Ducksworth

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

The door shattered inward with a deafening crack, wood splintering and hinges screeching in protest as a wall of bodies surged through. Emrys jerked back in fright, heart lurching into his throat. The air changed, thickened with the sudden stink of wet fur, iron, and something older and animal beneath it all, a musk that bypassed language and went straight to instinct.

One of the intruders peeled off without breaking stride. He was thick-necked and feral-eyed. With a howl of motion, he slammed his bat into the television. The screen burst, shower of sparks, broken glass, and static squealing before it collapsed in ruin across the floorboards. The violence was casual, almost gleeful. The sound made Emrys flinch again, his head whipping toward it.

And that was when they took Quill. He barely registered the net, just a blur of motion, a shout, the sudden void where the bird had been. The net snapped shut, cinched tight by thick fingers. Quill’s screech split the air, furious and frightened, before vanishing behind a wall of leather and motion.

“Quill!” Emrys shouted, instinct yanking him forward. His hand reached, half-lifted, but it was like grabbing smoke. The weight of his own uselessness struck hard. No fire, no strength, not even a ward to hold the line. The apartment that had been his safe space now felt like a cage, and he was the one locked inside it. The thief was already gone, retreating through the crowd with practiced ease.

“Let him go,” Emrys said, voice sharp and dry in his throat. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a plea either. It was the only thing he could say that didn’t feel like crumbling.

He froze as the rest of them closed in. Heavy boots scuffed across wood. Chains clinked, one dragging across the floor with an ugly, dull scrape. Eyes gleamed, some smiled, and some licked their lips. Emrys couldn’t tell if it was for show, or if they simply didn’t know how not to look like predators anymore.

The stink was overpowering now. Sweat, breath, leather soaked in blood and rain. One of them sniffed at him, actually sniffed, with a sound too wet, too canine to be mistaken for anything else.

The largest of them stepped forward. The leader, most likely. A titan in a threadbare Hawaiian shirt stretched tight over a barrel chest. His beard looked like it had been grown for war. Eyes like dull coals locked on Emrys with dispassionate focus. He didn’t bare his teeth, didn’t growl. He didn’t have to. He slapped the bat into his palm with a hollow thud.

“We need you to do us a favour…”

Emrys didn’t speak. He stood there, fists weakly clenched, staring at the spot where Quill had been. The chalk dust still clung to his palms. All his effort, his circles, his trying… Nothing, now.

If this was the only way forward, if it meant getting Quill back, then fine. He wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t beg. All he could do was try.

Synopsis

Emrys watches helplessly as Werewolves shatter his home, kidnap his familiar, and force him into a choice he's not ready to make.

The Golden age of Piracy

Two Irish Anne's aboard? Isn't that going to be the cause of a lot of confusion? @MooiEen @Psycho Sushi

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

Failed. Again.

The silence that followed was broken only by the familiar voice in his mind, dry, smug, and maddening.

“Have you tried doing it correctly?”

Quill, perched high atop the bookshelf like some faded gargoyle, tilted his smoky green eyes toward him. Emrys didn’t answer. He just turned and glared, exhausted. It wasn’t the first time he’d failed, and it wouldn’t be the last, but that didn’t make it any less infuriating. He had tried. Again and again. And again. It just wasn’t working.

“Your circles were very round,” Quill offered. “I’ll give you that.”

Emrys muttered a curse under his breath and dropped back to his knees, pressing the damp cloth into the chalk lines until they smeared into pale ghosts on the floor.

Master Elandros had insisted the Ward of Threshold was a perfect exercise for him, simple, reliable, and harmless if it failed. “Wards are foundational,” he’d said, like a man reciting a proverb from memory, not even glancing up from his book. Emrys had nodded dutifully, masking the sting of being left behind.

He wasn’t ready, apparently. Not polished enough. Not confident enough. Not worthy of brushing shoulders with the brilliant and the immortal. So while his master donned robes and command, Emrys was left in the quiet apartment with a stick of chalk, a stern book, and an incorrigible familiar who had no off-switch.

The television played in the background, volume turned low. Gowns shimmered across the screen, sequins catching the light like bits of starlight trapped in silk. The Tem Gala. Every beautiful mask in the city was there. They walked the red carpet like it was a ritual of their own, names and houses whispered with reverence, the occasional flash of something inhuman behind the eyes.

Emrys stayed behind. Practicing.

His circles were precise, his incantation steady. He had followed the book word for word, gesture for gesture. And still the ward refused him. He could feel the moment it faltered, like a breath held too long collapsing in on itself. The power simply slipped. Slid out of reach. Gone.

He scrubbed the floor in tight, angry circles.

’Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe he’s right.’

Then the television stuttered. A flicker. A soundless beat. He looked up.

The static came first.

Then the light.

It drew his gaze to the window, where the skyline fractured in silence. The top of the Tem Tower bloomed, gold, then red, then white-hot orange. It swallowed the horizon with awful beauty. For a second it looked like a sunrise had torn open the world in the wrong direction.

Then came the sound.

A deep, bone-deep thrum that cracked against the windows like a god pounding on the door. The television went blank. The lights buzzed and died. The apartment froze.

Emrys stood motionless, cloth still clutched in his hand, forgotten.

The fire burned on the skyline. Ash drifted from the distant wound in the city. Somewhere, alarms began to howl. He couldn’t look away.

“Quill…” he whispered. “What was that..?”

No reply.

For once, the bird had nothing. No smug remark. No muttered rhyme. No scathing insight.

He was staring too.

And that silence, that, was what finally made Emrys afraid.

Synopsis

Emrys stayed behind to practice. Then the sky caught fire.

The Golden age of Piracy

I think 1 week is fair, honestly. Should we make a discord server for the OOC to be easier?

The Golden age of Piracy

The sky over Nassau was the kind of sharp, scorching blue that hurt to look at. Not a cloud to be seen, not even a promise of one. The sun pressed down like a hand on the back of your neck, and the Gunpowder Storm creaked faintly at anchor, a restless sleeper too proud to groan.

Up in the rigging, barefoot men moved like spiders, adjusting canvas that barely caught wind enough to stir. One of them, too eager by half, fumbled with a knot that wouldn’t hold.

“Twist it again,” came a voice from above. Calm. Solid.

Edric Blake didn’t shout unless he had to, especially when someone was earnestly trying hard to learn. The boatswain was perched a few lines higher, braced against the mainmast with one boot hooked and one hand gripping rope. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt and clung to his brow, but there was no sign of discomfort. He pointed once, a silent correction, and the young sailor adjusted, earning a short nod and a small smile in return.

With that, Edric descended, hand-over-hand down the rigging. His calloused palms slid down lines he’d coiled himself a dozen times over. As his boots hit the deck, the scent of pitch, salt, and hot wood washed over him like home.

Down on deck, the shade offered brief relief, not cool, but cooler, the way a palm frond doesn’t fight the sun but makes peace with it. Tar steamed between the seams, thick in the air, as two greenhands dragged their mops across the boards with all the enthusiasm of chained ghosts.

Edric watched them for a moment. “Swab it proper!” he barked, “or were you waitin’ on the captain himself to show you how?”

The pair startled, glancing up. One dropped his mop with a clatter, the other nearly tripped trying to fix his grip. They flushed red in the ears, then set to work with twice the effort. He gave a grunt, not quite approval, but enough to leave them be, for now.

He stooped beside a coil, giving a line a sharp pull. It bit back with just enough give to earn a nod. Spotting one of the riggers passing by, a lad who knew a reef knot from a granny hitch, Edric jerked his chin toward the fore.

“Tell Davie the staysail’ll need a new reef knot before midday. She’s runnin’ loose.”

“Aye, bosun,” came the reply, feet already turning.

He didn’t care for the murmurs about the Queen Anne’s Revenge moored just ahead, nor the hush that fell when Blackbeard had crossed the deck. Let the officers worry about plots and partnerships. Edric had rigging to inspect and a crew to keep alive. A ship wasn’t kept afloat by gossip, and sails didn’t mend themselves.

Still, the motion near the captain’s quarters caught his eye. Ishaan stood tall, or as tall as a man like that did, bearing the weight of age and wisdom both. Edric respected him more than most. The Quartermaster had a way of making decisions stick, even when tempers ran hot and rum ran low.

Then came Anne. Red hair catching fire in the sun, she stepped into the light like she belonged in it. There was precision in her every movement, like a knife honed for one purpose. She and Ishaan exchanged words just outside the door, nothing loud, but enough to see her posture shift, just slightly, firm as oak. Edric watched longer than he meant to, eyes narrowing with a hint of something unreadable. Then he turned away. Ropes to tighten. Boards to check. A ship to keep breathing.

The Golden age of Piracy

Yeah, Doctor and Surgeon, but also Weapons master and QM/Boatswain

The Golden age of Piracy

My worry was the potential overlap of characters

The Golden age of Piracy

I'm so excited :o

The Golden age of Piracy

Edric Blake

Name: Edric Blake

Age: 37

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Straight

Nationality: Welsh

Face claim:

Hider

Outfit:

Hider

Weapon:

Hider

30 inch (82cm) boarding axe, hung from the hip.

Extra:

Hider

Two tattoos:
- 'Rwyt ti wedi gwneud digon' tattooed on left shoulder blade
- 'Byth digon' tattooed on his left hand, near the base of his thumb

Personality:
Edric Blake is a man carved by labour, not glory. He speaks in short phrases, works long hours, and trusts actions over any kind of oath. His loyalty is hard-won, but once earned, it's ironclad. He doesn't waste words, not because he's unfriendly, but because he doesn't believe in beating around the bush. You'll know where you stand with him, and if you don't, he's more than happy to show you.

He's the type to fix a sail with his bare hands while runs from his knuckles, or to quietly finish someone else's task without ever claiming credit. His presence among the crew is solid and grounding. Even if you're not his friend, he's someone you can rely on. When the storm hits, when the ropes snap, when the captain calls for boarding, it's Edric at the front.

On land, he feels heavier. Less alive. The sea to him makes sense, the endless work, the wind and salt, but the land asks questions he doesn't know how to answer. So he rarely takes shore leave and when he does, or is forced to, he'll drink, fight and wander until the tide pulls him back.

He's not soft but he'll happily break his back for the crew before he breaks their spirits. When he gives an order, it's not to throw weight, but to keep them alive and they know it. He'd never ask anyone to do something he wouldn't happily do himself.

Role on Ship: Boatswain- Senior deck officer responsible for the rigging, sails, anchors, tools, and physical upkeep of the ship. Oversees deckhands, ensures the ship is seaworthy, and leads boarding parties during combat.

Fears:
He says he doesn't care, but he does. His tattoo, Byth Digon, is more than a memory. He fears failing the crew, being too slow, not strong enough. He works until his bones ache because he's terrified of stopping and realising he's just a man.

History:
Born in a coastal village in Pembrokeshire, Southwest Wales, called Porthgain, Edric Blake grew up with the scent of salt in his lungs and calluses before he could write his name. His father was a shipwright, his mother a quiet woman whose mind began to fray long before her body did. Edric spent his youth repairing roofs, hauling nets, and learning how to fix what others broke — both in the home and on the docks.

By twelve, he was the one holding the house together. His father’s health had failed, the coin dried up, and his mother no longer remembered what day it was. Edric cooked, worked, patched holes, and bartered labor for scraps — never asking for help, and never expecting any.

At fourteen, with the roof sealed and the cold creeping in, he stood at the door with a satchel and a decision. His mother, watching the fire, smiled softly and said, “You’ve done enough.” He answered without turning. “Never enough.”

She died while he was gone. He didn’t find out until a year later.

He signed onto a merchant brig bound for Bristol under a false name. For a while, the work made sense, rigging, hauling, watching the coast change with each tide. But war has no interest in peace, and it wasn’t long before his crew was pressed into the Royal Navy by force.

He endured. Did his job. Took orders until the wrong one was given. He refused to lash a boy half-dead already. It earned his a length of chain, ten lashes, and the red-hot brand seared into his ribs, low on the left side. The iron left a deep ‘R’ burned into him, a mark for refractory conduct. They branded him for disobedience. He wears it like a mark they failed to make deep enough.

He deserted not long after. Slipped away in the chaos of a storm. Drifted from ship to ship for a few years, choosing jobs that paid and captains who kept their voices low. Eventually, he found the Gunpowder Storm, and for once, he stayed.

Now Boatswain, Edric commands the sails, oversees the rigging, and leads the crew in the ship’s bones and heartbeat. He works without complaint and fights without hesitation, first over the rail when boarding steel bites, always with the weight of iron and memory behind his swing.

Likes:
- Leading a good shanty
- Salt-cured meat
- A strong storm
- The call of 'gulls in the morning
- the sound of the sailcloth catching the wind
- whistling

Dislikes:
- Idle hands
- Half-done work
- Being called 'sir'
- Drunken recklessness

Quote: “There's rest at the end of that rope, boy, not halfway through it!”

Theme Song: 'Hoist The Colours' Bass Singers version

The Golden age of Piracy

yes, you guys are ready to sail

@Psycho Sushi

That include me?