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A Spiny Ant
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Most Recent Posts
@Nanaya Otis is gonna check the time. What’s it looking like?
Job
"Captain"
Cause of Death
"Drowning"
Background
There was the village, the wilds, and the ocean.
That was all he knew as a child, the eldest son of an impoverished family of fishermen. He could draw nets at the same pace he learned to walk, and he sailed with his father upon those sky-blue waves when he could understand language and motive. The family had to eat and so did the village. It only made sense to do their part best they could for the betterment of all, for who would be fool enough to hoard more than what they could consume? The largest man of the village didn’t account for much if any two others came up with sticks and stones. Knives made it even easier, if one was willing to up the ante. Fish and humans both spilled their guts after a single swing in the right place, even if one flopped around more than the other.
That was what he was born in, and he had no reason to believe it would ever change.
But the world was connected by the ocean, and what waves made in one part of the world would inevitably reach the other. Even as they ate the same amount, fished the same amount, the yield grew less and less. More ships travelled in the distance, trawling the seas, crossing the waters. And in-land, gunfire and explosions could be heard more and more frequently, the thunder that rolled over cloudless plains. The lands were lawless, but there were those who sought to instate laws regardless, who sought control over those who they’ve never even shared a meal with before. The largest man didn’t account for much if any two others came up with sticks and stones, but two others would be far from enough if the individual had an automatic firearm.
The village could no longer be allowed to exist on its own. It had to be part of a nation now, had to use the national currency, had to pay for the right to live on the land, had to report to officials with more fuel and bullets than common sense and respect for their fellow man.
His father was incensed, but himself? He wasn’t so set in the old ways. If fishing wasn’t enough, then there was another option for someone born to break the waves.
Piracy.
And Captain Belo was good at it.
He was already big, and he ate to get even bigger, understanding that even in the age of projectile weapons, there was nothing quite as intimidating as sheer mass to the human psyche. He learned the language of his victims, affecting himself with the accent of their leaders, for this was no crime he committed, but rather a business transaction. He remained generous, even as his activities estranged himself from his family, and the breadth of his heart made him popular in the markets whenever he needed investors to chip in on his business ventures. Others were more savage, more brutal, but with that unfettered violence came that risk of simply being conned. Captain Belo though? His name travelled as his activities did. He dressed well, possessed good manners, and his crew suffered the fewest casualties out at sea. They trusted him, and he rewarded them for their trust in kind.
It was a golden time, just as brilliant as those days in his youth, when all he had to think about was the day’s catch. He once caught fish, then he caught ships.
Now, however? He couldn’t catch either.
International patrols made his job more and more dangerous. The provisional government no longer condoned such activities, in exchange for foreign aid. The markets were frequented by less investors, and those he once knew had to turn upon their own kind in order to set food on the table. Foreign elements strengthened their foothold upon the arid lands, and when he returned to his village, to his home, he found that he had been sending money back to a ghost town.
The fisheries had dried up. Foreign vessels had won the war, and nothing remained but an old, sun-bleached skiff, laid upon the sands
He sat there for a bit. Considered the invitations he had received. There was always a need for a singular package of muscles and brains. He spoke the language of foreign merchants well, had a level-headed attitude, and could be relied upon to deliver and share. Though it would be a den of snakes he strode into, they would not bite him.
But he was a man of the sea. Caves didn’t suit him.
And so, Belo set the skiff in the waters, gripped the well-worn handle of the paddle, and began to row, off upon a voyage which he would not return from.
That was all he knew as a child, the eldest son of an impoverished family of fishermen. He could draw nets at the same pace he learned to walk, and he sailed with his father upon those sky-blue waves when he could understand language and motive. The family had to eat and so did the village. It only made sense to do their part best they could for the betterment of all, for who would be fool enough to hoard more than what they could consume? The largest man of the village didn’t account for much if any two others came up with sticks and stones. Knives made it even easier, if one was willing to up the ante. Fish and humans both spilled their guts after a single swing in the right place, even if one flopped around more than the other.
That was what he was born in, and he had no reason to believe it would ever change.
But the world was connected by the ocean, and what waves made in one part of the world would inevitably reach the other. Even as they ate the same amount, fished the same amount, the yield grew less and less. More ships travelled in the distance, trawling the seas, crossing the waters. And in-land, gunfire and explosions could be heard more and more frequently, the thunder that rolled over cloudless plains. The lands were lawless, but there were those who sought to instate laws regardless, who sought control over those who they’ve never even shared a meal with before. The largest man didn’t account for much if any two others came up with sticks and stones, but two others would be far from enough if the individual had an automatic firearm.
The village could no longer be allowed to exist on its own. It had to be part of a nation now, had to use the national currency, had to pay for the right to live on the land, had to report to officials with more fuel and bullets than common sense and respect for their fellow man.
His father was incensed, but himself? He wasn’t so set in the old ways. If fishing wasn’t enough, then there was another option for someone born to break the waves.
Piracy.
And Captain Belo was good at it.
He was already big, and he ate to get even bigger, understanding that even in the age of projectile weapons, there was nothing quite as intimidating as sheer mass to the human psyche. He learned the language of his victims, affecting himself with the accent of their leaders, for this was no crime he committed, but rather a business transaction. He remained generous, even as his activities estranged himself from his family, and the breadth of his heart made him popular in the markets whenever he needed investors to chip in on his business ventures. Others were more savage, more brutal, but with that unfettered violence came that risk of simply being conned. Captain Belo though? His name travelled as his activities did. He dressed well, possessed good manners, and his crew suffered the fewest casualties out at sea. They trusted him, and he rewarded them for their trust in kind.
It was a golden time, just as brilliant as those days in his youth, when all he had to think about was the day’s catch. He once caught fish, then he caught ships.
Now, however? He couldn’t catch either.
International patrols made his job more and more dangerous. The provisional government no longer condoned such activities, in exchange for foreign aid. The markets were frequented by less investors, and those he once knew had to turn upon their own kind in order to set food on the table. Foreign elements strengthened their foothold upon the arid lands, and when he returned to his village, to his home, he found that he had been sending money back to a ghost town.
The fisheries had dried up. Foreign vessels had won the war, and nothing remained but an old, sun-bleached skiff, laid upon the sands
He sat there for a bit. Considered the invitations he had received. There was always a need for a singular package of muscles and brains. He spoke the language of foreign merchants well, had a level-headed attitude, and could be relied upon to deliver and share. Though it would be a den of snakes he strode into, they would not bite him.
But he was a man of the sea. Caves didn’t suit him.
And so, Belo set the skiff in the waters, gripped the well-worn handle of the paddle, and began to row, off upon a voyage which he would not return from.
Belo
6'9 | 169 lbsOrc Grunt | Drasil
"Ah, hell. Another world where me and mine are treated as vermin."
Go nuclear.
Be Rudeus pre-isekai.
Be Rudeus pre-isekai.
getting close enough to the young Bronsteel to almost touch noses, looking right into his eyes
Now kiss.
So, presumably anything beneath Vecta Form isn't filled out until after we reincarnate?
Take it easy best you can, Sifr. Not worth overextending for a hobby when you can't even secure sleep.
Could just be as simple as everyone being brought into the new world at the same place, before they're then given free reign to go head out in a group or alone.
Lol lmao. We could’ve just walked out and peaced out no problemo.
//Night 1 | Location: Nameless Forest - Lakeside
@AThousandCurses@baraquiel@Nakushita@Yankee@Vertigo@Cu Chulainn
It smelled of pine and spring.
Asahi’s eyes opened, one at a time. It had been the deepest, most dreamless sleep he had had in years, and yet he still felt tired at the end of it, as if he hadn’t recovered at all. There was perhaps some clarity in his vision, perhaps his head no longer felt so woozy, but that sensation of lightness, as his body responded a touch too slow for his mind, persisted. He was starving. A couple of fish wouldn’t do it. He had given so much, suffered so much, and in the end?
Well, it had been worth it.
Framed by firelight, Sasuke sat beside him, offering a slight nod, a slight smile, as he chewed upon a skewered fish. Whatever injuries he had suffered from, whatever the effects of the blood-purge caused by Duncan’s ichor, the youth was there beside Asahi now, a starlight brilliance in his dark blue eyes. It was a miracle, a miracle that they had all struggled through to obtain. And it was their blueprint too now, the elixir they could use to bring anyone else back.
Almost as much of a miracle, really, as the fact that the shelter they were now in had walls. Not high enough to rise to the top of the poles, but tall enough to block out the wind and the bugs. Mud had been caked against a frame made of wooden poles, a primitive yet effective solution, and the architect of all this free-standing shelter, Rin, was curled up in a corner of the space, alongside one of the Ito twins, snoring with such a ferocity that Asahi wondered how he even stayed asleep for that long.
If he closed his eyes though, he could almost imagine it. That they were at that camping spot up in the mountains, two years ago. That they were back in Japan, just a one-hour bus ride away from home.
“Oh hey, Duncan,” Maki’s voice sounded out, followed by a light kick that alerted the dozing basketball ace. “Looks like Asahi’s up now.”
Yuki, however, wasn’t.
While his complexion had improved the same way that Sasuke had, he remained unconsciousness, nothing more than a limp body resting upon the leaf-woven blankets that Tsubasa and Masato had made together. Haruko and Daisuke were present too, the former flashing a smile towards Asahi when their eyes met, while the latter was constantly peeking over the top of the wall, as if checking on the situation.
And what the situation was?
Well, even if they weren’t that close, there was no way Ayane would see her step-sister get smashed into the dirt and stay silent over it.
…
Shun hadn’t had much time to rest, not when she had borne the brunt of Ayane’s tirade immediately after breaking a good couple dozen bones in Ayana’s body and sending the girl straight to bed. Why had she done it? Why did she resort to such extreme levels of violence? What the fuck did Ayana even do to deserve this? Was being stressed and then snapping from it all that wrong? It wasn’t like everyone was out to break Kogen’s skull in, no matter how many dirty looks or weird words the chuunibyou spat out on the regular, so why do that to Ayana? Over a rock too!
Hiroshi tried to mediate, of course, but Duncan had peaced out long ago and while he knew a lot about everything, emotional situations like this wasn’t something he understood how to handle. Shun’s left cheek remained unmarred by the terrific slap that Ayane delivered; the fashionista’s own hand was still an angry, throbbing red from the impact. Even when the others rushed over to break up this one-sided fight, they too had questions. The rock that Ayana clutched so desperately even in her unconscious state didn’t look all that special at all, outside of being black, and there wasn’t really any way for them all to understand how this whole chain of events had happened.
What triggered Ayana to start bringing up a chuuni moniker? Why did Shun decide extreme, near-lethal violence was the way to resolve the situation?
They all sat by the fire now, except for a select few who had checked out into the shelter or were still handling menial tasks around the campsite. Enough time had passed, at least, that Ayane herself had managed to hold back her anger enough that she wasn’t going to lash out anymore, but, well, it all depended on it, didn’t it?
What Ayana was like when she stirred.
How she would respond, when she realized the Endless Eclipse was missing from her person.
Firewood crackled.
Her eyes opened.
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