The sight of the market snuffed all thoughts of misery-making out of her head. Her eyes grew wide with greed as they consumed the stalls stocked with supplies and trinkets. Normally when she was in a market she was limited to shopping with her eyes and whatever discount she could swipe with her fingers. The parcel of gold grew heavy in her hand, the weight too much to bear. It needed to be spent. She ripped it open and an audible gasp was followed by a shuffling of hands as she stashed the money in a hidden pocket, well aware of the stickiness of the fingers of those around her. After Fontaineâs cut and the various expenses to maintain her botanical practices, it had taken Solange months of work to save up a tenth of what Vargas had just given. The stale performances werenât even the worst of itâthe amount of time spent in grueling, mind numbing conversations, so bad that she barely held back all of her urges to slash out their tongue or cut off her ears, compared to the price she was paid was pathetic.
Crunching how much time sheâd have to spend listening to a sailor squawk about his shipmates to make the amount of money in that envelope made Solangeâs stomach turn, her cheeks burn, and her fist tighten. Her face darkened as she glanced around the market, trying to spot her companions. When Vargas had talked about the money for the ship and the gear it seemed so abstract that she hadnât even registered it. Now that she had a fraction of the number heâd mentioned for his price, she was bewildered. Were these thieves and killers always being paid so well while women in her profession got the scraps and the sneers? She shook and spied a jeweler across the way, the morning sun glinting off of the silver and gold. The knock-offs she wore didnât even glimmer. Her breath caught in her throat. She deserved a treat, didnât she? She started towards the stand.
Then she turned sharply. She would treat herself to fancy jewelry upon her return. Until then, she had to make sure she stayed alive, and the best way to do that was to prove to the others that she was of value. Ideally they would all come to their senses and see that she was worth dying for, but until then sheâd settle for them at least wanting to keep her alive. She knew well enough that the best way to get someone to care about you was to seem to care about them.
Solange found herself at Zivaâs Apothecary Supplies. She knew Ziva well enough, having tracked down her stall whenever it was convenient to find remedies for Fontaineâs girls. Generally the fellow running the stall did most of the sales while Ziva prepped the packages, yet he always shied away when Solange started speaking of the girlâs unsanitary symptoms. He seemed to recognize her, because Solange didnât even have to say a word to catch a scowl from him as he tapped Ziva on the shoulder and turned away. Solange saw Ziva as a sort of herbalism contemporary. Ziva, wellâŠ
âYou do not learn? I would ask why you are here, but a blindman could see the amount of paint around your mouth. So, whose dirty little pecker did you put your pretty lips too close to this time?â asked Ziva, squinting at Solange with one eye.
âDarling, you know I do not kiss and tell. Although in regards to the blind, I am less concerned with the blemishes as I am with the fragrance of my flower. You see, this morning I thought someone had hidden murdered animal in my bed becauseâŠâ
âShould really see to that delivery,â said the man as he hurried away from the stall empty handed. Solange and Ziva watched as he disappeared into the market.
âHas there ever been a better way to keep a man from infidelity?â asked Ziva, smirking. Ever since Ziva promised to share the occasional secret with her, Solange had accepted the role as the worldâs most diseased harlot. All of it was to convince Zivaâs man that any working girl was a sickly, infested cesspit that was as likely to cause it to rot off as it was to get off. Solange did not know why Ziva didnât trust the fellow. He didnât seem like the whoring type, but watching him winge was enough to sell her on the premise.
âCastration, but thatâs only fun once,â said Solange with a dark chuckle.
âSo, are you here for one of the girls today?â asked Ziva.
âMyself, actually,â said Solange. She caught Zivaâs glance and stepped back with a mock hostility. âPlease, love, donât give me that look like Iâm an idiot, you know I can spot a social disease even before the belt is unbuckled.â
âI know you say that. So, what are you looking for then?â
Solange explained the situation of her trip without giving Ziva any ruinous details, and the woman presented several items to prepare for the most unfortunate of circumstances. A bit of back and forth later and Ziva was bundling up a package of inexpensive but proven medical supplies. She was about to tie it up with a ribbon when she looked up at Solange and said, âYou do have something to ward off the sailors, correct?â
âIf raising my prices arenât enough, I have also begun to win the affection of a very big and very violent Tork.â
âI am not speaking of your virtue. I am speaking about the drowned. Ghosts of dead sailors. Sunken ships rising out of the depths, sailed by skeletons and spirits, seeking souls to consume before the nightâs end. To go sailing without the proper equipment is suicide.â
âR-ridiculous,â said Solange, feeling a chill run down her spine. âIf such things exist why have I never heard about it?â
âSailors know not to speak of it; it is bad luck. Serves as a signal to the dead. Helps them find their ships. Even knowing it is dangerous.â
Ziva shrugged. âI thought you knew. But now you can prepare. Listen, Iâll tell you howâŠâ
Solange leaned in, listening intently as Ziva explained the necessary rituals to perform and items to prepare to fend off the spirits of the sea. By the time her explanation was done, Solangeâs bundle had doubled in size as it was packed with water blessed by holy disciples of Leathe and pounds of purified salt to ward and protect. The thank yous pouring from Solangeâs mouth were the most earnest words she had spoken in months, and the way her eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of her head as Ziva said that even these precautions might not be enough told the apothecary that she could fleece Solange for anything right about now. Ziva pulled a talisman out of her pocket, a black rope fastened around a piece of jade to make a bracelet. She held it out to Solange.
âWear this on your wrist. If you ever find yourself confronted by a spirit of the dead, extend your hand forward. The jade will do the rest. Here.â Solange reached forward as Ziva snapped the bracelet back. âThis is a one of a kind spirit stone that protects the living from the dead. Itâs incredible rare, worth over fifty gold, bââ
âHere!â Solange didnât even wait to hear the price drop Ziva was going to give her. Already, Vargasâs coin had swapped places with the coin and the bracelet was hanging from her left wrist.
âYou are a smart girl,â said Ziva, wide-eyed. She didnât even bother to protest. The gem wasnât even true jade, but serpentine stone. The rope tied around it was worth more. Ziva quickly wrapped up the rest of the transaction before Solange could give it a second thought, not that she would. Solange stared at the stone with awe as she shifted the bundle under her arm and found her next stop, purchasing a black leather cloak to keep her dry if she was even needed above deck during a storm.
Her final stop took her out of the black market and back to the legitimate storefront to stock up on general goods. She had also intended to seek out a book about the island of Gnok, either of some historical value or information on local flora. Solange instead found her nose in a book of maritime folklore and sea creatures called Faithless Fathoms: Living Below Leatheâs Light. She paid for the book, returned to the cart, and sat with her back to Nehâmiahâs barrel and the book opened on her lap to a chapter about the Sumek. She reached back and tapped the barrel.
For fruit to grow, a flowers pollen must be spread.
Solange maintained a polite smile as the Sheriff refused her offer, even though she had already begun to pour the poisoned coffee. It was a shame to have wasted such a special blend, but at least the man was leaving. She thought about making a smart comment about offering the man something more appetizing and a larger plate just to see if she could get him to sit down and drink her brew, but the last man sheâd done that to had hit her. Solange ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek where she had bit it and tasted the iron. Sometimes, it was better to let the game end early before a playmate got fussy.
It was difficult not to take a reflexive step back as the Sheriff pulled into her, but working for Fontaine had made her used to overly enthusiastic gentlemen failing to understand boundaries. Yet something told her that the Sheriff would delight in finding her afraid of him. Only two kinds of men would willingly throw away their dignity to represent something as broken as the law in this town: absolute imbeciles and complete monsters. The Sheriff didnât seem like a total idiot. So Solange fought the urge to stick a blade into the bit of scruff heâd missed near his jugular as the Sheriff sniffed at her like she was a freshly baked blackberry pie. Instead, she took that step back, sharply drew in her breath as he leaned down to her, and put her hand to her chest as if she were in shock while using it to act like a bustier. To top it all off, she turned her head sharply and looked away, stammering out like his patheticness was any bit of a surprise, âS-S-Sheriff!"
The performance was enough to make her own skin crawl, but Solange wondered if the bait would land as he pulled away and started pretending like he was a professional again. If he would be seeing her again real soon, she hoped heâd think that she was afraid of him, that she couldnât do anything to stop him, and that heâd feel empowered to get close enough for a shave he didnât want nor wouldnât see coming but certainly deserved. Still she had to respect him for not trying to make the law sound like anything more than threats. She curtsied as the Sheriff turned and made his exit, watching him navigate the tavern from the balcony, tiny splinters from the bannister pricking under her nails as they bit into the wood, relaxing only once she saw him leave.
She turned and snatched two tainted horns from where sheâd left it on the table and stormed down to the common room of the Faded Lantern, the clouds around her parting as her feet touched the landing as she reset her composure. She helped herself behind the bar, one glance shutting down the protest from the morning bartender, and fished out a funnel. Solange found a stool, searched through the secret pockets of her dress for carefully wrapped package of empty vials, and began to undo the padding. She was happy to see that her confrontation with Skartsat left the vials uncracked; he wouldâve found glass in his next breakfast otherwise.
Her back to a corner so that she could see the rest of the room, the front door especially, Solange set the funnel in the vial. She began to carefully pour herself a coffee to go, the other horn sitting on the edge of the counter close to her. Steam still rose from the rim, offering a tantalizing aroma of hazelnuts and cinnamon, begging to be consumed before Solange recycled it.
NOTICE: All information is considered confidential to the Federal Agency of Metahuman Affairs. Disclosure of information is subject to disciplinary actions up to imprisonment.
Accessing Personal Records...
Open Data for (Your character name Here): Y/N?
Y.
Opening file...
âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ âEver notice how the only people who donât deserve your respect are the same ones who always demand it?â
Ash Pierson
âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ âââB A S I C O V E R V I E Wâââ
PHYSICAL EVALUATION PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION BACKGROUND INFORMATION POWER EVALUATION OTHER INFORMATION
Accessing Physical Evaluation Processing...
âââP H Y S I C A L E V A L U A T I O Nâââ
"Weird how nailing the 'I woke up like this' vibe isn't quite the same thing as making everyone think you just woke up." âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⌠PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:
Ash always looks as if he has just pulled off an all-nighter, his blue eyes glazed over with dark bags underneath them. Dark stubble lightly peppers his face, hinting at a beard thatâd be too patchy to be worth growing out. His messy black hair is painstakingly styled to look like he couldnât give a shit about grabbing a comb and smoothing out the bedhead. The symmetry of his angular face is offset by a hooked nose that is slightly crooked, courtesy of one of the many times Ash let his mouth run free. Ash speaks with a calm, low voice that quickly degrades into a mumble when around people he doesnât fully trust. Ash is decently tall with a deceptively athletic and powerful build for someone who typically moves at a slothâs pace, with long, toned limbs and a somewhat slim frame. He stands with a relaxed, open posture, often staring out into space as if his attention is somewhere else entirely.
⌠ATTIRE:
He prefers to dress casually and favors the color black, typically wearing just a plain black tee, a dark pair of jeans, and some Chuck Taylorâs. The closest he gets to dressing up is throwing on a black button-up; anything fancier and he starts to squirm like a toddler being forced to dress up for Sunday service. Ash wears a black leather wrap bracelet on his left wrist and a black belt with silver studs, both well worn by time.
Accessing Psychological Evaluation Processing...
âââP S Y C H O L O G I C A L E V A L U A T I O Nâââ
"You donât have to be a good person, but if you arenât you need to stay out of the way." âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⌠PERSONALITY:
On first impression, Ash seems like a cool, level-headed guy incapable of getting phased by anything let alone giving a shit about it. Laidback and easy going, Ash would falsely identify himself as an introvert. While heâs a bit quiet he actually prefers being around other peopleâespecially if those people are loud, bright, or vibrantâand is quick to engage someone in a conversation. He doesnât take many things very seriously, can be a bit of a harmless prankster, and even when heâs trying to be supportive he finds it difficult not to crack a joke to ease the tension. His overall demeanor is quite cavalier and chill, which might be what makes it so jarring when people see Ash lose his cool for the first time.
Anger doesnât visit Ash quickly, but when it does it overstays its welcome. A firm believer in treating others how you want to be treated, Ash doubles down on the unsaid threat hiding behind the shine of the Golden Rule. Basically, if someone is acting like an asshole, Ash is going to show them what itâs like dealing with a real asshole. He intervenes without prompt, quick to challenge anyone who is being unnecessarily rude, violent, or abusive like heâs a champion of justice...or like heâs just any basic decent person who are unable to pretend like they didn't see something. Frustratingly for many, he also calls out people for minor offenses, startings fights over slights that most people would roll their eyes at, mumble under their breath, and move onâthings like cutting in front of others to join their friends in line, or parking in two spots, or not knowing what they wanted on their burrito when they got to the front of the queue.
Basically, he's just confrontational. Ashâs more of a troublemaker than he is the social hero he attempts to be, but fortunately heâs able to recognize this as long as one of his friends are around to tell him heâs being the bigger asshole by escalating. Ash doesnât want to be a burden on them, so he will drop something if they speak up. Unless heâs dealing with an authority figure. Then even the sincerest of pleas to just let it go fall on deaf ears. Ash is highly suspicious of anyone whoâd want to put themselves in a position of power, questions their intentions openly, and is hyper critical in his judgment of them. He rigidly believes that it isnât just limited to the absolute: any form of power will begin to corrupt a person as long as they arenât kept in check, although keeping a person in check itself gives an individual power. Really, he just doesn't like being told what to do.
Ash values honesty and transparency above all else, finding the harsh truth to be kinder and more comforting than trying to protect someoneâs feelings through white lies. In fact, he finds it exceptionally difficult to tell a lie and gets visibly uncomfortable when someone else doesnât tell the truth. Heâll attempt not to expose the lie if someone has entrusted him with a secret, but itâs clear by looking at his face that heâll feel guilty the entire time.
⌠SKILLS/TALENTS:
As the son of an instructor with her own studio, Ash is actually quite a talented dancer seeing as how he has attended class since he was five. Trained both in classical and modern styles, dancing has made him strong, flexible, and a smash hit at weddings. Inadvertently, dancing has also made Ash better in a scrap by making him more agile and light on his feet. Considering how many fights his mouth has gotten him in over the years, heâs started taking Muay Thai classes to better defend himself. Heâs still an amateur, but being an amateur is better than being totally defenseless.
Ash is also a damn good cook, specifically when it comes to baking treats or grilling out. He actually learned how to bake while being volunteered to help keep the Academyâs cafeteria clean after he (accidentally) caused a food fight.
Ash is an avid reader who crushes through books regularly, focusing more and more on nonfiction and philosophy as he has gotten older. Calling himself the best read dumb person he knows, Ash freely admits that his retention is garbage and as a student his grades barely coasted along the passable line.
Accessing Background Data Processing...
âââB A C K G R O U N D D A T Aâââ
âYou know, people go on trips to forget these kind of things and have fun. The future will be there sucking when I get back." âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⌠BACKSTORY:
Ash never had a choice. He was always part of the system. Even if he never developed powers he was considered a person of interest by FAMA. He had his dad to blame for that. He never met the man in his life, but where he is now can be directly linked to the man who sired him. Itâs almost kind of funny considering how much his dad would hate it.
Maria and Stephen Pierson, Ashâs adopted parents, had always been upfront about his father. Ash knew the man was a Deltahuman named Jackson Stone whoâd gone by the callsign Far Out Man whose power made it impossible for anything in the world to be out of his reach. He knew heâd worked for ALBATROSS and had stolen Delta-Crystals to sell on the blackmarket on the side for years. He knew that his father had only been caught because his birth mother Tiffany had reported him to the authorities after catching him exposing a baby Ash to a Delta-Crystal. He knew that his father was responsible for his motherâs death and that he was never, ever going to be released from prison.
So the first time Ash got a note from his birth father that simply said, âThey are lying to you. Love, Dadâ he thought it was some kind of sick prank pulled on him by one of his friends. Once lunchroom brawl and a phone call to his mother from the principal later and Ash was pulled from the tenth grade and taken to a FAMA blacksite where his adopted father worked. It was during the car ride that Ash felt a sharp pain in his neck. Reaching up, he found a syringe jammed into his jugular. He passed out almost immediately after touching the syringe. He was told later that it had been a power serum.
When he came to, Ash was informed by Stephen that his birth father had been broken out of prison. Ash and his adopted mom were kept under a protection program for nearly a year. During that time, Ash was harassed daily with notes from his birth father, all of them spinning elaborate conspiracies against FAMA and the government and totting Pro-Deltahuman propaganda. He heard things like how he hadnât been adopted, heâd been stolen. He was told things like how FAMA killed his birth mother and pinned the murder on his ârealâ dad. The notes were always one sentence and always signed Love, Dad. The serum also seemed to take effect during this time, granting Ash the powers that his father always wanted him to have. The notes only stopped appearing after his father was neutralized by MAVERICK.
Ash was enrolled in the Academy program sometime after and he tried to make it his new normal, ignoring the hell his life had been over the last year. He made friends, finished up the high school education heâd missed, and learned how to control his powers. He kept information about who his dad had been underwraps. He was informed by his adopted father that heâd be immediately enrolled in FLETC the summer after his graduation from the Academy. However, he couldnât shake the feeling that something was off. His suspicions were heightened between his second and third year at the Academy when a massive leak from BASILISK lined up with some of the conspiracy theories his father had been feeding him.
To this day Ash still isnât sure what is and isnât true about his family, but he's had enough questions go ignored by his parents that he cannot help but believe something is being covered up. He began phoning it in at the Academy, knowing that if he performed poorly he wouldnât be accepted to FLETC. He started to refer to himself as a proud test tube Delta. He stopped hiding who his real dad was, hoping someone would come out of the woodwork and tell him what really happened, but so far all it has earned him is the ire of the Academy staff. After getting in a particularly bad fight with another student that ended up with both of them getting injured, the Academy staff figured that Ash had not properly been given the tools to cope with the trauma induced by the harassment caused by his dad.
He was forced to sign-up for a weekly, hour-long group therapy session for students whose parents were criminal Deltahumans. The teacher in charge of the sessions was Sean Rosier. As per usual, Ash challenged him on just about anything, but Mr. Rosier never showed a sign of annoyance and always answered the boyâs probes to the best of his ability. Ash soon grew to trust Sean Rosier, seeing him as one of the few people in any position of power that he could express his doubts to without being seen as a rabble rouser. Ash was only required to attend the sessions for three months, but he continued going to them until Mr. Rosier vanished.
Graduation came and went. Ash packed for the cross-country trip heâd planned with his friends to, in his words, celebrate their escape from the system. The acceptance letter for an application he hadnât submitted to FLETC arrived for him a few days before they left. He called his adopted dad, demanding to know what was going on. Stephen told Ash that he had to pull a few strings, but they were able to get a few incidents scrubbed from his permanent record that wouldâve kept him from applying. He then said have a great summer and hung up before Ash had a chance to reply.
He wasnât getting out of the system after all.
Accessing Power Evaluation Processing...
âââP O W E R E V A L U A T I O Nâââ
âI really donât think any of you realize how much of a struggle it is for me to not just constantly be sticking peopleâs pants to their chairs." âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⌠CLASSIFICATION:
White
⌠POWER INFORMATION:
Unification & Separation â«» Ash can instantly remove the space between two things and make them become one. Among many other things, cause shoes or tires to stick to concrete, put a phone on the wall and have it be held in place, break a bottle and attach all the glass to a baseball bat, or cause a computer to overheat by stopping the fan by binding the blades to the frame of the cooling unit. As long as something can feasibly touch another thing, Ash is able to bind them together. Once the space is removed the two items are permanently held together until Ash uses his powers to separate them. His power is only activated to unify or separate items, so he could feasibly use his ability to daisy chain a countless number of things together to create makeshift ladders, extension bridges, or those really abstract art sculptures found outside of modern museums as long as he took the time.
To unify two objects Ash must be able to see one of them and feasibly know that the other one exists. For example, he could unify a holster he could see to a gun he couldnât because it made sense for there to be a gun in it, whereas he wouldnât be able to unify a purse to the gun hiding inside of it unless he saw the person put the gun in it. However, Ash can only separate two unified objects by touching one of them. If he daisy chains multiple items together heâll still have to separate each individual piece from the last one in the chain.
When unifying one thing that is in motion with another thing that isnât then the thing that is in motion will always stop instantly, so a car will get stuck to the highway. If he unifies two things in motion then whichever item is moving fast will determine the direction and momentum, so a car going sixty unifying with a car going twenty as it is about to crash into the side of it will continue going sixty. With more complex constructs Ash can target either the whole, like the car, or an individual part, like the left front tire.
⌠LIMITS:
As previously mentioned, Ash must be able to see an object to use his power on it. However, it cannot be an object he witnesses on a screen, even if that screen is of a live feed with no delay. While he is able to rapidly unify pairs of objects together, he cannot affect all groups of pairs at once. His power instead follows a kind of work-order, averaging about one second per pair. His power is fairly low impact, but it isnât infinite. He can keep a slow, steady pace up for hours, but a few moments of intense, rapid bursts could leave him tapped for several minutes.
Objects he unifies together will still function the way they are intended if it is possible, so while the gun stuck in a holster couldnât fire because the trigger couldnât be accessed, the one inside of a purse could still shoot through the material. As well, objects donât change their normal properties and they follow a logic. Putting a large, dense item like an anvil on top of a small, fragile item like a teacup will still cause the anvil to smash the teacup but still have the shards attached to it. Therefore, while Ash could theoretically create complex things like ladders, extension bridges, and abstract art sculptures they would still need to be structurally sound to actually hold up.
Ashâs power cannot be used to remove the space between living things, although his power does push microorganisms out of the way. Things must be within less than an eighth of an inch of one another for Ash to unify them together. Any larger gaps make it impossible for his power to work.
⌠WEAKNESSES:
Be it mundane or fantastical, anything that limits or robs Ash of his sight ends almost all of his access to his power. The other fastest way to counter Ashâs power is by making items play keep away, either through some kind of telekinesis or other similar power, or even just by simply carrying an item with your hands.
As well, his power is extremely limited in natural environments, as even the sliver of a living thing getting between two items will make it impossible to be unified. Even his favorite trick of unifying shoes to the ground to trip people up doesnât work well in nature because grass straight up stops it and dirt, pebbles, and sand get bound only a little bit at a time. If he is able to use his power, most unified objects can easily be broken apart or smashed to pieces. Their strength solely depends on the durability of that item. Fusing a door to its frame may secure a room, but if that door is wooden and there is a deltahuman with termite breath or a fire axe then Ash might as well not even bother.
Appearance: Win stands tall at six foot three, his meaty forearms folded over his broad chest, his formerly ripped gut sucked in to hide the fact that heâs had less time to hit the gym these days. He is African-American with dark brown skin and big, expressive eyes that are of a lighter shade of brown. His black, curly hair is styled in short dreads with a fade, while grays have begun to invade his short, neatly trimmed beard. Win has a crooked smile with deep dimples that heâs quick to flash. There is a small scar underneath his left eye whose story he always promises to tell another time but never delivers, and the hint of the start of a burn scar on his chest peeking out from the collar of his shirt whose story he claims nobody would ever believe. The fourth and fifth finger on his left hand are stumps ending just below mid-knuckle.
Win dresses well, but his wardrobe is limitedâthe only difference between his casual weekend outfit and his work outfit is he untucks on the weekend. Otherwise, itâs dress shoes with some orthopedic inserts, neutral chinos, and pastel button-downs with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Win has only worn a suit jacket once and that was at his wedding. He wonât even wear a winter coat unless itâd be suicidal to go outside without one. A heavy hand with the cologne leaves a thick smell of sandalwood lingering wherever Win goes, bordering upon violating the Geneva Protocol for chemical warfare.
Personality: Win is a survivor forever stuck in a limbo between deciding if heâs just stupidly lucky, extremely determined, or, as his wife once put it, stupidly determined. A Chicago native turned soldier, he doesnât let the guilt of outlasting friends whoâd died in the streets or overseas bring him down. Instead, he chooses that always unbearable path of the warm and bright optimist, saying such cliche things like how heâd live life to the fullest because anything else would be disrespectful to those he lost. In his five years at PHI there have been plenty of times where he has spoken up in disagreement, but nobody can recall a time he has complained simply to complain. He doesnât even stress in bumper to bumper traffic.
Humble, generous, and understanding with a dangerous sense of justice and responsibility, Win is a dedicated family manâand he considers his coworkers family. Win is the kind of guy whoâd invite a coworker over for dinner with his wife and two kids before ever even getting a drink with them afterwork. Heâs also the guy at the bar whoâd step in to stop a fight or the guardian angel whoâd dive in front of a bullet, claw, or an extremely garlicky slice of artisanal pizza to protect their partner while out on an investigation.
While he has his lightbulb moments, Winâs more thoughtful and wise than he is analytical and strategic. In the field heâs happy to let others take the lead while offering advice or pointing out flaws where he sees fit, but he usually wonât push against an idea he only somewhat disagrees with. However, there are some things he wonât do. Heâs sensible, but heâs not a sucker. If a plan crosses the line heâll put his foot down or break it off in someoneâs ass if he must. Winâs a survivor after all, but there are some thingsâbetraying family, abandoning a friendâthat he just wouldnât be able to live with.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: Even if Win has lost his six pack in favor of sneaking his sonâs Snack Pack, heâs still immensely strong for a normal, non-magical human being and shockingly quick and agile for a man of his size. A former Marine Raider trained in CQC backed up by wilding teen years of street fighting, Win is a lightning fast striker whose punches hit like miniature wrecking balls. He can take it even harder than his guns can dish it, and almost always finds a way to stay on his feet until a fight is done. He still spars in a ring at a gym in his limited spare time, but generally punishes the punching bag in his basement more often than not.
Of course when youâre hunting things that have massive maws that can tear a man in two, six needle-like arms that can quickly swiss cheese a torso, or a living embodiment of fire getting up close and personal generally isnât the best call, even if he does switch out the punches for lethal stabs with a silvered tactical knife. Win was the designated marksman for his squad back in the day, and his shot hasnât dropped a bit. Favoring big game hunting rifles and backing it up with wrist snapping, high caliber revolvers, Win aims to stop most hostile things that go bump in the night with just one loud bang. He once jokingly asked Morgan to see if there was room in the budget for a flamethrower so he could get over his fear of fire, except the look of defeat on his face when she told them they needed a new printer first was evidence enough that he was only half-kidding.
He doesnât pretend to be the supernatural expert or the tactical genius, but heâs extremely organized and attentive while out in the field. When needed he offers overwatch from a vantage point, runs the radio check-ins, keeps track of the other investigators, and offers to sit, comfort, and interview any victims or witnesses while the others investigate the area. In the office, Win naturally falls into the role of a mediator or counselorâthings can get heated between people in the field and egos tend to swell once you learn how to cast spells, but Win always manages to let someone know they're being a shithead without hurting their feelings. He also makes the best coffee and knows how everyone takes theirs.
Otherwise, Win is a devoted husband to a demonologist, blogger, self-published author, and occasional PHI consultant named Lily, loving father to his seven-year-old son Sam and four-year-old daughter Lucy. Win is also an avid gardener, a crossword puzzle addict, a live jazz fan, and somehow slowly turning into one of those old guys who goes to the park to play chess despite never winning a single damn game. Win got rid of the old Skee-ball machine taking up a parking spot in the garage that he got from a friend who knew a guy after his Lily said that it was really alarming how much effort he was putting in to beating a child at a stupid arcade game. He now tries to get everyone over to the Air Hockey table. He crushes it at Air Hockey.
Background:
The knife flashed forward, milky white liquid dripping from the fresh cuts as it slashed through the body again and again and again. There was the sound of something snapping, followed by a crunch, crunch, crunch as the cutting ruthlessly continued. The voice of Smokey Robinson softly sang through a tinny phone speaker, doing little to mask the sniffling of an adult man crying. Win pulled the bottom of his apron up to his eyes and wiped away the tears. Damn onions always got to him. He scraped the diced onions and chopped celery into a bowl, and then started working on the carrots. A rogue hand shot out from behind him and snatched up a carrot, treading dangerously close to his careful cuts.
âFor real, Lily?You know how that freaks mâ!â
âShh, I just got Sam down. Try this.â
Win glanced at the glass of white wine Lily was offering him, her dark eyes shining with expectation and a hint of playful mischievousness. The tension in his shoulders loosened as he took the glass, noticing a bit of her black lipstick on the rim of the glass. He closed his eyes, took a sip, and held it in his mouth as he felt his taste buds turn against each other and kill themselves off. He opened one eye to stare Lily down as he put his mouth back to the glass and spit the wine out. He could see the corner of her large smile appearing at the edge of the hand that was covering his mouth. Heâd been with Lily for nearly six years, married to her for three years, the father of her son for two of them, and still he found himself surprised by what a little troll she could be.
âYour face! Oh god, you look so disappointed,â she said with a snort.
âWas that cooking wine?â asked Win, wiping his lip as he coughed.
âYou didnât even smell it first!â said Lily, her voice turning into a squeal as she struggled to properly breath.
âIt was some kind of wine right? Lily?â Win watched in horror as his wife stumbled out of the kitchen, holding her sides. He craned his neck around the corner. âLily, that was wine, right?â
âHold on. Let me grab the bottle.â
Win shook his head and chuckled to himself. âTry thisâ had been the first thing Lily had ever said to him when they met at a mutual friendâs house party. Normally Win stuck to the creed of not taking random red solo cups from strangers dressed like mall goths, but normally strangers dressed like mall goths werenât also pretty Indian girls so he took the risk. He woke up the following morning next to a toilet. He said he was honestly surprised he was able to remember her when they ran into one another at an occult bookstore after he'd been discharged from the Marines. Sheâd said she was honestly surprised that he read about Middle Eastern demonology, let alone that he was a reader at all. Sheâd always been quick to play the role of the jerk. Itâs one of the things he loved about her.
âTa-da!â said Lily, whipping out a bottle of fernet from behind her back as she returned. âItâs pretty terrible, isnât it? Silvia gave it to me as a gift for agreeing to do a book signing at her store.â
âI thought Silvia liked you,â said Win, finishing up the vegetables.
âI think she knew Iâd give it to you.â
âI thought Silvia liked me,â he muttered.
âShe does. She just likes me more,â said Lily, trying another sip of the fernet. âItâs kind of refreshing in a weird way. Iâll give you the bottle of the good stuff after you nail your interview tomorrow. You nervous at all?â
âKnowing your definition of âthe good stuffâ I am now,â said Win. âActually, I was hoping you could run me some dummy interview questions and tell me if any of my answers sound stupid.â
âSure. Telling you what is and isnât stupid is my job, after all.â
âMhm, itâs why I keep you around.â
He took the bowl filled with the holy trinity of veggies and set it next to the gas stove, opened the window to vent the smoke as a gust of cool fall air rustled the curtains, and flicked on the pilot to the frustrating sound of a clicka-clicka-click as it didnât catch. Win groaned, turned the knob again, and was met with the same sound. It looks like Romantic Dinner Night might turn into Pizza Night. He flicked it again as Lily spoke up, âHey, give it aâŠâ Third timeâs theâwhoosh! The pilot came to life and it caught the gas, creating an impressive ball of fire that leapt up before Winâs eyes. The knife clattered to the floor as Win stepped back, the cool Chicago air vaporized with the rest of his apartment as flames consumed all he could see.
Win felt himself become soaked in sweat as the desert air wrapped around him, sand blasting against his goggles as it crept past the folds in his handkerchief and sizzled against his skin like hot, tiny coals. The harsh sun had completely disappeared in the sudden sandstorm thatâd swallowed up his team, the radios crackling with static interference that was drowned out by the sound of a loud roar like a jet engine except it sounded wrong. Less mechanical, more organic. Win didnât even have the chance to consider how ridiculous of a thought that was as a wall of flame erupted out in front of him. He fell to the ground and covered his face as the blowing sand turned into lacerating bits of glass.
He heard the Raiders around him screaming, grown men crying out horrifically. Somebody called for a retreat. The wind carried the smell of burning flesh like overcooked bacon as Win heard the beating of wings. Win struggled to his feet and started running, unable to see more than a dozen feet in front of him through the sandstorm. He tripped over something and fell prone, looking back to see the crisp corpse of a Marine. He made himself stand up. Another roar, another blast of fire. A few more feet closer and he wouldâve been roasted alive by it. Instead, his vest caught flames as a wall of black glass erupted out from the sand. He ripped it off quickly and chucked it away before the ammunition caught, rolling on the ground to put out his shirt.
He heard Sergeant Andrews screaming orders through the storm. The boys used to make fun of how damn loud he was; now it was a godsend. Win rushed off in that direction, grabbing a fellow soldier who was struggling to find footing up out of the sand and offering him a shoulder. He saw the Sergeant through the storm seconds before a massive black shadow flew down on Andrews so quickly that Win only really saw the black, serpentine tail as the orders stopped coming before the sand flew up to block his vision. Fear overtook the soldier on his shoulder, who shoved free of Win and ran back. Win closed his eyes and breathed deeply, ignoring the smell, ignoring the screams. Panicking would only get him killed. He had to remain calm, he had to remain calm. Win opened his eyes, the flames rolling towards him, fire all he could see. He felt a hand touch his own and pull.
âHey, are you alright?â asked Lily, pulling her husband back from the past, her eyebrows knitted deeply with concern. The oil in the pan had begun to smoke before sheâd turned the gas off.
âYeah,â said Win, blinking away the look of sheer terror on his face as he saw his apartment again. Lily narrowed her eyes at him. He sighed deeply and leaned against the counter, pulling her into his arms. She hated when he tried to be tough and lied to her, so he didnât. âNo. No, Iâm not, but I will be. Just give me a second.â
âWe really need a better stove,â she whispered after his sobbing stopped.
âWe need a better apartment,â said Win, letting Lily go so she could take over making dinner. She waited until heâd turned to walk to the barstool before switching on the gas.
âWait, you donât want to raise our son in a one-bedroom, roach-infested shithole?â she said, smiling over her shoulder as she popped another piece of carrot in her mouth.
âA second bedroom would be nice,â he said.
âA second bedroom would be nice, which means you need to nail this interview. What kind of questions do you think theyâre gonna ask you at Church and Hawthorne?â she asked.
âPriest and Hawthorne,â he corrected. Lily poured the veggies into the pan. Win winced as they sizzled and popped like Marines in the desert. He reached for the glass of fernet, took a sip of it that made his face sour but his shoulders relaxed, and added a bit more to the glass. Lily was right. It was refreshing in a strange kind of way. It drove out the phantom scent of burnt bodies. âAnd I donât really know. Youâre the paranormal expert, miss author, not me.â
âHmm. Okay, Mr. Coates. Do you believe in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, teleââ
âCâmon, ask me a real one.â
âFine. During an investigation, you come toe to toe with a giant, man-eating spider. How would you handle it?â she said.
âLily, I think the jobâs more about going to a personâs house and telling them the ghosts theyâre seeing is really a carbon monoxide leak than hunting down made up monsters.â
âDo you not believe in monsters, Mr. Coates? Have you never heard of a tulpa?â
Win sighed. After what he saw, of course he did. âA tulpa is a paranormal manifestation of an entity brought upon by a strong enough belief in said entity. Assuming such a thing is possible, then there are definitely enough people who are afraid of giant spiders that one could potentially be born as a tulpa. As for how I would handle it, that would depend on company protocol. If we were to capture it, I would do everything in my power to do so, unless I found the entity a threat to either the wellbeing of our contact or our team, in which case I would then neutralize the threat.â
âAwww, someoneâs been reading my blog,â said Lily.
âEvery post. But câmon, a giant spider?â Win snorted and took another drink. âReally? Hit me with another question. One theyâd actually ask this time...â
Lies aren't needed when others make the excuse for you.
âWe must run in different circles, honey. All I ever heard about the Sheriff was that he was a man of strange taste and disappointing stamina,â said Solange with a half-smile that faded quickly as Noraâs icy stare flashed like a dagger from Skarsat over to her. The redhead stood up straight and cupped her hands together to stand like a proper, professional young lady with no hint of irony in her disposition. She nodded in acknowledgment to Noraâs departing statement, Solangeâs tongue twisting in her mouth as she swallowed the desire to return the Zherpanian saying with a similar one sheâd heard uttered by the followers of Voiâsomething about making water once the passions cooled. Neither, she realized, would be advice that would need to be followed at this moment.
âAny disputes? Darling, can you believe Miss Sunshine thought we were having a...darling?â Solange craned her neck to search for Skarsat, but her plaything had already slipped away. She exchanged a glance with Sheri and smiled sweetly. âLetâs head to the kitchen. After you.â
Solange had the misfortune of dealing with Sheri before, whoâd taken it upon herself to explain the lives of every member of the staff to Solange like some kind of proud, doting mother. It amazed Solange how Sheri was able to know so much about the others, considering she never took a single moment to let someone else get a word in. However, seemingly the stress of dealing with the Sheriff was enough to silence the suffocating gossip who, much to Solangeâs relief, fretted with her frock more than anything. Sheri held the swinging door to the kitchen open for Solange, who stepped through after telling the woman to wait outside.
The kitchen of the Faded Lantern was normally well organized but currently in complete disarray due to the prep done to provide the would-be treasure hunters with a bountiful feast that now would go unenjoyed by half of their party. Solange eyed a tower of dirty dishes, her tongue pressing into her bruised cheek as she fought the urge to send them cascading to the ground, porcelain shattering everywhere and ruining the day of some young kitchenhand whoâd be forced to scrub it all up. Perhaps if the floors werenât already dirty the temptation would be too much for her.
She peeled herself away and found what sheâd come looking for: an iron kettle filled with black, muddy coffee. Its bitter flavor would do well to mask the taste of the leaves of iris that Solange had squirreled away for a day when her sister had deeply annoyed her. She pulled the leaves out of her tiny herb pouch, casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure that none of that staff was poking their head around. Grabbing a bowl and a wooden spoon from the pile of dirty dishes, Solange pulverized the leaves until they made a fine paste, loosened it upon with a bit of water, and mixed it in with the coffee. It might add a bit of grit to the brew, but itâd be difficult to differentiate between it and loose coffee grounds.
The poison wasnât lethalâkilling her sister was out of the question, and killing the Sheriff would be bad for the local businessesâbut it would ruin the better part of the morning by keeping him contained to the loo. Most likely the Sheriff would reason that the cooking was bad or that he had too much to drink the night before and not even consider that someone would dose him. She stashed her makeshift mortar and pestle in with the rest of the dishes and grabbed the wooden handle of the kettle. Popping out of the kitchen, she nodded to Sheri and followed the womanâs gaze up to the balcony. Her nose wrinkled as she caught sight of Sheriff Gerranti gesturing with a piece of bacon to one of the guards seated with him.
Solange adjusted her dress and sashayed her way up to the pig trough. She heard a bark of laughter and paused outside of the sliding door, taking a moment to come up with a story. Nerves steeled and a phony smile painted on her face, Solange pulled on the handle and found three men with crumbs on their lips staring at her. She stepped gracefully through the threshold with her chin high, casting a quick glance at the two nobodies before focusing her gaze upon the Sheriff. Normally sheâd move to a spot where she could have her eyes on the door, but she needed to be able to see the main hall.
âGentleman, I am so pleased our staff saw fit to serve you breakfast after my partner so quickly turned you away the other night. It is always so wonderful to see them take ownership, especially when it comes to taking care of a respectable man of the law. My name is Solange Belgard, Lord Vargasâs new business partner. Sheri took it upon herself to inform me of everything. Iâm afraid weâd be here well past supper if we were to wait for Lord Vargas, but I may answer what questions you have in his stead. However, before thatâŠâ She placed her hand on the back of an empty chair and leaned forward, squeezing her chest up as she raised the tainted kettle, her blue eyes narrowing. â...who needs more coffee?â
Solange moved a hand up to wipe the blood from her lip and kept it there to cover her grin as Skarsat let loose. What he called foolish arrogance she viewed as confidence. Still, it wasnât the first nor would it be the last time a man viewed her own self-assurance as something that threatened their standing. Sheâd hope that Skarsat wasnât quite the simpleton he appeared to be, but sometimes the simplest solution was the right one. There were only two reasons for a man to ever get so upset at a woman for, as far as she was capable of seeing it (as Solange was incapable of ever seeing her own faults), nothing more than a little teasing.
The first reason she thought of was that Skarsat hated women. Yet while he had undermined Nora by striking Solange, there wasnât enough evidence beyond that. He solely seemed to hate Solange and Solange only. Thus the second reason became the only reason, and it brought so much joy to Solange that her hand could no longer hide her bloody smile. Skarsat had a crush on her, and like a young boy pushing a girl he liked into the mud he was confounded by his feelings and could only express them through sheer aggression. Goodness, she couldnât wait to be stuck on a ship with him! How fun it would be to break his oversized heart.
âSweetheart, with how tall you are I fear the reason some of you arrows may miss is because you are simply firing over your targetâs head. With all of your experience, it confuses me as to why I must be the one to tell you that maybe you just have to aim lower,â she said, her eyes catching his foot tracing the ground towards her skirt. As Skarsat turned to move away from her as well as wallop her with a sharp kick, Solange deftly stepped over his foot and moved out of the chair as she joined him at his side. In stark contrast to her advice to him, he really shouldâve aimed higher. She dragged a sharp finger down the side of his arm, leaving a faint trail of her own blood, and whispered, âDo you believe Iâm afraid of others hating me? There's no difference between being loved or being hated. Either way, I'm the only thing they can ever think about.â
Solange moved quickly out of his reach, cast one glance back at Skarsat as Sheri entered the room to ask for Percy, and then Solange pretended to be more interested in plucking a plum from the table than avoiding a smack that would surely come if her touch lingered for another second. She spun around to lean against the table, set the uneaten plum down, and pulled out a compact mirror and a handkerchief. She glared at the bruise forming on her cheek, and then wiped the ruined lipstick and blood from her mouth.
âPercival is doing his job. Itâs one of the admirable things about him,â said Solange. Percival had a knack about giving himself deniability, knowing the less he saw the better his day went. Heâd slipped out the moment the room had turned hostile. She looked towards Skarsat who was supposed to be waking Nehâmiah with the man but held her tongue. Voi mustâve been playing a game with them. If everyone had been even a bit more timely, they probably wouldâve walked right into the Sheriff while leaving the tavern. Solange just worried as she twisted the ring on her finger that the goddess wasnât done twisting fateâs thread yet this morning. She tilted her head towards Nora.
âDarling, you said yourself that Vargas wants everyone on that ship, and none of us would dare disappoint the Lord, â said Solange as she began to touch up the bruise on her cheek with makeup. âI doubt I could knock as loudly as our Tork friend or cool the passion between two lovers as quickly as you, but if you would like I could return with dear Sheri here and help ensure that the only thing the Sheriff and his men get this morning is a free meal. Alternatively, I can meet you all at the ship. Itâd give me plenty of time to turn what wouldâve been poor Nehâmiahâs cabin into a drawing room.â
For the briefest of moments, Solange thought that perhaps Skarsat was actually comforting her. She wiped away the traitorous tears with a flick of her finger and looked up to meet his gaze as he lowered himself to be almost face to face with her. She tried to muster up a flirty smile that faltered and slipped away through the floorboards as his words mocked her own. Solange caught a look in his eyes. Violent men wasnât something she dealt with often while working for Fontaine thanks to the protection she offered through the reputation of her enforcer alone, but there had been one altercation with a man from her hometown who happened to stop by the brothel. Unlucky that she was working that night, really. What were the odds? His eyes were forever burned into her mind. Skarsatâs eyes didnât look so different.
If she went back the momentum would take her to the ground, so she ducked forward instead. If Solange was quick, Skarsatâs hand would run through the waves of her hair and she could try to weasel out from under his arm. She wasnât quick enough. The smack echoed throughout the room as his hand smacked across Solangeâs cheek so hard that if not for his other hand to catch her she wouldâve been knocked from the chair by the momentum of her head whipping. She bit down on her lip so hard that it bled; her pained scream twisted in her mouth and morphed into a defeated chuckle.
She squirmed in her seat and looked away from Skarsat, half her face covered by her hair where it had been knocked once heâd hit her, her cheek already changing like a chameleon to match itâs reddish tone. A tear from her eyes lost a race to her chin against a droplet of blood from her lip. It was strange, but he didnât frighten her as much as Nora. Once the threat of violence was gone and all that remained was the pain it wasnât so bad. Pain was a dear, old friend.
âThank you, love. I was being hysterical,â she said softly, the same defeated tone sheâd given to Nora just moments ago. However, unlike with the bandit woman she looked up at Skarsat, a shimmer in her eyes that wasnât the tears. There was a certainty to her that shouldnât have been there, an undeserved sense that she was coming out of this exchange on top. Striking her would have consequences, even if not immediate. She smiled at him, her teeth stained red with blood and lipstick. âNow, would you like to continue telling me about how Iâm the one imagining putting you to my breast like a suckling babe, or is mommyâs big boy going to wake up Nehâmiah like he was told?â
The childish giggling became a nervous chuckle and then died quietly, snuffed out by Noraâs shadow that now loomed over Solange. Eyes widening, Solange adjusted herself against the legs of the chair so that, if needed, she could easily bolt under the table and out the door. She was clever enough to realize that a mistake had been made, but too immature to accept that sheâd been the one to make it. Vargas was to blame, then, having hired a woman incapable of being the butt of a joke. The late sleepers deserved a thrashing as well. If not for their irresponsibility, Solange wouldnât be here, on the ground, wincing.
A sound of surprise like a mouse being pounced upon by an alleycat squeaked out of Solangeâs lips as Nora dug a finger into her shoulder. She felt her body seize up as if sheâd just stepped into an ice bath. She stopped fidgeting, although she drew her right leg up towards herself as her eyes jumped from Noraâs darkening stare to the womanâs fingers settling upon one of her blades. Solangeâs right hand slid from her lap and came to a rest on the floor as she began to do some bloody calculations behind the fear in her eyes.
Unless Skarsat intervened, Nora could easily see her dead, yet if Solange saw the flash of steel she might be able to clip through Noraâs heel with her own dagger. Solange would be dead, but Noraâs career would be killed if the injury crippled. Perhaps she could live out the rest of her days working for Fontaine instead. Judging by her tone on the word harlot, sheâd love it. The image of Nora painting her face and dressing in lace was almost enough to inspire Solange to make the move first. Her hand pressed against the fabric of her dress, but didnât slip under it yet. Noraâs bitter laugh smacked a bit of sense back into Solange. Strangely, Solange found Noraâs commitment to her duty admirable even as it was leveled against her. The threat of butchery didnât terrify Solange nearly as much as the promise of her being kept for Vargas. If it came to thatâit wouldnât, she was sure.
Solange pulled her hand back away from her dress and lifted herself up into her seat. Her head hung in silent dejection for a moment. She knew she should put on a brave face, swallow her pride, and, even though she clearly did no wrong, apologize and diffuse the situation, spinning it into a thread she could pull at later. It would be the clever thing to do, but even if she were clever her damned luck would see her fail. It always did.
âI understand,â she said with a choke, looking down at her hands. A teardrop leapt from her eye and splattered violently on the back of her hand. Solange stared at it in horror, sniffled, and dug her nails into her thighs. Once Skarsat and Nora left sheâd be able to quickly recollect herself and smother her embarrassment, but for now her shoulders shook. She felt utterly pathetic. She couldnât even bring herself to meet Noraâs eyes. âWake the others. Neither of us wants to disappoint Lord Vargas.â
With her back turned to the Tork, Solange could only pray that her body was blocking his view of the grape that sheâd just plucked pop between her fingers as he asked her if sheâd ever tried being silent. His words had cracked open her shell and poured salt onto her exposed skin, her face shriveling into a horrid expression of contempt as she milled the guts of the grape between her thumb and forefinger and imagined it was something of more personal value to Skarsat. Her shoulders tensed as she turned her head to look over them, her eyes narrow like the arrowslit of a fortress under siege, a deadly look nocked and ready to be fired. Solange saw the smile, her shoulders relaxed, and the standoff ended without bloodshed as she shook her head and chuckled.
âAbsolutely incredible, truly, absolutely incredible. You nearly got it on your first guess. So close,â said Solange with a wag of her finger. Using two hands and a bit of willpower she grabbed the large plateâa serving platter, reallyâand gently handed it to Skarsat without spilling any of the contents on him. âOnly I said it was one of the three best things I gave, darling. Shut up and feed me?â Solange rolled her eyes yet maintained a playful smile. âThose would qualify as two of the things men most commonly demanded of me, with the third thing being for me to lie to them about how amazingly, wonderfully, unbelievably and incredibly bigââ
At that moment Nora walked in and Solange briefly stopped talking, which mustâve been much to Skarsatâs relief. Solange tried to return Noraâs cold nod with a warm smile, but she couldnât control her eyebrow from raising in a look of curious amusement as Solange wondered how it was possible for Nora to look so annoyed so early in the morning. Solange glanced down at the feast, got up from where she was leaning against the table, and gave Skarsat a wink, mouthed âfunâs overâ, and said, âCan you believe it, love? They gave us this wonderful fruit yet forgot the key ingredient to make sangria. I doubt either of us would have much hope of actually enjoying this meal without it.â
Solangeâs exit was quick but not without grace, and she returned partway into Noraâs conversation with Percival, a glass of wine in her hand. One glass, specifically. Skarsat was a big man and sheâd already played serving girl for him once already, so he could get his own damn drink. Solange hated not being up to date on the latest gossip, so she used the opportunity of crushing randomly chosen citrus into her glass and calling it breakfast as an excuse to listen in on Noraâs conversation. Nehâmiah sleeping in late? How scandalous! Solange yawned and was about to tune out. She was glad she didnât.
âI will attend to our two other lost colleagues. The hour is too late for lazy depravity, we have much to do before we set sail, and precious little time for foolishness such as this. I know where Y'Vanna hides, I know her many vices, and I know how to handle her when she had her fun."
âSweetie, if I didnât know any better Iâd be so bold as to say that youâre jealous,â cooed Solange, her hair twisted into a tight coil around a finger, her eyes joyfully dissecting Nora. âIf itâll help ice your bruise, I didnât get an invitation either. Lucky me, really. I wouldâve hated to break their hearts about as much as I wouldâve hated for Lord Vargas to then break their necks. Oh, but Iâm sure thereâs a good reason for you not being propositioned asâŠâ
Wait, that annoyed look earlier now made so much more sense. Solangeâs cheeks puffed out and her eyes crackled with a mischievous energy. No amount of contouring and lipstick, no number of revealing dresses and risque poses, and no utterance of suggestive sentences and flirty winks could prevent the image of a young, immature brat breaking through the mask of a seasoned seductress as Solange lifted her finger, pointed it at Nora, and squealed with delight as the pieces perfectly clicked together.
âNo, fuck me dead! You are jealous! Like, jealous-jealous!â Solange cackled. She fell back into a chair, head back, hand on her forehead, and sunk low. Her accent slipped from its affected poshness sheâd learned at the brothel and slammed back into her small hamlet accent referred to by the girls of the house as âbitch bumpkinâ as she continued to howl with laughter, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks that were turning the shade of her hair. âPiss on the treasure, this is gold. Now have ya known her or didja wanna know her? Howâs it feel, knowing that salty son of a whoreâs probably knowing her right now?â
The mad laughter cut to a halt as Solange, who'd laughed herself so hard she'd slid out of the chair and was practically sitting on the floor, looked up at Nora with delight. "Ooh, that why you're in such a hurry then? Gonna ruin their good time, or didja plan on jumping in with hopes to expedite that their depravity? Hear that, big guy? You get to kiss sleeping beauty and she gets the orgy. Hardly a fair trade."