word he reached his arms to the pot, and withdrew the coins into his own pile. Part of him wanted to overturn the table, and sling the bullion across the Parakeet, raging against the offense he was suffering beneath. Instead however, he merely sat, his fingers gently shifting the pile of coins before him. He wanted their respect, and their genuine companionship, not some feeble attempt to bow before the veneration granted by the title of “Captain.”

Thomas took the wine bottle from the table, and poured a large helping of the ruby liquid into his empty mug. He took a long drink before setting it down gently. For a long moment he simply savored the taste, allowing the liquor to help was away some of the emotion held in his throat. He did not want to ostracize his crewmates, for as he thought upon the game he recognized perhaps the position that they were operating from. His anger diminished mightily, though his disappointment was still quite heavy upon his mind.

“I have no more stomach for this game,” he said softly, a slight smile reaching his mouth. “In lieu of such things, I have an opportunity for us to discuss, if all of you are so inclined to hear it?”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Great posts LT, tirg, and Grainy! Those were fun to read. Also thanks to everyone who has gotten back with me, and I'm glad we have so many still with us. How is everyone's day going thus far?

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Atticus sat up, trying to blink away the stars that swam before his eyes. He couldn’t tell what he had landed against, but it must have been a structure of the sturdiest construction, for the hardy demon felt like he had been bludgeoned with Mjölnir itself. His gaze drifted above him, and Atticus found himself gazing into the carved stone maw of a dragon. Puzzled by this, he squinted until the whole of the ornate granite hearth that he rested against came into view. He recognized the fireplace, just as Siya spoke, confirming that they had indeed arrived at Bain and Hoyle’s personal estate, and the headquarters of the entire company.

He looked over to the petite vampire who lay not far away. She seemed to glow with a dark energy, a kind of ethereal coloring that reminded Atticus of the last veins of twilight as the sun set. He wondered idly if that glow was the remnants of her recent and harrowing past with the Pieces of 8. Siya had borne the brunt of much during that time that led to Decima’s final destruction. Perhaps the vestiges of her bloodline were not as thin or diluted as Bain and Hoyle had led him to believe. It was evident she had questions of her own, her statement to Hoyle before their departure spoke to as much, and Atticus vowed to himself that he would help her find those answers. She certainly deserved that much.

Atticus shifted over to his hands and knees, and crawled over to where Siya lay. As he did he noticed Henry, as vibrant and handsome as ever, seemingly no worse the wear from the journey between. Atticus gave him a friendly scowl.

“You damn Sirens. You could be sent through the fucking Sun and come out the other side ready to shake the pants off some unsuspecting lass.”

He reached Siya, and plopped down beside her, his head resting against one of her tiny shoulders. Through eyes half-lidded with some unexplained exhaustion, he smiled to her.

“Thanks for the lift,” he said. “I may need some of that blood back though, I’m feeling a little vampiric jet lag.”

Atticus lifted his head slightly towards her. “Is my beard ok?”

He dropped his head once more to her shoulder, just as another voice called out. It was a voice rich with London gentrification, and a noise that brought another tired smile to Atticus’ face.

“Master Atticus? Miss Siya? Mr. Henry and more? My goodness, what a surprise, I was not expecting to receive any guests, especially not Sir Hoyle and his poor sister. Is everyone alright?”

Atticus didn’t move from his spot, though he lifted a brow towards the rubber-ducky man servant known as Cornelius.

“I think we’re all generally fine, Cornelius. What of Hoyle and his sister?”

Cornelius floated his rubber duck body over so he could see Atticus clearly. “They are in with Sir Bain in his private quarters as we speak. I believe they are discussing a matter of some urgency, as well as tending to Sir Hoyle’s sister.”

Atticus nodded slightly, still too content to get up. “Cornelius, I need you to do me a favor. It’s most important. Get on the Caduceus Phone, and call Veti. Tell her to meet us as soon as possible here. Tell her the shit is hitting the proverbial fan.”

Cornelius blinked his solid black eyes in bemusement, but he did not question Atticus.

“I shall do so at once.”

With that, Cornelius turned in midair before floating away. His destination was located in study on the other side of the great room, where the Caduceus Phone was located. The phone itself appeared to be nothing more than an old rotary phone. In truth however, it was a device fused with the power granted from the god Mercury’s fabled staff. It allowed the user to ‘call’ anyone almost anywhere, regardless of what world or dimension they just happened to be residing in at the time. It was a most useful device, and the only one of its kind. Naturally, it was owned by Archibald Bain.

As Cornelius floated away to complete his mission, Atticus once more looked at Siya. He smiled again, this time however pointing to his jaw.

“Seriously, the beard? Did it survive?”

---

The headquarters of the Bain & Hoyle Company is actually a large castle, located on a hidden island just inland where the Thames River meets the English Channel. It is connected to the mainland via a long stone causeway that is similarly magically disguised.

The interior is modernly outfitted for the daily operations of the company, and it holds the largest number of employees of any of the company’s many branches. In the tower of the main keep is the personal residence of Archibald Bain and Reginald Hoyle. It is a lavish and ornate space in the style of the Old World, outfitted with large guest rooms, an expansive kitchen, enough books to get a polite nod from the Library of Alexandria, and a massive half-circle window that offers a magnificent view of London beyond.

Each guest room contains magical wardrobes that offer any kind of clothing or garment imaginable, and the kitchen and bar are similarly magically stocked, allowing a boundless choice of food and drink. Bain and Hoyle’s rooms are located in a separate wing from the guest rooms.

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas nodded discerningly, his face placid. Nicolette’s story was believable enough, and he could envision a scenario where she had avoided the game in an effort to maintain her ruse. She was a most shrewd woman to avoid detection so thoroughly, and for so long. There was a deep and murky craftiness to her that Thomas found thrilling and somewhat dangerous, and he could not help but respect the brazen woman. Though craft is not boundless, Thomas thought to himself as his eyes drifted to the puckered scar upon the first mate’s otherwise flawless face.

As he traced the rough edges of the ‘P’, Thomas heard Jax speak to him about the first mate’s eyes, and he immediately looked to them. He smiled along with his reply, not looking away from the angelic Nicolette. “Aye, they are intense. Calculating, or perhaps even…” He paused for the briefest of moments, “…brooding.”

He dealt the remaining cards with a smirk, looking up to Jax. “Whatever is in her eyes we shall know soon enough, I wager. Whether it will be the worse for us is something we shall learn in due course as well.”

Thomas focused upon his cards, and his face became slack. He did not arrange the cards into suit or value, instead allowing them to remain in their random state to avoid any particularly perceptive eyes. His mind worked through the fog of alcohol to arrive at an accurate wager, and he was pleased that his hand was assuredly not a bad one. Well, he admitted to himself, I could most assuredly make it a bad one. His face remained emotionless despite his inner musings, and he was just about to goad Jax into making his bid when he realized what he had said to Antonia.

Thomas turned his head fractionally towards Antonia, his own brow rising in amused interest as he gauged the reaction of the creole rogue. She did not disappoint. Leaning back into his chair, Thomas laid his cards upon the table face down, and crossed a booted foot across his leg. As he watched with unabashed interest as Antonia moved through her slow, sensual mock, he gently spun a shining silver coin between his fingers. A man biding his time.

“Though the thought of you in bondage gives my mind most stringent pause,” Thomas spoke softly, looking down to the coin spinning in his fingers, “I believe that our sea-artist should spend more time vying his cards…” Thomas brought his copper eyes up to Jax, his expression now turning into angles of quiet menace, “…and less time dwelling upon what he cannot hope to possess.”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

I am uncertain on that front as well, LT. I won't be waiting too much longer on Crabby, so if you need anything for Siya to work with, I can certainly accommodate that.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Great posts by everyone! It's so nice to have you back full-time now, t.

I know several people have things going on in RL, but I was just curious to see who was still with us? Anyone planning on posting soon, etc.? If I ended in a weird spot with the Hoyle group I can add more if needed as well.

Thanks for the feedback!