Ducksworth

Project Genesis: A New Beginning

I'm all in. Just need to write myself up a new OC :D

Project Genesis

Agreed! I'll join and get you my CS as soon as I feasibly can

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

The streets on Nar had changed. Not in the literal sense, but more from the observation of a man who once lived the life here, now living for someone else. Again. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he was sure the eyes that used to turn away from him as he walked, the stares that he caught that felt unwelcome, weren’t as afraid as they used to be. Like he had become a target they thought twice on whether he was a risk worth taking. Maybe it was the kid’s presence following him? Afterall, Nova never used to follow Jet around like this, she knew the streets just as much as he did, kriff, maybe even moreso.

The distraction was welcome. Thinking about the state he’d find his once thriving workshop was a heavier thought, and it was an uncomfortable thought at that, one he wasn’t ready to carry. Although the cartels had ‘promised’ to keep it protected, with how things changed hands around here, he wasn’t sure whether to expect it to be up and running under ‘new management’ or renovated into another spice den.

Rounding the final corner, Jet held his breath. A few short steps slowly revealed the shutters still down, although now covered in graffiti sprawled across it reading ‘Drekjawz Own This Row.’ He couldn’t help but smirk. The Drekjaws was a local swoop gang in the area which he had done repairs for in the past, maybe it was a way for them to protect the place, or maybe the whole thing had been forgotten and it was just an empty space to be filled with tags. Jet stopped a couple steps from the place, he took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, seemingly forgetting the kid stood next to him.

“This is the ol’ workshop. It's a wonder the damn building’s still standing. Not like I left it under the best protection, afterall…”

The kid stared at the building in wide-eyed wonder. It may not have looked like much to the average spacer or local, but today was a bit of culture shock for the teenager. He had scarcely seen a group of standing buildings that weren’t ramshackle huts in the middle of a sparsely-populated settlement. The fact that they’d just walked through two different districts of buildings that were several stories tall had Zane walking around slack-jawed for the past hour. The young scrapper watched the much-larger man walk up to the place, eager to see what was about to happen.

Jet stepped forward and planted his foot on the edge of the shutter, pulling it tight against the ground, and placed the palm of his prosthetic against the ridged metal. A small chime pinged from behind it and the shutter groaned open, the motor grinding against rust as it dragged the old durasteel upward. Somewhere inside, the familiar pitch of the defense grid gave one last tired whine before it faded into silence. It was still operational, and still keyed to his signature. That was something.

Jet lingered for a moment, allowing the shutter to raise enough before stepping through the threshold and into the light.

The air was warm, humming with quiet life. The old overheads glowed steady above him, casting soft amber across the cluttered floor. Music kicked in from the wall speaker in the corner, distorted synth over grinding pulse loops. One of Nova’s favourite tracks for soldering full throttle. Jet had always joked it would give him tinnitus. She’d just turn it louder.

The workbench was active. Tools lay scattered mid-project, a soldering wand still glowing faintly, wires stripped and coiled beside a half-disassembled rig. A caf mug sat on the corner, steam curling up in slow spirals. Her jacket, patched and grease-stained as always, was draped over the back of the chair.

She turned toward him with that look. Half proud, half annoyed, like he’d kept her waiting too long, hair in her face, smudge across her cheek. “Took you long enough,” she said, setting a tool down beside her. “I kept it running.”

Jet froze. His heart climbed up into his throat before he could stop it. He took a step toward her. The light, the warmth, the sound, it all wrapped around him like he had never left. Like she had never left.

A tear welled up behind his eye, forcing him to blink.

It all vanished.

Darkness swallowed the room. The silence was immediate, oppressive.

For a breath, nothing moved. Then, flick. The overheads sputtered to life in a jagged, uneven stutter. Cold light buzzed down from tired old fixtures, throwing long shadows over still, untouched surfaces.

Dust drifted through sharp sunbeams slicing in through the vent grates. It sparkled in the air, thick and slow. The workbench was dead. The soldering wand lay cold and forgotten.

Jet stood there, unmoving. The breath he'd taken on the way in still hadn’t fully left him. He exhaled, finally. A quiet, shuddering release that settled somewhere behind his ribs. Then, with only a glance back toward the rest of the shop, he spoke. “I got to grab some things. I didn’t exactly leave the place in my right mind. Help yourself to whatever you find. Tools, spare parts, doesn’t matter, it's not needed here. If you need me…” He paused, faintly uncertain. “Just, er, let me know, okay, kid?” and with that, he moved across the room to the office in the back, not waiting for a reply, the sound of his boots dulled against the dust-covered floor.

This place was a wonderland to a kid that had spent most of his life sliding down scrap heaps and salvaging derelicts. Zane observed the way that Jet seemed to look over the place, like he was seeing ghosts of a life long past phasing in and out of the walls. This place must have been an important part of the grizzled spacer’s past. The way he spoke of it, and the slight hint of irreverence for its contents made Zane wonder what exactly could have taken place within these walls that had Jet acting so uneasy.

Still, the kid wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to scavenge. From everything that he’d seen, this place was quite the aurodium mine. He spent the next long while carefully going through the shelves and tables, each and every level, trying to figure out what would be all right to get his hands on without making it seem like he was being greedy. He had an idea of what he was looking for, but wasn’t sure in what capacity he was going to come across it, if it was even here.

As Jet stepped into the office, the door sealed shut behind him with a hiss. The light in here flickered once, then steadied, just enough to see by. Dust blanketed every surface, same as in the main shop. He crossed to the corner where the wall safe sat, half-concealed behind a crooked vent panel. No scanner, no retinal reader, just a half-busted mechanical dial. With a flick of memory, he turned the same code Nova constantly ribbed him for never changing. The safe clanged open, coughing a puff of stale dust from its edges.

Inside sat a dark, weather-worn duffel. Heavy and, thankfully, untouched. He slung it up onto the desk with a grunt, unzipping it just far enough to peek inside. The contents were all there, just as he left them. He gave a quiet, hollow smile. A soft breath through the nose, and he zipped it shut again, slinging it over his shoulder.

Across the room stood an old storage locker, two, in fact, one his, and one Nova’s. Hers still had this cheap slap-on sticker that said “KEEP OUT” in deep, faded red. She had plastered it there back when she was just getting clever with boundaries. He opened it gently.

All her old stuff was there, relatively clean. Boots, tools, a few boxes labeled in her always-rushed handwriting. Taped to the inside of the locker door was a photo: Jet and Nova, shoulder to shoulder, grease-smeared and grinning like idiots. He remembered the moment, taken right after she’d finished her first job without his ‘interference,’ as she called it. He stared at it for a long moment before peeling it free, gently. A sad smile crept in as he tucked it safely into the inside pocket of his jacket, patting it flat with his palm.

As he went to close the locker, something caught his eye: Nova’s old tooldeck. He hesitated for a moment. Nova used to wear it like it was part of her, snapping tools into place like it was second nature, muttering to it like it might work faster if it liked her. Jet had tried it once but could never get used to it. It was too fussy, too automated, but Nova had built it to last.

Lying next to it was its slim visual display, barely more than a lens and a tiny arc of metal that hooked just above the temple and over the ear. Nova had always called it her ‘Eye’, Jet had joked it was her ‘Gremlin Eye’ more than once, but the name never took. He picked up both and turned towards the door.

When he stepped back into the main shop, he found Zane busying himself with scavenging the place. The sight brought a wry smile to Jet’s face. Anyone else caught doing this would have had a blaster bolt, but Jet was too busy reminiscing on how he first met Nova herself rummaging through his shop to even consider it.

”Hey.” Jet’s voice cut through the quiet without sharpness. He walked over and held out the tooldeck and Eye for Zane. ”My apprentice built this for herself. Wouldn’t ever work without it, swore by it.” He paused, just long enough to carry the weight of it. ”I’m lendin’ it to you. Now, you treat it right, and you bring it back when she’s home, okay, kid?”

Looking the tooldeck and the small contraption over, Zane accepted them both into his hands with a smile. ”Thanks, Jet. I’ll take really good care of it, promise!” He looked back over his shoulder at the collection of tables ringing the shop. ”Hey, any chance there’s some stuff in here that’ll give me some general knowledge about being a techie? Or maybe even somethin’ for this E-11? I wanna start puttin’ in some hours maintaining this thing, see if I can make it any better…”

Jet nodded toward the far workbench. ”Bottom drawer, left side. Bunch of old manuals, schematics, toolcharts.. Whatever else is in there, too. Feel free to see what you can find, some might be useful. Nova probably scribbled in them to update them as she saw fit, I’d follow her advice if you find it in there.”

He pumped his shoulder once, resettling the shifting duffel on his back and then turned away, walking towards a half-hidden door behind a lift gantry. “Join me up here when you’re done, let’s see if we can’t get you some of my old gear.”

The kid nodded energetically, moving over toward the place Jet had indicated. He watched the older spacer disappear behind the gantry and then began trying to outfit himself with the tooldeck on his left arm. It functioned like a gauntlet, and held multiple small, hand-held tools along the forearm. Zane supposed that the eyelet he had was used to interface with it, and it was possibly voice-activated? He carefully placed the eyelet into his upper chest pocket, compacting it down so it wouldn’t be at risk of being bent out of shape. Adjusting the gloved portion of the device by flexing his hands, the kid noticed a small inscription on the side of the gauntlet - an acronym, labeled “F.E.T.C.H.” He wondered what the whole thing stood for - probably something he’d want to ask Jet about in a bit. The next step was to start rummaging through the aforementioned drawer. Zane was eager to see what sort of forgotten treasures he would find there.

He slid the drawer out of its compacted position with a little difficulty, the metals protesting by way of a slight groan from lack of maintenance and underuse. Zane’s eyes widened unexpectedly when he looked down into what was the most interesting pile of unused tech he’d ever laid eyes on. Several small datapads with tiny printed labels on them - everything from “general tech” to “hyperdrive basics”. He went through them one by one, making sure the ones he had his eye on were still functioning before placing them on top of the workbench. There were even actual manuals printed on flimsi, and one of them just so happened to be a basic education manual on blasters.

”Thank you Jet…” the kid whispered to himself as he took the manual in hand and placed it on top of the workbench with the other materials. He also found the toolcharts Jet had mentioned, as well as a larger datapad with the label “schematics”. Nodding to himself that he’d probably gotten most of what he would ever need as far as technical aids were concerned, he carefully stacked the materials together on top of the flimsi manual he’d acquired before grabbing up the whole stack and walking carefully over to where he’d seen Jet disappearing into the shop.

The stairs creaked under Jet’s weight as he made his way up the grated walkway. The mezzanine hadn’t changed - just a bolted catwalk hugging the wall, leading to the narrow loft space above. Years ago, it had just been his breakroom, a cramped cot and a caf unit that barely worked. But after Nova started staying, he’d expanded it just enough to hold two. Added a privacy curtain, and an extra sleeping mat, small comforts crammed in hard corners.

He stepped into the loft and moved to his old locker first, easier task, easier mind. It opened with a metallic scream that hurt his ears, the hinges stiff with disuse. Inside hung old work jackets, utility vests, long sleeved tunics, all in neutral tones, breathable fabric, and nothing flashy. Jet sifted through them without thinking, pulling out anything that looked like it might fit the kid. A few lightweight coats, a few shirts, one of his old utility belts with a holster still clipped to its side.

He tossed each item onto his own bunk, building a small pile. Only when he was sure he’d done right by Zane did his shoulders sag slightly. Then, he closed the door, turning his head to avoid the same scream, and took a deep breath. Time for what he’d really come up here to do.

He stared at the lockers for a long second. Two broad metal bodies, scuffed with age and use. With a grunt, he grabbed the edge of Nova’s locker and dragged it aside. The screech of metal legs echoed like a dying Bantha. Behind it, half-hidden and flush with the wall, was a recessed panel, seam barely visible beneath the thick layer of gathered dust.

He knelt in front of it and slammed his fist along the panel's edge. It wasn’t meant to be opened again, not without a fight. The seam bent outwards just enough for him to wedge his fingers inside and pry it loose. The metal clattered to the floor with a dull thud. Inside, something lay wrapped in stained but airtight canvas.

He hauled it slowly, setting the bundle atop the bunk with more care than its weight demanded. He traced the fabrics edge until he found its tie, and then peeled it back. The dull, matte plating stared up at him: his old Republic field armour. Chestpiece, bracers, shoulder guards, all of it. The insignia burned at him, a stern reminder of a better time, but one full of horror and torment.

He sat still for a moment and let the canvas fall away to the floor. This was what he’d come for. That’s what he had told himself since Nar’ first came into view from the UA. The duffel, and this, his armour.

But as he stared at it, all laid out like it had been waiting, he felt it in his chest, the real reason. The stupid, impossible reason he’d actually come back here. The hope that Nova would be here. That somehow, by coming home, she would be, too. Waiting with her goggles pushed up, hands greasy, grin crooked. He clenched his jaw and rubbed the side of his face like he could wipe away the thought.

”Idiot.” He muttered, not sure if he meant the word for himself, or for the hope.

The chestplate still bore a carbon streak from the ambush on Felucia. He meant to fix it but never found the time. He ran his fingers down the armour's spine ridge. Cold, solid, but still serviceable. He’d need to retrofit it for the Helix job, hide the shape, change the colour, fit it to his shape now. Hide in plain sight under the guise of a bounty hunter, maybe. But it still had a job to do, and so did he.

Zane suddenly came around the corner, about to ask Jet if they were going to do some demolition (due to the absurd amount of noise coming from up here in the loft) when he noticed that the large-and-in-charge technician seemed to have begun doing so already. ”Ho-ly shaviit, bud! D’you need a hand here?!”

Jet glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Zane’s voice, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. ”Didn’t mean to sound like I was tearing the place down.” He tilted his head toward the bunk, flicking a thumb towards the pile he had made next to his armour. ”Pulled what I figured might fit. Nothin’ flashy but it’s a damn sight more than you got now.” He paused, ”Take what works, and there’s more in the locker if you wanna dig.”

The youth turned and took a gander at what was on the bed, walking over to the pile and picking up a couple of the articles of clothing. ”Whoa…thanks a ton, Jet! I was just gonna go buy something when we made our way back through the shopping district - although…” Zane paused as he considered something, ”...I’m actually a bit worried about trying to buy something from some of those stores. Most of the holodisplays showed clothes with more holes in them than a block of blue cheese.”

The smattering of different clothing had the kid grinning like an idiot. He hadn’t received any new clothes for at least four years now. The fact that most of his clothing had survived that long on Lotho and still managed to fit him through his growth spurts was incredible. He’d managed to steal quite a few hand-me-downs from some of the other locals sometimes, but for the most part, his stuff was “gently used” - except it was far from “gently”. As he continued looking, Zane glanced back down at the tooldeck and remembered what he wanted to ask. ”Oh, by the by…this deck you’re letting me borrow, it has a little acronym on it - ‘F.E.T.C.H.’? Any idea what that’s all about?”

Jet leaned back against the wall, his arms loosely crossed as he watched Zane sort through the clothes like he found creds in a junk pile. ”Yeah, Nar’s fashion scene ain’t what it used to be. Not unless you’re into shredded mesh and ‘expressive’ zippers.” He smirked faintly, then nodded toward the deck. ”FETCH, huh.” He huffed through his nose, almost a chuckle. ”That was Nova’s idea. ‘Fast Extraction Tool for Convenient Handling’. She slapped the acronym on it one night when she got tired of me calling it her damn wrist thing.” He pushed off the wall and gave a half-shrug. ”Does more than it looks like. You’ll get a feel for it soon enough. She built it smart, but the thing’s a little touchy.” He took a beat, his tone softened just slightly. ”She’d get a kick outta you usin’ it.”

Zane looked the device over once again, tracing the engraved letters with his fingertips, ”...That’s pretty wizard, not gonna lie.” The kid considered what the tool might be capable of. He supposed until he attempted to fire up the eyelet, he likely wouldn’t scratch the surface. There was something else that was also on his mind, but he wasn’t quite sure how to broach the topic. ”I hope this ain’t me pryin’, but I really don’t know a whole lot about you guys - an’ if you don’t wanna tell me, you ain’t gotta. But…would you mind tellin’ me more about you an’ Nova? Or just you in general. Like…what’s that armor about?”

Jet remained quiet for a beat, his eyes still on the armour laid out beside him. ”Armour’s from my time in the Republic,” he said finally, voice low but steady. ”Back when there was one, anyway. Before it all fell apart.”

He let that hang for a moment, no point trying to hide it from the kid. Hell, he was basically a fugitive now for his part back on the basilisk, no friend to the empire, at least. He brushed his fingers across the old insignia, wiping away a thin trail of dust like muscle memory. ”I wasn’t anyone special. Just another soldier who knew how to fix things.”

He sat back again, pressing his back to the cold wall, one boot braced on the bed's edge. ”After I left… Well, I landed here. Nar Shaddaa. Wasn’t much, but I could keep a shop running and stay out of the worst of the dirt. Then Nova came along, caught her trying to steal something from here, you know? Boy, did she think she was slick back then...” He chuckled once, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. ”I couldn’ve run her off. Maybe I ought to have, but she was sharp. Smart in a way you don’t learn in a classroom. So I let her stay, let her learn. Taught her how to do it right, y’know?” He glanced at Zane, the faintest tightness in his jaw. ”She ain’t mine by blood, but she’s family. She disappeared one day and I’m out there looking for her. That’s about as much as it is.”

The way the story was told to Zane had him enraptured by the time Jet had spoken the first word. Of course the kid knew about the Empire - it was all he had ever known. His father used to talk about them like they were the void itself; nightmarish stories that kept Zane up at night. Most of the kid’s life had been lived under the radar - he didn’t even have an Imperial chain ident code. Was born on a freighter, lived on it until his family hit Lotho - and like kriff the Imps were gonna come there and try to make sure everyone was “branded”.

Zane pulled himself from his moment of reverie and forced himself to have a weak smile, ”She sounds like quite the handful. Almost like my brother Marcus. He’s always been the clever one, ever since he could crawl.” He parsed through the rest of the pile of clothes in front of him, trying to decide what was the most practical, what would help him survive. Coats were good, cargo pants were better. And socks…void knows that those things were like diamonds on Lotho - everyone needed them, and they were in short supply. He began to stack them from left to right in order of importance as he continued his talk about Marcus, ”One time, I caught him scrambling out of his crib. He’d literally stacked his toys just right against the wall of it and used them to climb up. ‘Nother time, when he was older, we had to get away from a group of rowdy kids trying to jump us. Marcus took them on such a merry chase ‘round the town that they gave up out of sheer exhaustion. Parlo scolded us somethin’ fierce when we’d made it back - always told us ‘We gotta be civil ‘round here, and here you are just makin’ everythin’ worse!’” He did his best to make his voice sound deep and gruff as he imitated his caretaker. His voice trailed off for a moment, before his eyes darkened a bit, ”I really hope they’re both okay…if I brought the Imps down on ‘em, I don’t know what I’d–...”

The kid’s words caught in his throat, and he felt his eyes beginning to well up. He closed them hard - you couldn’t waste water on tears. Had other body parts that needed it more.

Jet listened, his expression unreadable at first, but his eyes stayed locked on the kid. Not many people got to talk that long without someone cutting in. Zane’s voice dipped near the end, the emotion pulling taut beneath the words, and Jet recognised it, not just the weight, but the effort it took to keep it together.

”Sounds like your brother’s got grit. And you do too.” He paused, just a second. ”You didn’t bring anything down on ‘em, kid. That blame game? It never ends. You run yourself in circles thinkin’ what you could’ve done. But truth is, sometimes we just end up where we end up, and it’s up to us what we do with it.”

He looked down briefly, then back up with a quiet sincerity. ”We’ll get word. One way or another. And when we do, you’ll be ready. Smarter, tougher, better equipped. That’s the whole reason we’re out here.”

Jet reached over and clapped him gently on the shoulder, just enough to be grounding, not crushing. ”Now grab your haul. Time we got back.”

Closing up the workshop was quieter than Jet expected. Bittersweet, maybe, but mostly just still. He took one last glance around the place, flicked off the lights, and sealed the shutter with the same grumbling groan it had always made. It echoed longer than he had liked.

The walk back was uneventful. Nar’s streets buzzed as they always did, noise and neon and never enough air. Jet led the way in silence, not rushing, but not dragging either. The city didn’t press in as hard this time. Maybe because they had what they came for. Maybe because leaving was easier.

By the time the UA came back into view, nestled quiet on the landing pad like it was doing it’s darndest not to be noticed, Jet felt the weight of the duffel a little more than he had before, but also the sense that something, however small, had been put back into place.

He hit the ramp controls, and the old bird let them back in with a hiss and a hum, like it hadn’t even noticed they’d left.

Vox Machina themed roleplay??

I'll typically pick up a niche when I know what everyone else is thinking. Are we using all typical DnD races/classes?

Vox Machina themed roleplay??

I could be tempted with this premise, honestly

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

Emrys stared up at Jack, jaw clenched, the press of fur, sweat, and testosterone thick around him like the walls had collapsed too and he had to spend all he was to hold them up. The werewolf’s grin stretched wide and stupid, like he’d just delivered some clever zinger and was waiting for a laugh track. But all Emrys heard was ignorance. For all their posturing and menace, it was clear as glass: they didn’t understand magic. Not really. Jack’s, as he called himself, talk of “vaults” and “wizardly secrets” made it sound like he thought spellcraft came with a combination lock and a user manual. They had no idea what they were actually asking for. They just knew it was powerful, possibly valuable, and they wanted it.

He let that realization settle. It was the first advantage he’d had since the door blew open. If they didn’t know what they were doing, he could use that. He had to. He let the moment breathe, long enough to look like he was weighing something important, when really he was just catching up to the speed of his own heartbeat.

Then he exhaled, slow and steady, just enough to steady his voice, and met Jack’s gaze without flinching. “You want to get into the vault,” he said, calm but deliberate, “you’re going to need me and my familiar.”

He raised one hand slightly, palm turned upward, like he was explaining math to a slow student. “It’s not complicated.” He began pacing back and forth, just enough to not cause Jack to immediately annihilate him. “My Master’s protections won’t respond to brute force. They’re layered, alive, even, in a way. And everything he taught me, every ritual, every sequence, every thread of spellwork I’ve learned since, they’re part of the same weave.” His tone flattened, just slightly, as if even bothering to explain it was beneath him. “Take my familiar out of the equation, and I’m just someone standing in front of a locked door, about as useful as anyone else you could have dragged in off of the street.”

It was a bluff. All of it. Complete fabrication. But he delivered it like gospel, the way Elandros always had when explaining some principle Emrys couldn’t yet grasp. And that was the trick, wasn’t it? Magic didn’t come with blueprints. As long as the rules sounded arcane enough, most people would believe them. Especially if they were desperate.

The part that scared him most was that it wasn’t even unbelievable. He didn’t know where the vault was. He didn’t know what it looked like. His master had been secretive to the point of obsession, even with him. If it existed, and he was only kinda sure it did, it could be hidden behind illusion, woven into a wall, tucked inside a ritual phrase he’d heard a dozen times but never understood. The closest thing to a clue might’ve been in Elandros’s study, assuming it hadn’t been buried under six layers of wards he’d never been taught to dispel.

But none of that mattered right now. Not the truth. Not his doubt. Only the image he projected. And right now, that image was this: he was essential. He, and he alone, was the only path forward. And if they hurt or took Quill away, if they broke that link, the whole thing would be lost to them forever.

He didn’t know what the next step was. But as long as they believed he mattered, he still had a piece on the board. And with that, he could play.

Synopsis

Emrys bluffs his way into bargaining power, claiming only he and his familiar can access the master's vault.

In Secret We Lie: False Gods & Human Servants

Though Melion had traversed the path to the Festival many times before, there remained one indignity he had never learned to stomach, water. For all his associations with bloom and bounty, his dominion ended where the water began. Water was necessary, yes, but not like this. Not endless and heaving. Not the gut-lurching pull of tide beneath a boat’s belly. And so, when his bare feet finally touched the sun-warmed stone of the island’s dock, he stepped down with the reverence of a man kissing holy ground. His usual complexion, radiant and golden as spun honey, had taken on the pallor of crushed sage.

For a while, he disappeared to a quiet plot just beyond the formal gardens. He always did. Over time, the space had grown to suit him, foxglove, milkweed, and clover sprang freely here, forming a microcosm of the wild, an offering to his presence. His bees, soft-bodied and drowsy with pollen, flitted between petals, brushing against the leaves as if in quiet worship.

Melion knelt, barefoot and bare-chested, letting his fingertips sink into the loam. His breath steadied. The silence here was not empty, it pulsed with memory and rhythm, with the language of green things. Were mortals to find this grove, it would not be long before they built a shrine. But for Melion, it was simply a place to breath and restore. He let the bees rest on him, one on his shoulder, another behind his ear. Then, when he felt the weight of sickness replaced by the steadiness of rooted life, he rose.

The marble steps to the palace felt cool beneath his soles, each step a quiet hymn. His gait was unhurried, fluid as a stalk in the wind. The Feast was still young, and the hushed air of anticipation clung to the halls like perfume but already, Melion could sense the pulse of festivity humming.

At the threshold stood a greeter, a young man with a crown of red hair and a diplomat’s poise. They exchanged nods, words were sparse but cordial. Melion neither delayed nor dwelled; the routine was familiar now, though never stale. He allowed himself to be guided through winding halls toward the dressing suites. Each step he took left a faint, momentary shimmer on the floor, as if pollen had graced the marble and vanished.

The chamber that awaited him was opulent, strung with dresses and robes in a rainbow of silks and sheer gauze. For most, this might be a moment of grand selection, but Melion had always struggled with the attire offered in years past. Too tight. Too sculpted. Too unnatural. He preferred garments that breathed like living things, those that fluttered, that spilled, that refused to cling. This year, however, was different.

He wandered through the fabric displays in silence, trailing his fingers along sleeves and hems. The air carried the scent of pressed lavender and ink. A few bees hovered at the ceiling. The selection was finer, more thoughtful. But still, he waited. Then, a whisper of wings. A single blue morpho butterfly descended from the rafters and landed lightly on the edge of a hanging gown. It fanned its wings once. Melion smiled, a slow understanding.

The gown it had chosen was exquisite. It began in a deep, near-black midnight blue at the single-shouldered strap, where fabric clung loosely across his collarbone like dusk embracing twilight. As it descended, the color lightened, cool peacock blue over the chest and waist, then fading to a smoky teal as it flowed down to his ankles. Sheer panels revealed glimpses of golden skin beneath, layered with graceful asymmetry that mimicked the fall of petals after rain. The waist was cinched not by corset or stitch, but by a delicate golden chain, loose enough to sway with each step.

His right arm remained bare. Around his bicep he fitted a circlet of beaten gold, unadorned, but perfect. It shimmered like a sunbeam through treetops. The mask, of course, completed him. Smooth, sculpted, and elegant, the same midnight hue as the dress’s shoulder. It curved up at the temples into flared arcs, suggestive of divinity without ostentation. It covered his eyes and the bridge of his nose, matte in finish but dusted with a spectral shimmer. Subtle etchings curled along its edges like vines or the veins of leaves. Through the twin eyeholes, his golden irises shone like twin lanterns, luminous and unreadable.

Satisfied, he allowed the mirror a final glance, then turned toward the double doors. They parted before him with a slow, silken groan, revealing a ballroom already steeped in scent and splendour. Light spilled through stained glass, fractured into ribbons across the floor. Music curled faintly in the air, not yet jubilant, still laced with restraint. Servants flitted between tables, and here and there, gods mingled beneath banners and chandeliers, effortlessly divine, each a beacon of domain and design.

Melion’s arrival did not turn heads so much as still them. His presence was not thunderous, but quiet, rooted. A bloom among fire, frost, and storm. Some stared, curious or intrigued, while others, gods less swayed by novelty, offered polite nods or brief appraisals before returning to their conversations.

Among those gathered, he noted two presences familiar to him, though distant in nature. Gutsey, seldom seen in conversation and yet somehow now engaged, stood now in curious contrast to his usual solitude. Morrígan lingered too, a figure carved in shadow and grace. Though their domains were separate, mortals often wove tales pairing them as a natural duality, decay and renewal, ending and beginning. Melion had always found the assumption quaint. Useful for ballads, perhaps, but misleading. She was not a gardener of endings, and he not a ward against them. He did not disturb either.

Instead, he drifted past silver platters and velvet curtains, toward the gardens beyond, where the air grew looser around the lungs. Out here, the scent of flora overpowered perfume. The hush of water, whether from the island’s encirclement or the careful work of mortal hands, played against his skin like a blessing. The sky above was soft with dying light.

He settled onto a stone bench with one leg draped loosely over the other, hands resting atop his knee. From here, he could watch as his bees meandered freely, weaving between blooms with lazy delight. A jade-winged butterfly nestled into his hair, unnoticed. His expression softened. Let the Feast bloom on inside. He would join in time, as was proper, but now savoured the company of simpler things.

In Secret We Lie: False Gods & Human Servants

Melion || Melithir || Growth, Bounty, Renewal, Agriculture

𝕄𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕪𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕤
𝕄𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕪𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕤

God of Growth, Bounty, Renewal & Agriculture
God of Growth, Bounty, Renewal & Agriculture

Name: Melion
Title: God of Bounty
Gender/Sex: Male
Age: 6200~
Species: Melithir

Information:
The Melithir is a solitary, hive-controlling monster of uncertain classification. Throughout all known history, only one has ever been alive at a time. Whether this is due to the rarity of its creation, some biological exclusivity, or a form of instinctual succession is a matter of speculation, even to the Melithir itself. Debates were as to whether the Melithir is a species at all or a singular, recurring phenomenon: one entity reborn throughout time in different forms and memories, always alone, always singular.

It is not born in the conventional sense, but rather grown deep beneath the earth, nested within the roots of forgotten groves or sun-warmed ruins where wild nature has overtaken civilization. Its chrysalis forms as a burial pod, woven of golden mycelium, flower-pulp, and crystallised nectar. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than corrupted vegetation, something rotting and beautiful in equal measure. Once this cocoon reaches critical mass, often after a century of dormancy, it begins to emit a biological call, summoning pollinators to guard it. Bees, butterflies, wasps, and other nectar-seeking creatures answer this summons in swarms, orbiting the hidden chrysalis like a living veil. Though unaware of the purpose, they become erratic and territorial, bound unconsciously to its protection.

When the Melithir hatches, it is a soft, near-silent thing, fragile, speechless, and dependent. Yet even then, it establishes a seamless and absolute neural dominance over every pollinator within its range. The bond is not trained or coaxed, it simply is, like a natural order. These creatures act as extensions of its awareness, its will, and its needs. In this juvenile stage, the Melithir remains hidden beneath forest and ruin, guiding its swarm to deliver food, protect it from predators, and maintain the secluded haven in which it rests. This state may last for centuries.

Eventually, the creature’s mind and power mature. With time, it weaves for itself a humanoid body, serene and uncannily beautiful. The Melithir’s true body is humanoid, formed of waxen flesh with a texture like warm, polished nectar. It smells unmistakably floral, sweet and heady, like overripe clover or fermented honey. Its skin carries pale, bioluminescent striations beneath the surface, and its eyes are clear amber, flecked with darker golden rings.

Despite rumors, the Melithir does not physically contain creatures, nor does it birth them. It simply commands all pollinators within its domain with absolute authority. They are not domesticated. They are compelled, drawn to it by instinct, not fear. These creatures act as its extensions: scouts, defenders, weapons, and witnesses. As it endures through the ages, its control deepens, and its bond to the natural world around it strengthens. No known method of reproduction has been observed. Though it does seek companionship, no second Melithir has ever appeared while another still lives.

The Melithir’s dominion is defined by its Hive Control, a vast sensory network composed of bees and other pollinators through which it can perceive, communicate, and influence its surroundings. These creatures allow it to lead migrations, distribute seeds, or weaponize entire swarms in defense.

It is known to emit a powerful Pheromantic Aura, capable of deeply influencing the emotional state of nearby living beings. This subtle atmosphere can induce calm, euphoria, reverence, or in rare cases, visions and obedience. Many who encounter it find their fear replaced by admiration before they even recognize its presence.

In a living, fertile landscape, the Melithir is nearly untouchable. Its creatures form a vast surveillance net that makes ambush nearly impossible. It understands terrain intimately, and can pacify or confuse most would-be intruders with its pheromones. Even those who come with blades may hesitate to strike when wrapped in a sense of awe.

Hunting Melithir is, however, relatively easy with some knowledge. Covering one's senses with cloth to avoid its pheromones, as well as wearing thick protection to protect from its controlled swarms means that their physical, rather weak form, had no real protection. Combined with rumours that the golden sap that would be seen as its blood giving long life, often referred to as Mirelixir, Melithir, once found, didn’t often live long lives compared to what their lifespan could be. The oldest before Melion being roughly 400.

The Melithir is not without limits. In dry or barren terrain, deserts, frozen plains, stone-carved cities, its power is sharply reduced. Without flora or insects, it loses its eyes, its hands, its voice. Its physical form, while ageless, is still mortal. It wears no armor and possesses no innate physical might, relying instead on its control, environment, and loyal defenders.

Its final weakness lies in its mindset. The Melithir is focused on ensuring balance. It will not permit unnatural growth, nor excessive decay. It enforces a sense of ecological equilibrium that may seem cruel or indifferent to those who expect protection or healing. It may allow a forest to burn if it believes new life must rise from the ash. It does not mourn what it deems necessary.

Excerpt from a Hunter’s bestiary

Classification: Fae or Forest spirit
Also known as: Hive-Fae, Hivelord/lady, Bloomwraith, Gilded Death, Sweetrot

Known Lairs:
Thick woods, overgrown ruins, forgotten shrines, and glades Avoid any place where flowers bloom wildly out of season.

Description:
A beautiful deceiver. The Melithir wears the shape of a golden-skinned youth. Its hair is often long and pale.

It walks barefoot, untouched by thorns or blood. Wherever it treads, life blooms too quickly. Bones found near such sites are often flower-covered, the armor around them rusted through but unbroken.

Observed Powers:
Swarms: All manner of stinging and fluttering things obey its call. Not just bees but wasps, hornets, butterflies, and even biting gnats.

Sweet Death: It overwhelms a man’s will with some aura or scent. Witnesses speak of soldiers lowering weapons and kneeling in bliss before the insects consumed them alive.

Resources to gather following successful kill:
Its blood, Mirelixir, is golden, thick, and glows faintly. Said to cure illness, extend life, and mend wounds that should never heal. Others swear it brings visions or fertility, depending on how it is distilled or ingested.

Appearance:
Melion stands at just over six feet tall, his body graceful, but with an unsettling stillness. His physique is lean and androgynous, with softly defined musculature that evokes beauty more than strength.

His skin is smooth and seamless, the color of pale honey or polished amber. It carries a faint luster in the light, like hardened resin, and near the extremities, his fingertips, temples, and collar, it grows slightly translucent. Beneath these thin spots, a slow blue glow emits through vein-like filaments, mimicking a circulatory system of liquid light.

Melion’s face is symmetrical to the point of unease. His cheekbones are high and sculpted, his features narrow and elongated, almost elven in their delicacy. His nose is fine, his lips full but expressionless, and his jawline tapers smoothly. A soft crown of luminous strands that sprout from his scalp like gossamer filaments, glinting faintly like silken threads spun from light. They hang weightlessly around his head and shoulders, swaying without wind.

His eyes are his most unnatural trait. Large and clear, their irises are molten honey: translucent, golden, and softly radiant. They reflect light like the surface of syrup, and the pupils are faint, difficult to discern at a glance, giving the impression that he is always staring directly through you. He does not blink unless mimicking the act.

His hands and feet are slender, his fingers tipped with slightly pointed nails the same golden hue as his skin. If broken, his flesh fractures like wax, cracking rather than tearing, and exudes a slow-oozing sap that smells of crushed wildflowers.

From afar, Melion appears divine. Up close, he is uncanny. There is no flaw, no blemish, no pore. He is beauty refined into stillness.

Personality:
Melion is warm. That’s the first word anyone would use. He speaks softly, smiles easily, and listens as though your words are the most important thing in the world. Around him, people tend to relax, even if they don’t know why. He has a way of making you feel like you belong, like everything about you has already been accepted without question.

He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t argue. He just is, calm, unhurried, constant. The kind of presence that makes rooms feel quieter. He tends to tilt his head when listening, as if trying to understand a language he’s only recently learned. And yet, there’s no mistaking his intelligence. He notices details others miss. He rarely forgets a name, and always remembers the smallest offering or kindness given to him.

At a glance, he seems deeply empathetic. Gentle with animals. Patient with awkward conversation. Affectionate in the smallest of gestures, a brush of fingers against a leaf, a brief lull in his voice to let bees land on his shoulder. He’s someone people find themselves wanting to impress, without knowing why.

But Melion is also… distant. Not cold, just removed. He doesn’t ask for company. He never seeks out interaction. He’s content to sit for hours on his own, watching trees sway or bees crawl along the grass. Some think he’s shy. Others think he’s meditative. The truth is harder to name.

Melion can be dangerous, but no one sees it. Not directly. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lash out. But people have disappeared, poachers, desecrators, men who took too much from the land without giving back. The strange thing is that people still pray to him for help solving those disappearances.

He says very little. But when he laughs, it’s like honey warmed by fire. And most people never question anything else.

History:
Melion was born in the quiet aftermath of ruin. He rose from the roots of an ancient tree split by fire, formed of sap and resin, ash and honeycomb. The war had ended long before he opened his eyes, long enough that the wounds it left on the land had begun to scar over. The world he emerged into was a quiet, broken thing. Forests were smaller. Rivers ran thinner. Bees, once thick as clouds, were rare and wandering.

He knew no name for himself then, and found no others like him.

For decades, he wandered the wounded woodlands in solitude. His touch mended the wild, sick trees, made meadows bloom again, and hives returned to slumbering hollows. His pollinators spread further, whispering of him in their silent, sacred language. Through them, he watched the world change. But though the land began to heal, the loneliness did not.

Then, one summer, a girl stumbled into his grove. Young, perhaps eight, no older, chasing dragonflies beyond her village's edge. She was afraid at first, as any child might be when stumbling into something strange. But she returned the next day, and the day after, always just a little braver.

She would talk to him. He would listen. In time, he answered. She brought questions, stories, wilted flowers, and drawings of bees. He showed her how to cup her hands without fear when they landed. He taught her the language of leaves, the meaning of old petals, and how to tell when a plant was lying.

She never asked what he was. She called him Melion, mispronounced from a word he'd once whispered to her by accident. He accepted the name.

Years passed. Her visits continued, growing less frequent but no less fond. He remained unchanged. She grew taller, louder, full of questions and opinions. She told him about her life, her siblings, the boys at school, the way adults laughed when she spoke of the man in the woods.

One day, she came to him crying. He was her friend, and she didn’t know who else would listen. No one believed her, not even her mother, about the golden man in the woods. She came to him crying, bruised and beaten.

Melion didn’t say a word. He only offered her the comfort of stillness, a shelter beneath blooming branches and watchful bees. She never saw the bodies. She came back weeks later, clutching a letter and unsure how to feel, because her tormentors were dead. He didn’t explain, she never asked, and still she returned.

She visited into her teens, and still in her twenties. Sometimes she came with laughter, other times with silence. She spoke of books and family, of life beyond the forest. And Melion listened. Always listening. The grove was fuller then, verdant, alive. It grew with her.

Eventually, when her hair had begun to grey, she brought him a gift: a hand-carved box filled with dried herbs and other things she had kept for him over the years. She said she had always known that he was not human. That she didn’t need to understand what he was to know he had protected her, healed the woods, and never asked for anything in return.

And then she said something he would never forget. That she knew what had happened to the boys. That she had suspected for years. And that she forgave him. Not because it was just, but because if anyone had hurt her children the way they hurt her, she would have done the same.

That was the last time she visited.

Melion found her grave months later. Packed earth near the edge of the grove where wildflowers now bloomed thick and untamed. He stood for a long time among them. The grave bloomed more with each visit. Foxglove. Clover. Milkweed. Poppies. A riot of color spread over the mound, woven through with humming wings and golden pollen. The land would know who she was.

Years passed. Then, one evening, her children visited the grave. They saw the flowers and they saw him, standing motionless in the grove’s light, untouched by time. They wept, not from fear, but from the slow relief of believing. They whispered his name, passed down in bedtime stories and broken memories.

And Melion remained, watching from the trees. As he always had.

Mythical Significance:
Spring Festival - On the first Moon of Spring, rural villages and forest-bordering towns hold joyous, reverent, and quietly superstitious festivals. It is believed to honour a benevolent Forest God who restored the land, helped farmers grow crops, kept animals safe, and ensured the world was filled with beauty. It was whispered for a long time that they were called Melion, these rumours spread from a family whose matriarch had passed. It wasn’t confirmed until he attended his first Feast for the Gods where one mortal servant came back and spoke of Melion, confirming all their beliefs.

The celebration is quiet but heartfelt. Families gather to plant wildflower seeds near forest borders, children wear flower crowns woven from clover, milkweed, and foxglove, honey sweets are shared, bees are honoured and left offerings of pollen-dusted fruit, soft herbs and sweet water on old stones or tree stumps.

Relationships:
Open to discussion!

▶ Getsuy ◀
To some, Getsuy is the end of all things, hunger incarnate, a gnawing darkness that devours without remorse. To Melion, he is as necessary as the sunlight. The Wendigo’s presence does not stir fear within Melion, nor revulsion. Instead, there is recognition. After all, the vines must die for new shoots to rise, and bones must feed the soil.

Getsuy sometimes finds his way to Melion’s grove, a place of peace where even his hunger quiets. Rarely do they speak. There is no need. He sits among the bees and blossoms, the predator still and watchful, the monster no longer monstrous. Melion does not disturb the silence. He offers no judgment, only warmth, stillness, and a soft understanding with a smile. The flowers bloom near Getsuy’s hooves, and the grove hums gently, as if recognizing something long buried.

There are whispers that trespassers near the grove vanish before crossing its edge. Melion knows who lingers at the boundary, but he does not stop him. Balance must be kept, and the hunger must be fed. At least this way, the flowers will bloom a beautiful red.

▶ Morrígan ◀
They are not friends, though the festival has bound their paths often enough to form something quieter: familiarity. Melion, god of bloom and bounty, and Morrígan, herald of the end, opposite ends of the cycle that even gods cannot escape.

Where he brings bees and blossoms, she carries silence and stillness. He has never feared her. She has never flinched at his light. Their conversations are rare, brief, and spare. Yet, beneath them, something ancient resonates, a rhythm not of words, but of purpose.

Once, they passed one another in the aftermath of a village wildfire. Melion stepped through soot and smoke, coaxing green shoots up through scorched earth while Morrigan sat beside the still warm bones. Neither intruded on the other. That was the only time they met beyond the festival.

Mortals have long mistaken them as twin aspects of a single force: the beginning and the end, birth and death, growth and decay. Shrines are built with both their sigils etched side by side, wreaths of blackthorn twined with foxglove. Melion never corrects it. Morrígan doesn’t bother to notice.

They are not a pairing. They are balance. And balance does not need understanding to endure.

Color: D1A054

Other:
Melion cares not for pretending to be a God. He does his duty as is ingrained in him. He attends the feast to be with others who understand him better than humans. To speak and understand what others go through, to see the world through their eyes, even for just a month.

Favourite colours are green, purple, and red.

It may be obvious, but Melion actually is a vegetarian. He does not eat, harm, or use animals.

Noble Arms: The ASEAN War - Thread Three, the Darkest Hour

Archer “Griff” Griffin

---

Thick tar-like substance invaded his lungs, spewing forth visions of fire and force, of volcanic waste blistering his senses. At least, that was how it felt. The chaos, already overwhelming before it began, had spiralled into something worse, something louder, heavier, more alive. And he was drowning in it.

The fire, the noise, the raw presence from his fellow Task Force Obsidians, all forged in sharper flames than he’d ever known. Then came the Zodiac, the arrival of a greater adversary, a new class entirely. It crushed the air from his chest, left him static in place, movement reduced to blurred water-logged cascades of pandemonium.

He swallowed hard. His mouth dry, his throat burned, both clawing at him like a hundred hungry dogs.

The bracers tugged on him, urging him to action, begging him to use them, to activate them once more and become greater than he was, just like before, when he went from useless to becoming danger himself. His mind spiralled, full of options, and the louder absence of them. Letting the gauntlets rise again, allowing himself to use them again after what happened last time, it grated on him like iron in bone. Sooner or later, he’d not likely have a choice, but now, right now, he could choose. But what if he did nothing? What if standing still was just becoming what he had always feared, a waste within. A weight for others to burden. A shadow cast by people doing the real work.

His fists clenched, nails digging into palms, knuckles whitening with tension.

No.

All around him, others surged. Their Noble Arms roared to life, some shining, some cracking the air, some bending light and reality. Each one moved forward. Not all cleanly, or heroically, but forward.

His fingers unfurled, not by conscious thought, but by something else. Metal braced his hands, surging to greet him like a long lost friend. Armour laced itself over skin, not summoned, not commanded. He hadn’t called them, he had needed it, and that was enough.

His gauntlets returned, born before he willed it. No. because he willed it. Steel, weight, presence. They didn’t hum, nor shine. But they were there once again when he needed them. Quiet, heavy, and unrelenting. Just like him.

And with them came the noise, the storm inside. The gauntlets didn’t just respond to his body. They surfaced everything else too. Anger, fear, fury, frustration, it all rose to the top like oil on water. The grief didn’t vanish; it sharpened. Became a blade to carry forward.

A breath. A beat. Then…

Griff burst forward, the moment too sharp for hesitation, too loud for thought. The gauntlets didn’t weigh him down, they propelled him forward. Every step slammed against the deck, shockwaves thrumming through his bones.

Gunfire snapped in his direction. Muzzle flashes flared through the smoke like fireflies with teeth. He threw himself behind a broken chunk of bulkhead plating, one gauntlet raised to shield his face as concrete and sparks bit the air around him. He wasn’t just hiding. He was moving.

His hand found a jagged slab of runway concrete, jagged, heavy, scorched, and with a grunt, he hurled it. The makeshift missile cartwheeled through the air and smashed into the ground between two gunmen, shattering and spraying rock and force in every direction. One soldier stumbled. The other flinched.

That was all the invitation he needed.

He broke cover in a blur, low and fast. One was mid-reload, fumbling with a mag but Griff didn’t let him finish. He shoulder-checked a low crate mid-run, angling the impact to shove it into a second gunman while vaulting over it at speed. His gauntlet slammed the first man's rifle sideways, and his other fist hammered directly into the soldier’s ribs. There was a sound like a branch snapping underfoot, and the man went down, screaming.

More shouts. Another volley of shots. Griff dove behind a cargo container and hooked one arm through a cracked mooring chain. Using the leverage, he threw himself upward, just enough to land on top of the container with a clang. He hit hard on one knee, rolling to absorb the jolt, and immediately launched forward again.

Down below, one of the soldiers tracked upward, weapon raised. Griff vaulted off the edge, dropping like a hammer, feet first, but with all his body weight behind a downward punch.

CRACK.

He didn’t just floor the soldier, he cratered the deck beneath them.

Smoke. Screams. Sparks. Still more enemies coming. He couldn’t think about numbers. Couldn’t think about pain. It all blurred into the raw pressure of battle. The roar in his blood.

A crate slammed open behind him, another soldier, shotgun raised.

Griff grabbed a metal barrel from the debris beside him, and hurled it like a javelin. It slammed into the man, sending him reeling just long enough for Griff to surge forward and crush his helmet under one iron fist.

This wasn’t the same boy who flinched at Nil’s power. This wasn’t the kid afraid of the edges of his own strength. This was something else. Something grim and fast and burning. The fear, the doubt, the grief, it all still hurt. But this? This was something he could do.

And he was just getting started.

The Golden age of Piracy

E D R I C B L A K E
E D R I C B L A K E

^{Interacting with: NULL
Location: Aboard the Gunpowder Storm}

---

Edric had volunteered to stay aboard. There was always work to be done, and it wouldn’t get done swilling the pisswater that the local taverns or wenchhouses suffered upon their patrons. Not that he didn’t enjoy a pint, gods knew he had, but time on land could soften a man when he wasn’t looking. One drink became two, two turned to dice or worse, and soon the whole evening slipped away. He didn’t begrudge the crew their pleasures. But for him, the quiet was its own reward. Besides, ships didn’t rest, not really. Not even in dock.

He started forward along his usual route, a loop he had walked more times than he could count. It wasn’t written down, but it was there all the same. Start at the fo’c’sle, check the rigging coils by the windlass, then move down along the starboard rail. Midships, pause, watch, listen. A ship talks if you let it, you just have to know how to hear her.

The ropes were too loose again. He knelt beside the pile, hands moving with quiet precision, no grumbling, no muttering, just the steady pull and tuck of a man who’d done it a thousand times before. The lines coiled tighter now, neater. Done right. He let his fingers trail the rope a moment longer than needed and felt the oil, the wear. Not bad quality, not great either. He made a note of that.

Next came the railings, especially where the crew leaned too often, rough fingers left splinters. A fraying gasket drew his eye. He crouched low again, blade flashing for a moment in the dull light before cleanly slicing the binding free. From a pouch at his hip, he pulled a new cord, tied it, and tugged it tight.

Onward. He passed the hatch down to the hold and pressed his palm to the wood. It was solid but the hinge… he knelt again and ran his thumb through the grit and rust gathering there. Salt and time, the Silent killers. He made a note to oil it later.

The sweep wasn’t about urgency, it was about rhythm, repetition, and comfort. A ship was too big to hold in your head all at once, but if you walked her long enough, listened to her, you’d feel it when something was off.

He paused amidships. That was always where he stopped, like a heartbeat between steps. He let his hand rest on the mainmast, fingers splayed. She didn’t speak in words, but Edric swore he could hear something when it was quiet enough. Not voices, or ghosts, Just… the ship, breathing, waiting.

He exhaled through his nose and kept going. The port rail. The cannon mounts. He nudged each, letting his boot do the talking. Solid, but the boards beneath… he crouched, ran a hand along the grain. Still some soot, and the fastenings? Loose. Danneil would get to them, sure, but if he didn’t, Edric would. That was the rule. You didn’t leave things half-done. You didn’t assume someone else would do it. Not if you wanted to keep the sea on the other side of the hull.

He moved again, past the galley hatch, then the quarterdeck steps, and finally the wheel. All part of the loop. All steps in a dance only he deemed to remember.

At the stern, where the wind hit clean off the water, Edric laid a hand on the railing and stared out at the harbor’s edge. Sunlight glinted on the sea like shattered gold, it was peaceful, almost too much so. He'd never liked Nassau. Too many soft hands, too many loud mouths, but a ship in port was still a ship, and this one still had her shape.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, listening. The ship wasn’t quiet, not really. She whispered as she shifted, as she waited. She always did.