@･ﾟ✧ choi yeonjun ⤿ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: in this world or the one below - brian tyler
"What do you have against Praiya?"
With those words, Yeonjun draws the weight of the first mate's sharp gaze. Those pale blue eyes are ablaze, the master gunner weighed as a dangerous stillness settles over the small pirate.
Thorn does not like being questioned.
There is no one among their crew who does not know this; and if there is, that man is not Yeonjun.
This is not the first time he has called the captain's decisions into question, but it is the first time he has done so over something so small as the destination. He has never stood against Alistair and refused to follow the captain's commands on a mere whim. Thorn is a creature of free spirit, to be sure, but with his own reckless nature, it is a strange thing indeed for the first mate to be the one who raises the alarm.
There is a danger that awaits which Thorn cannot protect his crew from, should they follow this course.
What does he have against Praiya, indeed.
Everyone aboard the Scarlet Lady has had their fair share of secrets, though one by one the men gathered in this room have laid theirs—most, if not all—bare. Even Alistair has spoken of his history, halting words shared over the celebration of a particularly spectacular victory against a Dyrsani imperial vessel.
...save for one man, and that one is Thorn.
He has always been secretive; tight-lipped even when the crew tries to persuade him into spilling his tales over drink after battles won and treasures claimed. Little is known of him, and that is how Thorn likes it.
He is not the only member of their crew with a past stained by blood, by any means; but there is a threat that lingers over Thorn whenever he is tempted to speak of what befell him and drove him to the sea. He is not like the men that he sails with; his secrets must be protected.
And all the same, loath as he is to admit...
Yeonjun has a point.
Thorn knows it is true; the Scarlet Lady shouldn't attack another ship when she's in such a state. The first mate's eyes flit to the side, contemplating his options. The ship's options. It would seem that they have little, but all eyes in the room rest on the first mate, awaiting an answer to Yeonjun's forsaken question.
"We sail to Tha Yai instead," he eventually suggests. It's a smaller portside city; it does not offer the hustle and bustle of Praiya. If someone is looking for the Scarlet Lady, they're more likely to find her easily in Tha Yai... but it is not a place anyone is likely to look. Once, before the Andar came, Tha Yai was a hub of power for his people. Now it is a city that crumbles into waste, distant reaches reclaimed by the jungle.
Most importantly, it is not in the southeastern reaches of Atith; instead, it lies to the North.
Alistair grimaces, but he speaks carefully; tiptoeing around Thorn's wrath. "It is far for us to sail, in this state. Tha Yai is not a good place to replenish munitions, either. Have we other options? Nisarat, perhaps?"
Thorn worries at the piercing in his lower lip with his tongue and shakes his head. No; Nisarat is not much safer than Praiya. Still in the southeast, but there is another layer of danger. It is too important a port, where rich merchants and nobility dock. If there is a place in Atith—beyond the stretch of the capital—where the King pretends he cares for his land, it is Nisarat. "The Kingsguard sit heavy in Nisarat ports. It would be... unwise."
"So then," Alistair exhales, "we have no other options. We will sail for Praiya."
It is clear the captain is leaving no room for argument.
"It is a death warrant, Lis," Thorn snarls. A hopeless feeling festers in his chest, an all-consuming fear. "The blood spilled will not be on /my/ hands."
With that, the first mate shoulders past the captain and storms from the navigation room, expression dark as thunder as he flees into the depths of the ship, where he intends to lurk in the darkness and contemplate what must be done.
@･ﾟ✧ ten chittaphon There was a tang of copper on the breeze that sent a chilling shudder through him. No matter how old one got, nothing could beat the sickly sweet scent of blood on the breeze. The tall man had been leaning against the mast for some time, his participation the definition of minimal aside from the glower in the direction of any who approached him. The commotion had very much died down - those that didn’t fight aboard this ship would be spared, captured, reused in a way, either for sustenance to vampiric members of the crew or as useful bargaining pieces in the future.
One such expression of disdain was fixed upon a young man who approached him. He was no captain, or even first mate, but Fenghai kept this crew on a tight leash. He was older even than their captain - wherever the miserable bastard hid away when he sent his minions to do his bidding for him. “Nothing.” The poor lad didn’t make eye contact, shifting uncertainly as Fenghai repeated; “/Nothing/?” Silence fell for a moment, before the vampire drew himself upright and scowled. “Then what are you still doing here? Get back to our ship before you test the waters for our dear Captain, here.”
The victim, he had admittedly struggled to draw any type of confession out of thus far. But if the ship had been searched and nothing of the treasure this group sought had been found - well, he had to take his anger out on something. Without further ado, the vampire swept forward across the stained deck, his crimson clothing a striking contrast to the dark wood of the deck.
His victim was bound and guarded - he seemed the individual with most reason, who seemed to have the situation under as much control as possible when they were of course, losing to a band of vampiric pirates, and so Fenghai had drawn the conclusion that this would be their captain. The water below thrashed with figures belonging to no ordinary fish, ripples of emerald and sapphire scales emerging and vanishing once more. Sirens. Drawn in by the scent of blood, searching for an easy meal just as much as his kind. “I would pretend to apologise for this, my friend, but I am really quite disappointed to find absolutely nothing of value to me. I will do you however a great service and allow you to take your final leap off your own ship, rather than lingering as a captive a while longer as the rest of your crew will. They will be taken care of, so there is no need to worry.” Releasing a slow, long-suffering sigh, as if the predicament pained him, Fenghai made a lazy shooing gesture with one hand. “You may jump yourself, or you can be pushed, I will leave the decision to you.”
There’s always work to do in the wake of a battle. Cannons to check and clean, ammunition to restock, the general area of the cannons and weaponry to check for damages and potential hazards, his team to check over. Yeonjun has a laundry list of duties that need revised, and he works through them dutifully alongside his team.
Despite the title of master gunner, given to him for his years of service to Captain Alistair and the Scarlet Lady and to the years he’d served before on the Blue Hour, Yeonjun treats himself like any other member of the crew. Outside of his additional duties with the weapons and ammunition, he slogs through the same bull they do and throws himself into their work all the same.
In spite of her circumstances, Yeonjun’s mother had done the best she could for her young son. It was just her luck that as she finally found a way to make an honest woman of herself, stepping from the life of a wench living in a cramped, floating brothel to that of a wealthy man’s mistress, her son had fled and returned to the sea. Still, she’d done right by Yeonjun, raising him to be thoughtful and observant, to remain humble despite windfalls, and to never lord his power over others.
He misses her sometimes, fiercely so. But the life of a classy, groomed aristocrat had never been in Yeonjun’s cards. Suits chafed, and the thought of all those rules… No, Yeonjun had too much fire in his heart and spite in his veins. The lawless life of a pirate, ruled only by their virtues and values, suited him just fine.
Still, he does miss her.
Sighing, Yeonjun drags a hand through his hair, squinting through the dim at the cannon he’d been cleaning. Despite the hour and all the brilliant light outside, the space beneath deck is gloomy, brightened only by the oil-burning lamps and what little light streams through the still-open shutters to pool on the worn wood of the floor. And even with that much, he must take care --- gunpowder had been spilled in their fight, and it still dusts the floor in some places. A spark could set the room ablaze. Even so, all considered, the damage here had been minimal, especially for the vessel they’d taken on. But there was still a new hole in the side, and at least one railing above deck that had been shattered by cannon fire.
“—jun?”
Half in the cannon as he is, Yeonjun doesn’t hear his name until there’s a body almost literally on top of him.
Captain Alistair knows better than to ask Yeonjun what he’s doing, aware of the standards Yeonjun adheres to. And in Yeonjun’s defense, they are good standards — they haven’t lost crew to misfiring cannons since shortly after Yeonjun was promoted into the master gunner role — but he does make a sharp noise of what might be impatience.
How telling.
Yeonjun tries not to smile as he continues to run his fingers over the interior in search of cracks and weakness. “Good day, captain. Lovely weather we’re having,” Yeonjun says by way of greeting. “Let me guess: there’s a meeting and I’m invited.” The captain’s silence is telling enough, if not also some version of exhausted, and Yeonjun attempts to continue smothering his smile. It would not do to be seen or heard laughing at his captain’s irritation. Title or not, Yeonjun has no desire to be locked in the brig for insolence.
“I’ll finish this inspection and head there.” Then, knowing that he’d likely been the first, because it would afford him the time to finish any task he might be midway through, Yeonjun offers, “I believe Crow is still treating the wounded. And I saw Thorn on deck as I was heading down to begin my checks.”
There’s another noise that sounds more like assent than annoyance, and then he can feel more than hear the heavy footfalls as the captain takes his leave.
It takes Yeonjun another couple minutes to finish, though it kills him to leave the overall job unfinished. With a nod to the other gunners that had lingered to clean and restock at his instruction, Yeonjun grabs his tools and moves for the stairs.
Most of the post-battle meetings happened in the navigation room. Often enough, it was to plot a course to sell their new material wealth. But today would likely be another reason. The Scarlet Lady needed repairs, and their carpenter wouldn’t be able to salvage from the vessel they’d battled, not when it had been left in splinters and fragments.
Yeonjun isn’t the first to arrive, but he isn’t the last, either, which means he’s not late. Nodding to Crow, Yeonjun peers over the map on the table as he moves past, eyeing the gilded lettering and the land masses. Despite having picked up just enough skill in map reading to be useful, there’s nothing to indicate the path they’re set on, and he moves back to wait, mulling over what he’s seen.
Atith…
He’s familiar with the name, as most pirates are, because the land is a rich but lawless one – a pirate’s presumed paradise. But in all his time on the Scarlet Lady, Yeonjun doesn’t recall ever docking at an Atith port. He’d assumed then that it was due to a history the captain wasn’t obligated to share with his crew.
Yeonjun’s musing is cut short as the captain and his first mate enter, with Alistair’s heavy bootfalls preceding them and Thorn a study of light and dark, a silent step behind him.
His eyes linger for a long moment, taking in the way the first mate studies the map, before they skitter away. His mother’s words return to him, as they always do when Yeonjun’s attention lingers a little too long in places it shouldn’t.
There’s a danger in beauty, and beauty in danger, and Thorn is both. To look for too long feels like Yeonjun is staring down a beast waiting to strike, and he’s never enjoyed feeling like prey. But even with his eyes cast away, Yeonjun can feel it, the moment a shark is seen in still waters, the moment a lion is seen through the grass. The lull before the storm, the silence before cannon fire.
While there are many reasons Yeonjun had willingly chosen to return to the sea after his mother managed to pull them both away, the first and foremost is that despite Yeonjun’s relative intelligence compared to many of his peers, he’d hated the restrictions of learning from books. Papers and books and lectures and being prim and proper — that hadn’t been the life Yeonjun wanted. But while he’s far from the most learned individual on the ship, he’s skilled enough at reading his peers and learning from their body language. He must be as a pirate. It’s a trick of survival, to be able to see the tell-tale twitch of a hand before it goes to a pistol, to note the tension of muscles and shifting of weight so he knows when to draw his sword and block or when to strike home and end the duel without fanfare.
Yeonjun’s eyes fix on Thorn, hand itching for his blade even though he knows no one in this room will hurt him. It’s instinctive, a need for defense when encountering a bigger predator than oneself.
Thorn is the only possible the threat Yeonjun might be feeling.
Hand stuffed into the pocket of his breeches to resist the urge to check his weapon, Yeonjun watches the three go back and forth, putting the pieces together.
Thorn’s reluctance to go to Atith, his reaction to Praiya. There’s something there, and Thorn had been the one steering them clear of these waters. But Thorn had always been tight-lipped about his history, the who and what before the Scarlet Lady. Even Yeonjun had opened up during one rowdy celebration following a hard-won battle. It had taken the other gunners plying him with rum and exotic spirits, but eventually Yeonjun had told of growing up in the floating brothel and his fascination with the visiting vessels, of his mother getting them out and his returning to the sea because it felt more like home than the manor his mother’s patron had taken them to, of begging the captain of the Blue Hour to take him on board and give him a chance to prove himself.
There’s something there. Yeonjun just doesn’t know what.
“What do you have against Praiya?”
For the first time in the entire conversation, Yeonjun draws attention to himself, carefully watching Thorn and methodically working to keep the tension from his body. He picks his next words with more caution. “The hole in our hull needs repair sooner rather than later. The railing is an annoyance, but negligible compared to the fact that one rogue wave could sink us.” And though Yeonjun won’t voice it, unlike Thorn, who seems like a strong swimmer, some of their crew would drown in moments. There’s more than just sharks in those waters, and Yeonjun isn’t foolish enough to delude himself into believing otherwise.
“We could pursue another vessel,” Yeonjun starts, stepping forward until he’s at the map, better able to see more of Thorn’s tells, though his eyes remain fixed for the moment on Thorn’s face. “We could take from it what we need for repairs. But we’re not in top shape, and it runs more risk to both the Scarlet Lady and our crew. And that’s just our ship. We need ammunition soon, too, and who knows what else.”
Yeonjun’s not doing this just to pick a fight with Thorn. Not this time at least. Any other time, any other day, any situation other than the one they’re tiptoeing around now, and he might be, just to go boot to toe with one of the best fighters that Yeonjun has ever had the privilege to study in motion. Any other day, and Yeonjun would selfishly relish the opportunity to see Thorn in graceful, deadly flight, a selfishness he can’t bear admitting aloud to anyone else because of the implications of the act.
He's tried so hard not to be selfish.
But today he must think of the crew first, putting their safety and needs before his own desires, and that makes the choice easy, if only this once.
Yeonjun glances from Thorn down to the map, then to the captain, and finally back to Thorn, brow arched. “What other options do we have?”
. . . the sun shines bright overhead, warm rays heating the deck of the ship that pushes through calm waters. The wind kicks up a spray of salt on its path to fill the ship's sails and carry her away from the wreckage of the last unfortunate ship that had crossed her path. Though victorious, she has not escaped unscathed, bearing marked damage of the battle that had ensued; with a broken railing and a fresh new hole in her side, fortunately sitting above the water-line, she has been battered much like her foe.
Her first mate lays outstretched on his back on the poop deck, the boards warm underneath him. Sunshine pools on his face and glints off the assortment of gold and amethyst that decorates ears, nose, beneath his lip and below his left eye. His breathing is even, his eyes closed; he would almost seem to be asleep if not for one eye cracking open on occasion, or the tilt of his head from side to side when he listens to the hustle and bustle of the crew on deck.
With his arms tucked under his head and his legs crossed at the ankles, he soaks up the sun, like a lazy cat napping in the perfect patch of light. The activity of the crew does not spur him to rise; the sea is relaxed, and so is he—
"Thorn!"
—he is relaxed no longer.
One eye cracks open, the first mate listening to the thunder of footsteps that can only belong to the captain. It is not anger that he hears in those footfalls, but there is a sense of urgency. A thing he is no stranger to, certainly; but it does not bode well to hear their captain so hurried.
Golden bracelets tinkle against one another as Thorn slides his arms from beneath his head. Palms planted on the boards, he pushes himself up, body pulled from the deck in a graceful arch. Though the fresh-stitched wound in his side throbs in protest, Thorn pays the pain little mind as he scampers down from the poop deck, light-footed in his path to the captain.
"Thor—there you are," Captain Alistair cuts himself off. There are weary lines around his eyes, though Thorn will not be taking responsibility for their creation—although they are, most likely, his fault. "Come."
He doesn't wait for a response—he never does—and turns on his heel to stalk back the way he had come, a hand raised after a moment to beckon the first mate to follow him.
And follow him Thorn does. He follows the captain to the navigation room, though only one set of footsteps echoes between the ship's walls. Thorn's bare feet ghost over the planks without even the softest whisper of sound.
For how quietly he moves, Captain Alistair had once threatened to tie a bell to him—but he decided that he valued his fingers enough to do no such thing.
The navigation room is not empty when they arrive. A handful of the crew await, strewn throughout the room. They are those with rank, from their master gunner to their saw-bones and, of course, the first mate and captain. Thorn does not let his eyes linger on any of them—instead, his gaze fixates on the map spread open on the table.
He drifts across the room, palms resting on the edge of the table as he bends forward. His eyes trace the familiar outline of a peninsula that juts into the sea, a coastline swept with the names of rich port cities. Even as his blood runs cold, his fingertips drift across the gilded letters that spell out /Siam Plateau/—a northern expanse that Thorn has never traveled to.
If those sun-darkened fingers tremble, Thorn would dare someone to breathe word of it—be it to him, or when his back is turned.
For the map seems like a harmless thing; to his companions, Thorn is sure it is little more than another map; but to Thorn, it is a reminder.
"Atith," the first mate murmurs. It tastes like ash, a bitter aftertaste clinging to his tongue.
It brings to mind nights soaked in blood, the whisper of steel pressed against his throat, the fire burning in his veins.
It is perhaps just another map, the wrong one laid upon the table—but Alistair is not careless with his maps, particularly those with an underlying significance. There is, after all, a reason that the Scarlet Lady has not turned for Atithi waters in the seven years that Thorn has haunted her deck.
Slowly, he turns toward the captain. He says nothing, but the question must be in his eyes—Alistair meets his gaze, uncowed, and utters,
"We sail for Atith."
A tense handful of moments tick by as Thorn holds the captain's gaze. Then he turns back to the map spread on the table, a question weighing heavy on the tip of his tongue—but it is one he does not need to voice. He knows why they would sail to Atith—a kingdom of gold and lawlessness—it is an empire where a pirate may think to find safe haven.
And perhaps they would, but there is no safe haven in Atith for the likes of Thorn or any who can claim to travel with him.
"Where," the first mate eventually inquires. It is a better question, one that he does not already hold the answer to. He leans forward, hands planted on the table, and studies the coastline. There are no marks on the map to indicate where the Scarlet Lady may sail.
A handful of seconds spin out, silent as the grave.
Thorn waits, waits for what feels like an eternity; but the captain does not answer. His inhale is sharp, steeling himself before he repeats the question. "Where do we sail, Captain?"
This time, he is answered, but it is not the answer he wishes to hear.
"Praiya."
Praiya.
His head is tilted toward the map under his palms, but Thorn does not see. It is not the rambling coasts of Atith or the sprawl of cities along her coast that spill out before his eyes; instead, he sees the blood pooling on the wooden planks of a tavern floor, the arrows buried in the wood.
"Praiya," Thorn echoes, wisp-thin and brittle as a blade of grass dried in the heat of Bhudarak summers. He raises his head, cloud-white hair falling in his eyes, and for a moment, he looks, but sees nothing.
Slowly he straightens, sea-calloused hands sliding away from the map.
In a swirl of dark cloth, a coat that does not belong to him, Thorn wheels on Alistair. Two long strides bring him in front of the captain, head tilted up as through clenched teeth he snarls, "This is a fool's choice, Lis."
Alistair had been fresh-faced, a youth stepping into the shoes of his father, taking the reins of a skeleton crew when he had limped the ship to the southeastern reaches of Atith and Thorn had tried to slit his throat and take his gold. They had not been in Praiya, but they had been near; Thorn had not gotten far, but he had seized an opportunity to flee from what pursued him.
This is not a thing known by most of the crew.
Nor is it known that Thorn, with all of his proclivities and the many tongues that he speaks, is Ati.
His people are not common, beyond their own borders. They are not like the Doram Vaan, nor the Andar; one cannot throw a stone into a crowd and strike someone hailing from Atith—and those who walk among the Outsiders do not often reveal that they are Ati.
Thorn knows, intimately, what happens to an Ati that does not guard his secrets as jealously as a dragon lords over his hoard.
"We are closest to Praiya," Crow interjects.
It is a fool's errand. Thorn wheels on the saw-bones, his eyes ablaze.
"Have the lot of you decided this without me?" the first mate snaps. There is a pressure, crushing down on his chest; a panic that cannot be quelled, a helpless fear of what may come should he step back into Praiya. There is a danger there unlike any other he has ever faced. It knows him, knows his weakness and his strength—and the truest secret of them all, the one that Thorn should have guarded with his life.
Alas, he was a fool once; a boy without the sense to realize where the most dangerous creatures lurked, and it was only once bitten that he learned.
"I warn you now," Thorn continues, wild eyes flitting over the gathered pirates, "if we sail to Praiya, we will /regret/ it."
