For an ongoing storyline … Crow finds him on a path of a new rumor. As an agent of the Priest Kings one might wonder … who will pay the cost if they are found true.
[09:20] Crow (melchior.wardell) had his spies and his whispers so when he walked casual through the city he might not seem to have a sense of direction. But he would come to a halt at the Inn. The place mostly empty as his keen eyes would rest upon the woman. He held pause – as if he was to search for words.
Crow wasn;t the most social fellow and yet there was this agreeable charm over him. Something of his high caste upbringing was never truly lost on the simple killer.
He inclined his head “Greetings, lady.” his voice of a darker timbre so warm and yet fierce.
[09:23] Neeve Barbosa (kristie.tigerpaw) looked up from her warm larma juice when she heard the man speak. She smiled lightly at him – there she was still a little reserved with strangers. “Tal sir. ” She looks around “I have not seen you before. I hope you are feeling welcomedhere in the Var.”
[09:28] Crow (melchior.wardell) would move closer while he remained behind the fence of the Inn. Perhaps to give that false sense of security. The assassin had overcome more difficult things in his life and knew what would stop him and what would not. Even in his age he was flexible enough and fit to jump precise. His smile came easy as his gaze searched for hers. “It is often a good thing.” he answers to her not seeing him before.
“Strangely enough the welcome has been well.” he added as he recalled his conversation with Liam.
“Forgive me my ignorance .. I am called Crow. I am a man of the caste of Assassins.” he introduced himself.
[09:33] Neeve Barbosa (kristie.tigerpaw) lets out a small “oh,” her brows lifting in mild surprise. “Not sent to kill me, I hope?” she added with a light, amused chuckle. She flicked her fingers over her cloak, pulling it tighter around herself against the lingering chill, even though the snow had finally stopped. “I’m glad to hear the welcome’s been good,” she said warmly. “And here you are at the inn—have you come in search of food or drink, or are you simply passing by?” she asked softly, her gaze settling on him.
[09:37] Crow (melchior.wardell) kept her under that gaze. Seeing the small surprise and measuring in what he would answer. “Do you expect someone to pay good money for your life?” he asks. The question was one that came often. He couldn’t recall if he ever truly answered unless it was on the moment of his kill. Still he was one that could answer ‘Yes’ in jest, but would she truly take him serious if he had?
“Are you glad ?” he asks “As I do feel you have not given me the curtsy of your name ?”
He was one not known to play with food so came right to his business. “Do I stand before the Head of Caste of the physicians? You see … “he paused “I make it my business to know certain things and I would very much like to discuss a matter of importance. If you are – that is.”
[09:42] Neeve Barbosa (kristie.tigerpaw) licked her lips slowly, taking in the way he held her gaze and the careful manner of his reply. At his question, she let out a quiet sigh. Her name—of course. The one unknown left between them. For a moment she hesitated, weighing the choice, before reminding herself that this was her city, not his. She gave a small nod.
“Ah, yes. I am indeed the one you’re searching for—the Head of the physicians.” Her tone softened as she continued, “My name is Neeve Barbosa-Levee. Or perhaps Levee-Barbosa. I’ve yet to decide which sounds better… if either does at all.” She chuckled lightly, finishing her drink.
“Would you prefer to speak in the infirmary,” she asked, meeting his eyes again, “or here in the inn?”
[09:47] Crow (melchior.wardell) was as ever calm and measured. As if every motion of him was given thought. In a way it was drilled in him that his pose, mannerisms mattered. His humble approach at times disarming and putting people on the wrong foot. His knifes and words could be razor sharp if need be.
“The matter is delicate.” he stated “But it is up to you. I do not wish to isolate you or put you in a spot that is not comfortable to you.” he stated. A sense of care was given. He was no brute. He was in a way very much the sophisticated fellow that understood the importance of women in Gor. He would respect that status.
[09:50] Neeve Barbosa (kristie.tigerpaw) sighs. Assuming that perhaps his ‘delicate’ situation might have been a medical issue or something that might require supplies, she simply stood, and lead to the way to the infirmary. Of course, she’d make sure she had her hair pin in her hair dosed with sleeping powder just incase. [09:50] Janice Saiz (jace.saiz) is offline.
[09:57] Crow (melchior.wardell) followed seeing the Ubar as they passed. He had dipped his head in his direction. And could already sense the way the man might worry as to his citizens. Good reason – as none were safe for when gold was paid.
As he stood in the door opening he didn’t yet seated himself. But he would wait till she did before he would tell her of his reasons. “When I speak of serums … I do not speak of the amount I need to grow old.” he stated cryptic as to read what the mere sentence would tell him of her.
[10:03] Neeve Barbosa (kristie.tigerpaw) hummed softly as he spoke, the words serums and grow old telling her more than he likely intended. She watched him linger in the doorway for a moment before gesturing toward an open seat, settling herself only after. “One who looks as you do hardly seems in need of serums for age—or anything close to it,” she said evenly. “Which tells me you’re not here out of necessity, but because you know we are working to refine what already exists.”
Her gaze held his, steady and unimpressed by the veiled phrasing. “But let us not speak in riddles,” she added plainly. “I have neither the time nor the patience for them. If you wish to speak with me, then do so plainly.”
[10:08] Crow (melchior.wardell) could tell that she felt comfortable in this setting. How she hummed and even spoke sharp as to how she wished to convey or continue the conversation. Crow was cryptic and with good reason. He spoke plain to his intentions, but veiled to their purpose. As an agent he held a sword much heavier then that of the simple killer.
“A long time ago .. there was a whisper … a simple rumor.” he started. He would take a coin from his pocket and threw it up in the air as to catch it there. “A rumor about physicians that started to dive deeper into the serums. Perhaps it is something physicians do. Play Godlike and with the antidote to age got cocky. Arrogant.” his words were harsh and yet the tone was void of any emotion.
“Can you see that such a rumor .. can become a weapon ? You must know of second and third knowledge .”
[10:17] Neeve Barbosa (kristie.tigerpaw): Neeve sat in silence for a moment before answering.
“I don’t know the past, sir—and I don’t dwell in it,” she said calmly. “What’s been done cannot be undone. But I do care about what can still be done.”
Her gaze lowered briefly, then returned to him.
“There are people I value. People who made mistakes, or trusted the wrong things… and now they’re told they have five years left, while others may have hundreds.”
Her voice softened, but did not waver.
“I understand second and third knowledge—though few still grasp what it truly means.” A pause. “This isn’t arrogance. And it isn’t a desire to play at being a god.”
She inclined her head slightly.
“It’s the belief that if a single equation can be adjusted—carefully, willingly—then time does not have to be stolen. It can be given. At least to those who choose it.”
[10:24] Crow (melchior.wardell) regarded her – not in anger or the attempt to silence or educate. It was in the way he listens. In the true nature of truly hearing what she said. Measuring them as to her intent. He was a good listener and a good judge of character. Strangely enough his old age was not only due to serums but how he moved through life. Surely with a profession as that of him such was needed.
“Oh .. I do not ask you to dwell on the past. Neither do I.” he replied “I deal with it just as you are doing. I suppose. There were you wish to prolong – I simple end. With a flick of my dagger. Yet do not mistake it for something casual or for something I do easy.” he shared.
“I would take a seat and discuss this but I have other obligations. I would like to discuss the issues that your infirmary might be in. Surely when word gets around. You might be in dire need of me. More then you wish to acknowledge. ” he shared. His words were still in that low humble approach.
[12:03] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) had dreaded this moment like a man awaiting judgment. He had searched for the perfect time, the right words—but they never came. The truth gnawed at him: he had replayed the betrayal in his mind a thousand times, rewriting it, reshaping it, begging it to be undone. But memory is a cruel master, and regret even crueler.
He had been outmatched. The man who deceived him was no ordinary schemer—he was a predator cloaked in charm, armed with knowledge stolen from the shadows. His slave had watched Natsu, learned him, dissected him. Every weakness, every hesitation, had been turned against him like blades.
Now, Natsu stood at the edge of the water, its surface still and merciless, reflecting nothing but his own failure. The silence screamed louder than any storm.
He turned slowly, as if the weight of his guilt had aged him. When he bowed to her, it was not out of custom—it was surrender. His eyes, once fierce, softened like ash in the wind.
“Forgive me,” he said, voice low and raw. “I am not the man I was. And I fear what my unraveling might do to your mind.” [12:10] Izumi 和泉 (siadellic) bows humbly to first the man and then the lady, her smile gentle and eyes filled with warm sincerity “Konnichiwa and welcome to Edo Lord and Lady”
[12:10] .: SiaDellic Resident performs a respectful bow.
[12:10] Joy (joyspirit) “Konnichiwa Lord and Lady.”Bows gently.It is a honor to met you both.”
[12:11] .: joyspirit Resident performs a deeply respectful bow.
[12:15] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) bowed, the gesture precise, almost ceremonial—etched into him by decades of service and the unforgiving discipline of palace life. The two women had arrived like fate itself, interrupting a conversation that already threatened to unravel him. His spine remained straight, his expression carved from stone, but the tremor in his voice betrayed the storm beneath.
“Thank you for your warm welcome,” he said, each word measured, as if spoken through frost. The coldness clung to him like armor—necessary, but not impenetrable.
He straightened, eyes flicking between them, then settling on the one whose gaze seemed to pierce deeper than the rest. “This is Lady Midori,” he continued, his voice softening just enough to suggest reverence. “I am Kenryoku Natsu.”
[12:15] Midori (suyuan.quan): The rhythm of the days with him were peaceful, tranquil and a stark separation from the business of the palace. Attending to fully-fledged contract women while she had just graduated from the minor ranks. The process was vigorous – days and months of conversational, musical, and dance trainings.
But before the imminent arrival of her mizuage, there was him and his gentle firmness, the quiet tenderness and amusing conversations that they both shared. Being in such close proximity to the Mikado, both must practice vigilance and mindfulness so as not to surrender.
She was still an innocent, but older than most of the graduating maiko into geiko. At times she felt like a minarai or a shikomi, still attempting to find her place.
The apprentice joined him on the docks, Midori immediately noticing the gravity of his expression and where she once found joy in his presence, his heavy words elicited the drumming of her heart and her muscles to tense. Her hands which were concealed beneath her fragrant and billowy sleeves had fingers grasping until knuckles burned white. Her lightly rouged lips pursed slightly in concern, following her brow as she regarded him with confusion. “Nat-san,” she would follow his bow in a elegant gesture, slowly then standing to her full-height, “How do you mean? What has happened?” He did not greet her with the usual, quiet warmth and strength that he possessed. Something was terribly amiss and it displayed in her features and posture.
[12:20] Joy (joyspirit) smiles gently”Ohayō gozaimasu, Lord Natsu-san and Lady Midori-san We welcome you both to Edo with deepest reverence. The lanterns have been lit in your honor.”Says softly as she remains close to her sister.
[12:24] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) should have been grateful. Their arrival spared him from the confession clawing at his throat—the admission of how deeply, how irreparably, he had failed. The words had hovered, trembling on the edge of release, but now they retreated like shadows at dawn. The one thing he had vowed never to lose… was already gone.
Natsu stood rigid, the posture of a man forged by palace walls and years of unwavering service. But beneath the surface, he was unraveling. His composure was a mask—cracked, barely holding.
“You grant us too much honor,” he said, voice low, laced with regret that bled through every syllable. “We will not be staying long.”
His gaze flicked toward her—just for a moment. Enough to betray the ache behind his eyes. Enough to show that the message he had buried still burned inside him. But the time for truth had passed. And silence, cruel as it was, had become his only refuge.
[12:25] Izumi 和泉 (siadellic) as their guests greeted and introduced themselves her facial expression remained soft, serene as if masked in etched porcelain, even without her ceremonial makeup. It had been a day full of training for the junior apprenticed, filled lessons and disciplined repetition in dance and musical instruction inside Edo’s famed theater halls. It was a welcome reprieve to be out in the crisp Autumnal air. Carefully sidestepping a puddle with a discreet swish of finely brocaded kimono, Izumi echoed her sisters words “Ohayo gazaimasu. I am Izumi and this is my sister Joy, both of the house of sacred flowers here in the District.” she chimed in softly “Please feel welcome here and if there is any way we can ease your day or guide you on your stay or even along your journey, please let us know”
[12:33] Midori (suyuan.quan): The tension of the moment was interrupted by the unanticipated arrival of the two trainees, fragrance and the swishing of elegant korti resutled in the wind like autumnal leaves that were beginning to form, signaling the decay of one of the sweetest summers that she had had ever experienced.
Her heart thrummed rapidly against her breast, the sound mimicking a waterfall in her ears briefly with her breath ceasing for the moment. The terrible news that was to be afforded to her was deterred and Midori didn’t know whether to scold or display gratitude towards the new arrivals. Imstead she followed Natsu’s lead and bowed deeply to the women out of mutual respect, her front teeth seizing upon her bottom to halt the trembling, “Good afternoon, ladies,” she greeted in their mutual languages. They were flowers of the okiya, ones she had not encountered. Natsu’s declaration that they were to leave only furthered her quiet anxiety.
Carefully, she approached her danna, the movements fluid like gently fluttering sakura trees with blossoms dispersing, attempting to maintain her usual stoic expression.
[12:42] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) Natsu smiled to Midori, and in that fleeting curve of his lips lay a thousand unsaid things. She had been the light in his storm, the quiet in his chaos—the apple of his eye from the moment fate had first placed her in his path. But even now, as she stood so near, she felt impossibly distant. Like something precious glimpsed through glass.
He turned to the other lady, the words slow to form, as if each syllable carried the weight of a confession he wasn’t ready to make.
“We will let you know,” he said, voice steady but hollow. A practiced tone, the kind used by men who’ve learned to mask their hearts behind protocol.
But the truth clawed at him. He could not escape it. Not anymore.
His gaze lingered on Midori once more, softer now, almost pleading. The message he had tried to silence stirred again—unspoken, but burning. And though he hadn’t said it yet, the air between them had already begun to shift. Something was coming. Something that would change everything. “Please forgive us.” as he would wave his hand to Midori for her to follow while he bowed his farewell to both ladies.
[12:44] Joy (joyspirit) stood quietly with her sister obeying their Okassans wishes to greet the visitors to Edo.Which was known for being an entrainment district.Her and her sister had spent almost a year in the scared flower as she watches them both leave.”May the sun guide your path always Lord and Lady.”She bows one last time to them both.
[12:44] .: joyspirit Resident performs a deeply respectful bow.
[12:47] Izumi 和泉 (siadellic): Izumi too hid her surprise at the tension in the air behind a practiced mask of composure, she bowed mirroring her sister’s fluid elegance, together forming a short dance of poetry in motion “may fair winds follow you in a safe journey”
[12:47] .: SiaDellic Resident performs a deeply respectful bow.
[12:55] Midori (suyuan.quan) had not intended to be dismissive or cause doubt to protcol in regards to the two ladies. But the concern which was mounting like water breaking a levee was increasing as the moments progressed. Naturally, she would permit Natsu to seize control of the situation as he was of higher position and standing. Her geta clicked softly over the ground, stepping carefully over fragmented leaves with stiff posture.
This man, this swordsman were like pieces of a song she built in memory. From their first introduction, she had clung to like verdant spring – relishing his company, strength, words and features that she attempted to visualize with ink and parchment. Her writing was better as opposed to her artristry – she was mediore in regards to skills like other contract women but relished the written word. At Natsu’s gesture, she would once more turn to face the two women – each like a peach and plum blossom who were beautiful and distant but present in their duty.
The small distance was closed between her and her danna, another low and respectful bow offered to the beauties, “I wish you both well.” Her movements were fluid but held a stiffness – as if her heart was beginning to shed like each leaf on a branch. She was to leave with Natsu at his command and naturally she would follow him… even to the ends of Gor.
[13:00] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) moved along the waterline, each step deliberate, as if the rhythm of the waves might steady the storm within. The moonlight traced his silhouette, casting long shadows that whispered of the past he could not outrun.
“I always prided myself,” he began, voice low and taut, “on being too clever to be tricked. Too guarded to be led into anything I did not choose.”
He turned to her then, and the sight of her—so achingly familiar, so devastatingly beautiful—struck him like a blade to the chest. Every inch of his desire stirred, but he held firm. Control was his last defense.
“I am a good judge of character,” he continued, the words trembling with the weight of truth. “And as one entrusted by the Emperor himself, I should remain vigilant. Impenetrable.”
His voice faltered, drifting into silence. The next words came softer, almost broken.
“I would never dare to jeopardize what we have.”
He turned fully to her now, eyes searching hers—not for forgiveness, but for understanding. For the flicker of emotion that might tell him he hadn’t already lost her.
[13:12] Midori (suyuan.quan) followed him with soft footfalls, the heavy and resplendent robes shifting along the impeccably clean ground. Pani towns and cities were often more immaculate in cleaniness as opposed to typical Gorean cities. Her manicured hands were concealed in her sleeves, the nervous grip upon her arms decreasing as the peaceful stroll seemed to be distracting… or perhaps she was preparing herself for what was to occur.
She was almost shoulder to shoulder with him and yet they did not touch – they had not done so. They were like separate entities, intertwined and but achingly distant. There were nights she craved him against her, to feel his warmth against her own. But the Emperor had seemingly commanded otherwise.
Her eyes were lowered, cast down out of propriety but listening to the soft baritone of his voice, the stillness between his statements was sobering. She remained silent, listening intently to his words – and instictively she knew, the dread that was forming in her belly that her world and all she knew was about to be eradicated.
When he pausing, she boldly lifted her gaze towards his, her soft brown eyes with flickering of gold were moistened, but she held her tears and the verbal demands she wished to assail him with.
Instead, she replied to him, momentarily seizing a boldness – but rather a preference. She wanted to memorize his features – the way his eyes softened when he saw, the quiet passion that hovered in his handsome features.
“But something has changed and our season… has finished,” she stated, low and soft. Her voice nearly breaking its composure.
[13:19] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) wanted to cup her face, to press his lips to hers and let the world fall away. To hold her close, cheek to heart, until the ache inside him stilled. She looked radiant in yellow—like sunlight made flesh—and the sight of her stirred every corner of his soul. But he held back. He always held back.
She was no fool. Keen-eyed, sharp-minded—she could read the truth in the spaces between his words. And so he gave her the one thing he hadn’t dared to speak aloud.
“I fear so, my flower,” he whispered, the name trembling with affection and regret.
His voice cracked as he continued, the shame bleeding through. “I knew the man was smart. Razor sharp. I should have known. I should have seen it coming.”
He turned from her, as if the confession might sting less if he didn’t have to see her face. “I fear I must bring you to Ar,” he said, the words heavy with consequence.
He tried to mask the emotion, to wear the stoic mask of a palace man. But it was slipping. The tears burned behind his eyes, hot and merciless. He paused, breath catching.
“I lost the contract.”
And with that, the silence roared. The weight of failure, of betrayal, of love unspoken—hung between them like a blade suspended in air.
[13:32] Midori (suyuan.quan) had predicted with astounding accuracy of what she had suspected. She was no fool, having listened to the rumors abounding. A mission, a man in black… a gaijin. Nothing was silent within the confines of the Willow World. She was a minor attendant, a sub-par contract woman in regards to entertainment. Natsu had appreciated as she was… for who she was.
But now the halting of her supposed mizuage and the potential for him to be her contract holder now made sense.
Often when they were in close proximity, her body and sense sang. She ached for his touch beyond the nearness of his physical presence. Yearned to feel him hold her – she had even fantasized of a life beyond her silken cage. A castle, a garden she tended where she taught their daughters embroidery and song and he would teach their sons how to wield a sword and carry honor. And at night they would dine together; a family which she had lacked.
And now she must experience this grief, her heart a half-open window that allowed cold to enter. Snow was beautful visually, but its temperature was unbearable at times.
And now she must shiver alone.
Her lips pursed, her breath hitched and a subtle tear or two crested her cheeks. There were a thousand things she wished to say. “To whom, my Lord? If I may ask.” She wished to collapse against him, to hold him and console him despite her heartache, “How am I supposed to go on–” Her lips trembled and her nostrils flared, faltering as her voice quivered.
[13:44] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) could almost see it still—the life they had imagined. The garden blooming under their care, the quiet intimacy of morning tea shared in soft light. A future painted in delicate strokes, now shattered by a single act of deception. One man’s trickery had unraveled everything.
“Forgive me, my flower,” he murmured, the words trembling with sorrow. “I was not permitted even a single misstep… and yet I made one.”
His gaze darkened, haunted. “I believed him to be honorable. A man of codes, like myself. But he is not bound by law or loyalty. He speaks of order, yet sows chaos with the same breath.”
When she asked the name, he hesitated. The syllables felt like poison on his tongue.
“Silas,” he said at last. “But in truth… I believe he is the one the Emperor knows as Crow.”
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Breaking protocol, breaking decorum, Natsu reached for her hands. His fingers trembled as they closed around hers—an act of defiance, of longing, of need.
“I am to bring you to a man named Portus Stromberg,” he said, voice low. “I do not know him. I do not know what awaits.”
He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm—a gesture so intimate it felt like a vow. His eyes shimmered, though no tears fell.
“I have thought of every path. Spoken to every counsel. But I cannot undo what has been done. And I cannot bring more disgrace upon the palace.”
The silence that followed was heavy with everything unsaid—love, regret, and the fragile hope that somehow, she might still choose to stand beside him.
[14:01] Midori (suyuan.quan) ceased her anguished statement, her breath halting in the air. The weather was not so cold as to witness oxygen like white smoke but it was cool. Withering blossoms of a nearby tree fluttered in the delicate breeze and a few strands of her impeccable, lacquered hair were loosened – a mimicry of what was crumbling between them that very moment.
Her tears were evident, but there were also subtle changes in her slender frame – the shaking of her lips, the heaviness of her straight, polished brows depressing over her brown eyes. In other situations she would have hastily wiped away the signs of weakness upon her cheeks. Her concealed fingers clenched into her palms, her breathing even. But her legs were buckling and she prayed to the gods that they wouldn’t falter beneath her. She breathes shallowly as he spoke reverently to her, his voice quavering her like body.
His speech of failure, his apologies only served as as buffer. She wanted to be angry with him, to chastise him for his mistake. For his foolishness.
Her eyes which she had averted, attempting to shield her own weakness then lifted again to regard his and whatever resentment she held for him softened in the waking of her gasp as he grasped her hands. They were small, smooth but clung to him like a sailor to a sinking ship or a life ring upon a vast ocean.
The name seemed familiar, a legend was attached to it she had heard distantly but could not find the details. They were inconsequential in this vacuum.
As he kissed her hands, her heart hammered against her ribs and she tightened her grip upon his palms – calloused from use of a katana.
Most unexpectedly, she would lean into him and further break protocol, proceeding to bury her tear-strained face into the crook of his neck, her body pressing into his. She could smell him and the oils that were used. She was dismantling before him and he was a rock, anchoring herself to him while the sound of a muffled sob resonated through his flesh.
[14:12] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry): had imagined himself breaking—shouting, raging, collapsing beneath the weight of his failure. But men like him were trained to wear grief like armor, to bleed inwardly and never let the world see. And so he stood, composed in form, shattered in spirit.
Her tears fell like quiet thunder, each one a wound he could not heal. He longed to kiss them away, to whisper that it was all a cruel jest, a dream from which they would soon awaken. But truth had no mercy. And this truth—his truth—was irreversible.
When she pressed herself against him, he wrapped his arms around her with a protectiveness that bordered on desperation. Her scent—soft, familiar, intoxicating—rose from her skin like a memory he refused to let fade. He inhaled deeply, as if to etch her into his very being. But he knew: she was already there.
“I will not stop, my flower,” he said, voice thick with conviction and sorrow. “I will not stop searching for a way to undo this wrong. Even if the path is hidden, even if it costs me everything.”
He pulled her closer, his heartbeat steady but heavy. “Until that day comes… I will guard your life with mine. And I will honor you—not just for what you are, but for what you mean to me.”
TRAVEL TO AR – ARRIVING IN AR
[12:12] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) noted the sigil and it glared back at him, etched in stone like a promise long buried. It was not just a mark—it was a memory, a reckoning. The others had stalled, cloaked their fear in silence and delay, but he had always been the one to carry the weight of duty, even when it threatened to crush him.
And now, as the air thickened with the scent of old oaths and the chill of what might come, his thoughts strayed—not to battle, but to her. His flower. The one whose laughter once softened the edges of his world. Would he falter if he saw her hand in another’s? Would the honor he clung to be enough to hold back the storm rising in his chest?
Perhaps the question was not whether he could endure it, but whether he should. What is duty without heart? What is strength if it cannot protect what matters most?
[12:14] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “i thought i heard voices…what brings you to my door”?….looks at both as they stood there
[12:18] Midori (suyuan.quan): The pair had traveled the long voyage, seizing months with almost the span of a year progressing. The journey was arduous and to bide her time, she delved into scrolls to study mainlander customs and language. But each attempt at learning something new, something to store into her memory, heartache eclipsed her.
She observed the manner of how her danna stared at the sigil and her own throat tightened as they journeyed through Ar and to the slaver’s home. The contract woman’s head hung heavy as she did not have a moment to admire her new surroundings – her new home.
And upon the doorstep they arrived at, stood a curious, blonde man with a black bird resting upon his shoulder. Midori held her tongue, waiting for Natsu to speak first.
[12:20] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) snapped his attention to the man that opened the door. “Greetings, Sir.” he offered while his shoulder bowed only a tad bit. It was still hard to give a man such as him the respect of a true bow. Even if the man had no knowledge as to what had happened. “I see this house bares the sigil of the Black Compass Trading Company. And its owner Silas Drake?” he asks.
For once he would take Midori’s hand in his – protective for as long as it lasted.
[12:24] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): looks at the pair and listens well, considering the words thoughtfully….”you are correct in one aspect…this is Black Compass Trading but I am the owner Portus Stromberg….Silas Drake is presumed dead…lost at see”
[12:28] Midori (suyuan.quan): Her danna’s immediate greeting towards the mainlander was followed with a subtle, deep bow as she bent stiffly at her waist, arms shifted to her sides. It was custom to afford new contract holders and men of higher position. She could feel the shock register across her delicate features with the announcement of Silas’ death.
And as Natsu gently seized her hand, the contact causing her heart rate to increase, a combined a sense of relief and dread filled her. Briefly, she glimpsed to Natsu – would she be free? To be with him? The clouds began to roll away – she would remain with the man she loved she hoped.
[12:29] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) narrowed his eyes as in focus as the words drfited to him. Wondering what they meant and how things might change all of it. Yet he knew that if the man he now faced owned the company – he was the one owning the contract.
For a moment his hand hand squeezed hers forceful. Perhaps even painfully. The seasoned samurai was still strong in his body even if his work was more political and in the palace. “Can we speak inside of this matter. It is delicate.” he asks. His voice was void of any emotion. As if his tears had already been spent – and the warmth had been taken from them.
“I am Kenryoku Natsuand this is my … ” he paused “This is Midori.”
[12:30] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) noted the collar girl and would step back as to have her pass. Assuming this was where she belonged.
[12:31] Alivia Kanya had been out getting fresh air and poking around. She had returned hooping to slip back in her absence unnoticed but nearly walked right into a gaggle of free instead. She lingered quietly near the pillars hoping she was going to be over looked with whatever pressing business this was.
[12:32] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): stepped aside as his Northern roots took over and invited the pair inside…crooking my finger to the slave attempting to hide…”come and serve girl”….beckons the others to follow
[12:34] Alivia Kanya dipped her head slipping out of the shadows ” Of course Master.” she followed the group inside taking to her knees lowering her gaze ” What can I get you Masters”
[12:39] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) ’s gaze swept the room like a blade through silk—sharp, deliberate, unyielding. The kneeling girl did not unsettle him; her posture was familiar, a reflection of a world where submission was currency and identity often bartered. He did not flinch. He did not pity. He simply accepted.
The Northern man led him deeper into the chamber, where wealth whispered from every polished surface and the scent of flowers—soft, mocking—hung in the air like a cruel jest. Flowers. Of all things.
Natsu’s voice broke the silence, low and edged with restrained fire. “I have to ask, Sir. Did Silas speak of an agreement concerning a contract woman called Midori?”
[12:41] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “i will take a warm spiced mead girl”…..indicates the man should sit….”you sir will you take some refreshment?”
[12:41] Midori (suyuan.quan): The hope in her eyes was brief – she was being too obvious in her eagerness to return to where she once was, to continue the life with him.
She had assumed it was this elusive Silas that was the owner of the contract, that the mainlander before them was simply to transfer her. Instinctively that is what she desired, what she hoped for.
But it was never that simple.
The grip upon her hand tightened, from loving to cruel in that moment and her breath ceased, followed by a gasp and her gaze averted once more, battling the tears and whimper that threatened as she was introduced but not permitted to speak as of yet. The pair would follow inside with the collar-girl in tow. Another time, she would have relished the girl’s company and beauty but today she was solemn, her inner turmoil almost written on her face.
[12:43] Alivia Kanya gave a nod as she lifted to her feet ” Warm spiced mead, Master. Of course. ” She lingered a bit to see if the others required anything before heading out to the kitchen to prepare the drink.
[12:43] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) did not dare to turn down the offer. In hope on a good conversation and as to see the possibilites. “I wish some spiced water.” he bowed now in gratitude.
[12:43] Alivia Kanya: ” of course Master, warm spiced water”
[12:46] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “now sir i have not fully gone through the papers he left behind so maybe you should explain and i can check my records”
[12:49] Midori (suyuan.quan) both passed the threshold into the grand, she only briefly lifting her head to study the foreign architecture. The contract woman remained silent, head and eyes averted once more while both he and Portus began to converse. Meanwhile, her heart was pounding like a drum against her breast as each moment ticked by.
[12:50] Alivia Kanya slipped from the kitchen with the horns held carefully in her hands, golden hair veiling her lowered gaze as she carefully moved to her knees before the guest, lifting the steaming cup of spiced water with one hand and offering it humbly. ” Master, spiced water I hope you find it refreshing”
[12:51] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) released Midori’s hand with the weight of a thousand unspoken fears. The warmth of her fingers lingered like a ghost against his palm as he moved past her, each step deliberate, each breath a silent negotiation with fate. He lowered himself into the chair beside the Northern man, posture composed, but the storm behind his eyes betrayed him.
Was this man a gatekeeper or a pawn? Did he truly not know the value of what he held—or was ignorance merely a mask worn to measure Natsu’s resolve? The room, rich with quiet opulence, offered no answers. Only the mocking scent of flowers, blooming in cruel contrast to the tension that coiled in his chest.
“Well, if it is not an urgent matter,” he said, voice calm, almost casual, “we can stay at the Inn or return home.”
As the girl offered his water he would take it from her. His eyes only briefly to hers. “thank you, collar girl.”
[12:56] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): raises my eyebrows at the apparent back tracking of the man….”I think you are best telling me what you came to tell me….it seems you have travelled from afar to find this place….I would hate to be misled over any piece of business….you must talk to me as if you were speaking with Silas”
[12:57] Alivia Kanya offered a slight nod and smile ” my pleasure Master” she lifted slowly to her feet again to make her way around the room and kneel once more offering the second horn this one with mead to Portus. Her head low and arms high “Master, spiced mead, warmed. I hope you find it to your liking.”
[13:02] Midori (suyuan.quan)’s hand was released and her hitching of her breath then ceased, her heart still playing a rapid rhythm against her ribcage. It was like a taiko drum, circulating and the flowing sticks rapid. That brief moment of harsh intimacy, the valley between pleasure and pain astounded her… and she yearned for it again. But now there was stillness as Natsu casually conducted his business, unyielding but calm in his demeanor as most Pani were were
She remained standing at his side, dutifully silent with a neutral expression. As if she wasn’t being discussed like possible chattel.
There was only the slight flickering of her facial expressions which were subdued, shielding the multitude of questions she wished to pose. It was not her place – instead she would continue to regard the trio silently, despairingly with glimpses of hope – that theu could return home and once more be within her danna’s arms.
[13:03] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) ’s jaw clenched, his skin taut with restrained fury. The name Silas was venom on his tongue, and though the room remained still, the air around Natsu seemed to hum with the threat of violence barely contained. He had no intention of parley. No desire for diplomacy. If steel could speak, it would have already sung.
The thought of Silas—his smirk, his signature, his claim—was enough to stir something primal. Not lust. Not desire. But a twisted surge of power, born from hatred so deep it blurred the lines between vengeance and need. Natsu’s gaze flicked to Midori, soft for a heartbeat, then hardened as it returned to Portus. His voice, when it came, was the sound of a blade being drawn.
“He won a contract… a contract of this lady. Midori.” The words were not a question. They were a verdict. “If you have that contract, then she is yours. If you do not, she goes home with me—and we pretend never to have met.”
[13:10] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): pauses for a moment to take the proffered horn from the girl on her knees….taking time to caress her bare breast and then starts sipping his drink…..”relax and enjoy the hospitality we offer and i will then check my records…if Silas made a contract then I will feel obligated to see it through”
[13:14] Alivia Kanya felt the instant flush this his unexpected caress left in its path. She offered a smile but would dip her head back down as she moved her hands behind her back assuming her Masters preferred position. She would remain silent but listened as the conversation seemed to be filled with intrigue and might take an entertaining turn. Information was the most valuable thing a slave held and she had no idea if any of this was worth a thing outside those doors but she would pay attention just in case.
[13:17] Midori (suyuan.quan) noticed the subtle change in Natsu’s demeanor – his facial expression and the silence of violent reaction towards this Silas – this Crow’s name. She had not been told of what he was fully. Only brief snippets. That he was a trickster, a man without Pani sense of honor. A stranger who would control her destiny.
Natsu’s gaze met with hers and her painted brows raised towards her hairline – a glimpse of encouragement from her but also an imperceptible nod – one of encouragement with her eyes hinting at the profoundity of her feelings for him. She had never seen him be so… emotional beyond closed quarters. But like any Pani he was stilling himself. Yet his words reminded her of the current reality.
A brief glance was offered to Portus as she studied him and his demeanor, how relaxed he was in the midst of the situation. She found his behavior curious, certainly he would not call honor being questioned? She lingered closer to Natsu, tentatively raising her hand from beneath her billowy sleeve to allow it to rest upon his shoulder and squeeze reflexively.
[13:18] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) ’s hand hovered near the hilt, not in threat but in readiness—a gesture born of a life where honor and steel were often the same thing. His gaze, once shielded, now burned through the room with the fury of a man who had tasted betrayal and found it bitter beyond words.
The sight of the man indulging in flesh while Midori stood nearby—trained, refined, and far more than a beast of pleasure—was a mockery. Midori, who had mastered the arts not to be consumed but to be revered, deserved more than this careless display.
His voice cut through the air like a drawn blade. “You feel obligated?” It was not a question. It was an accusation. A condemnation. “Relax?” he echoed, the word tasting of ash. “I bring you the end of my life, and you speak of ease?”
He rose, slow and deliberate, like a storm gathering form. “You do not have to feel obligated,” he said, each syllable laced with ice. “I can release you from your burden very easily.”
[13:24] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): senses the tension that exists in the man and remains in his seat….”calm yourself….you seem to pride yourself on honour and i get the feeling that this may be a painful subject for you….do not dishonour me in my own home by threatening bloodshed” [13:29] Alivia Kanya tensed chewing her lip as the air got thick, she looked up briefly too gage the demeanor of the man she was next to and remained calm as he did not seem to flinch as the other stood. She did keep her awareness up though so that she would move faster than she might find a flying blade swing her way.
[13:37] Midori (suyuan.quan)’s brows flickered with concern over the mounting tensions of the room and the bruised hand that was perched upon her danna’s shoulder was soft at first. Her finger tips splayed then, digits firmly pressing into his kimono while the sleeve of her own brushed against his chest – fragrance of hinoki and cedar oil lingered.
She knew Natsu to be a passionate and intense man like most Pani people were but his calmness was faltering beneath the flicker of confusion and frustration. And while the mainlander was casual in his response, if not eerily so, she realized she would have to break tradition in that moment even if the words were like offal upon her tongue. “Natsu-sama,” she pleaded with her heavily accented voice, speaking regular Gorean with some difficulty. She did not wish for the man she adored, who would fight to death for her honor to be arrested or worse. She cooed to him like a nightingale, her voice melodic despite her suffering, “Please… Ken-chan,” she spoke to him of the affectionate term, “Allow him to explain,” she muttered the next in Pani, “I do not wish for you to get arrested or come to harm.”
[13:38] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) rose with the quiet finality of a man who had already made peace with the storm inside him. His words were not a threat—they were a reckoning. “The threat is not of bloodshed,” he said, voice low and carved from stone, “it is of taking Midori with me, as the contract seems a burden to you.”
Natsu did not deal in warnings. When death was warranted, it came swift, silent, and without ceremony. But Silas had chosen a different weapon—one far crueler. He had stolen not a life, but a soul. Not with steel, but with ink and paper. And now, Midori stood at the edge of that theft, her presence both balm and blade.
He looked to Portus, wondering if he was merely prey in a game already lost. A mouse, trembling beneath the paw of a cat who toyed with him for sport. And Midori—placed like a trophy, a symbol of conquest—was the cruelest part of it all.
His gaze turned to her, searching. Not for answers, but for something far more fragile. Forgiveness. Understanding. A trace of the bond that once tethered them in warmth.
“Perhaps this was a mistake,” he said, the words falling like ash. “Perhaps I should not have taken you here myself.”
It was not weakness. It was truth. And in that truth, Natsu revealed the wound beneath the armor—the man behind the samurai. “I must leave you here.” he admitted to her finally.
[13:43] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): Stands to meet the man on his level….”i mean no offence I merely wish to understand…I see that you and this woman seem attached yet as i understand it Silas contracted her and in his demise she now passes to me”…looks him directly in the eye….”that is the matter is it not”?
[13:44] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) nods once “Hai.”
[13:45] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “then you have fulfilled your duty and honoured the contract….leave the girl here and go your way…I will allow you a brief moment to say your farewells”
[13:46] Alivia Kanya slipped back over the tiles glancing to charo offering her a weak smile still not sure how things would turn out.
[13:49] ρąŋɖą (esma.heartsong) watches her Master work her head down eyes on the ground for the most part back and forth listening to the men
[13:56] Midori (suyuan.quan) had hoped, prayed to the gods, the Priest-Kings, Amaterasu… but the deities were silent, only intervening when they wished to in human matters. The finality of the moment weighed upon her then as her hand stayed at his shoulder. The thrumming of her heart resonating in her ears as the final declarations of what was to be done with her were announced.
And now her world of leaves and dreams, the willow world which they both flourished in was shattered.
Another collar-girl approached, bidding them a greeting but Midori was distracted with the ache that was blooming in her chest and the dread that developed in the pit of her stomach.
She may as well have asked for permission to end her own life, but Natsu wouldn’t grant that.
And her hope was replaced by a paralyzing fear as she realized the mainlander was a slaver and her fate was undetermined in that moment.
Midori did not have to plead with words, her eyes and demeanor stated it all and as Natsu slowly rose, she would purposely inhale his scent, collecting it for memory and to savor her tears upon her pillow.
The announcement was a thunderclap and her future was bleak.
But she remained in her delicate, straightened posture, nostrils flaring as she attempted to bear this weight – the weight of Natsu’s absence was a katana that would begin slicing through her throat.
As he stood before her, she extended her soft hands and reached for his callused ones, never breaking eye contact. Her expression was of love, of disappointment, of despair and admiration.
“Shikata ga nai (it can’t be helped),” she stated a usual saying. Acceptance of adversity, even as she was crumbling inside and she leaned in on the edge of her slippers, speaking reverently towards the swordsman “Watashi wa ai towa nanika o shitteiru node areba, sore wa anata no okage desu (If I know what love is, it is because of you).”
[13:58] Natsu 夏 (vulcantry) eyes, still locked on Midori, held the weight of a thousand battles, none so devastating as the one he now lost without a blade drawn.
She was his flower. Not in possession, but in truth. The only woman who had ever reached past the armor, past the duty, past the silence. Her smile had once softened the edges of his world, and now, in this cruel moment, it was the only thing keeping him from shattering.
He took her hands again, an act so intimate, so rare for a Pani man, it was as if he had laid his soul bare. The touch ignited memory: nights wrapped in quiet laughter, whispered promises, the warmth of her breath against his skin. His throat tightened, words clawing for release.
“I do not know what the meaning of this is, my flower,” he said, voice frayed with emotion. “But if there is a way I can undo it… I will find it. I will come back to undo what wrong this man has done.”
He kissed each finger, reverently, as if sealing sacred vows into her very skin. Then he turned—swift, final, unable to linger. For in that moment, his fury was no longer a flame. It was a tempest. And Natsu, the man of honor, had become something far more dangerous: a man with nothing left to lose.
They called him Silas—but that was merely the skin he wore. Beneath the name, beneath the calm demeanor, lurked Crow: a man forged in blood and secrecy. The Stormcrow had once sailed under a different captain, until murder rewrote its fate. Crow, cloaked in his alter ego, slipped aboard under the guise of loyalty, and slowly, like a tide rising in the dark, he earned their trust. When the time came, they handed him the helm.
Under his command, the ship became more than a vessel—it became a front. A company was born, thriving in the shadows, its roots tangled with the ambitions of Portus Stromberg, a man seeking sanctuary for his beloved and their children. Together, they built something that looked honest. But behind the curtain, Crow moved pieces on a darker board.
Then came the note.
It was unassuming, folded and sealed, but it carried the weight of a world. A whisper from Ar—his Home Stone. The place he had sworn to sever from his soul when he entered the caste of assassins. Yet the bond had never truly broken. It pulsed beneath his skin, a ghost of belonging.
And so, the Master of Masks began to weave a new disguise. A plan. A return.
As Silas, he roamed the ports, gathering whispers and favors. One day, aboard the Stormcrow, a young man named Trajan Cernus boarded—bound for Port Kar. He carried arrogance like a blade, and when denied what he believed was his right, he turned it on a girl. She was not his to command, not his to touch. Her Master had not given permission. But Trajan’s fury was blind.
Crow watched.
The girl died beneath his fists.
The owner of the girl demanded compensation. Silas offered resolution. He led Trajan to his quarters with a calm smile and quiet steps.
When the ship docked, Crow emerged alone.
The girl’s owner had paid well.
And the Stormcrow sailed on, its captain cloaked in silence, its secrets buried in the deep.
Crow was no stranger to transformation. In his relentless pursuit to return to Ar—the city etched into the marrow of his soul—he shed one skin to wear another. The death of Trajan Cernus was not an end, but a beginning. Crow claimed the young man’s possessions, his identity, and with the silent blessing of the enigmatic Priest Kings, began the delicate art of rebirth.
Time became his ally. He did not rush. He studied Trajan’s mannerisms, his knowledge, his ties to the House Cernus—the promise of power and legacy. Every detail was absorbed, every nuance rehearsed. Slowly, deliberately, the illusion took shape.
And then, the old mask had to die.
Silas—the alter ego that had served him well—was dismantled piece by piece, buried in whispers and forgotten ports. In his place rose Trajan Cernus, not the impulsive youth who had once boarded the Stormcrow, but a man reborn: composed, calculating, and cloaked in quiet menace.
When Crow finally stepped onto the stones of Ar once more, he did so not as a fugitive, but as a phantom returned. The city did not recognize him, but it would feel his presence. He was older now. Sharper. And far more dangerous than anyone dared suspect.
The note bore no seal, yet its weight was unmistakable. It came from Marlenus—the exiled Ubar of Glorious Ar. Once cast out in the wake of the city’s fall, he had waited, watched, and now, he called for return.
Crow read the message in silence, the ink whispering of unfinished business and buried loyalties. The time had come. The city stirred once more, and with it, the need for shadows to move.
Marlenus had chosen him.
Not as Crow. Not as Silas. But as Trajan Cernus—a name reborn from the ashes of a once-promising scion of a noble house. The real Trajan was gone, his legacy a blank canvas. And Crow, ever the master of masks, would paint it anew.
He had prepared for this moment with patience, not haste. The lessons learned in exile, the alliances forged in silence, the knowledge gathered in the dark—all of it had led to this. Ar would not recognize him, but it would feel his presence. He would not return as a servant, but as a force. A man of lineage, of power, and of purpose.
And beneath the calm exterior of Trajan Cernus, the assassin watched. Waiting for the city to blink.
Posted in Black Caste on September 14, 2025 by crow1971
[11:19] Crow looked into the sandpit of the arena as he had leashed the girl with him. He had been around, away, distant. Ever since the note had reached him there was this inner turmoil that only a few things could manage to do. The seasoned assassin not quickly to rile up.
As he stood there – time had been perhaps uncomfortable passed by without a word spoken. As he finally looked down upon the slave his eyes every so slightly soften. “At times a name says everything. Do you not agree?” he asks. He would indicate for her to stand beside him as he unleashed her collar. Allowing her to look into his face – if she truly dared.
[11:23] Promisa: was quietly worried she had done something wrong, meriting punishment. Summoned so abruptly from her daily routine, she racked her brains as to why. She felt the leash being taken off of her collar and bade to stand, so she gulped and obeyed, wondering if a whipping was forthcoming, it HAD been some time since she was last whipped, and many Free said it was a good thing for slaves to be whipped to remind them of the fraity of their existence, reliant upon the kindness of the Free for everything. She put on a brave face and stood, filled a desire to be found pleasing, worthy of keeping. “YEs Master” she spoke with a slight tremble in her voice.
Promisa: momentarily dared to look at the MAster in the eyes for the briefest of flashes, before averting her gaze respectfully. She still found him both terrible and wonderful to look at, the man who had changed her life, and crafted her into the best possible self she could be.
[11:28] Crow would reach out in an attempt to cup her cheek and have her truly face him. It was important as to what he was to do and say “Tell me Promise. How do you feel now after all this time ? I remember the moment we stood before one another well. Or should I say the moment in which I took your previous life and made you indeed the Promise you have become.” His voice soft and in an strange way warm and comforting ?
[11:33] Promisa: sighed and leaned into the touch upon her cheek, so responsive to the simple gesture, she nearly purred but focused on his intense purpose in posing the question. “Master? I feel very much as if I have fulfilled my potential, the potential you saw in me. I live each day with the utmost desire to fulfill the promise that you recognized within, and deserve the name you bestowed upon me. I am Promise, Master, in both name in being. I am grateful for the mercy you showed me, and the opportunity given to be the best version of me, that I could have been. My old life is gone, and I do not mourn it. I am content and happy in my collar, Master.”
[11:40] Crow would caress her cheek, move his thumb over her soft lips as he would come closer to her. His chest nearly touching her breasts. He smiled at the words. She had indeed awakened beautifully. Her motions delicate and yet teasing enough to have men have their cock twitch in their leathers. “What if I am here to tell you that I have need of your expertise ?” he started. “I have need of a physician in Ar. One that understands their methods. Understands that playing with fire can get one burned surely when one tries new developments.” he let the words linger as he studied her expression as to read how these words would fall upon her.
[11:44] Promisa: was suddenly filled with a great fear and inner turmoil, and her lips parted in surprise, even as his thumb strayed close, and his fingertips caressed her cheek. “M-Master… have I disp- I mean… I-I… I would do what is commanded of me, and I obey in all things with complete obedience, but if I am caught, it is an instant sentence of death upon me to be seen practicing medicine again or in the robes of a free woman… I ask only if I have offended in some way that I would merit punishment, Master?”
[11:48] Crow would even inch closer as his green eyes would lock to hers. He could note the change and insecurities that arises in the girl that had become so full in her slavery. “There is no displeasure. In truth … you have pleased me greatly.” he would hold pause as to have the words truly reach her. Before he would continue. “You will not be disguised. I will give you your freedom. You will be given full manumission. Of course some coin to start your life once more,”
[11:54] Promisa: felt so overwhelmed by the statement, her knees buckled and she stumbled in shock. She collapsed momentarily, before she pressed her lips fiercely against the Master’s thigh, a worshipful kiss of devotion and slave love, gratitude and unprocessed emotion. “Master! Master! I am unworthy! I am unworthy but I will make offerings in your name silently to the Priest Kings’ temple forever more. Thank you, Master!” Her face showed fear at the unknown, uncertainty, but also enormous gratitude recognize the gesture he was granting as the highest form of favor a Master could grant a slave. She would not be seen as ungrateful or ignorant of what he had just said to her.
[12:00] Crow would have tried to catch her before she fell or started to profess her gratitude. “There is a catch.” he stated as to have her aware that any gift would come with a cost. Crow was not a man known for gifts that held no meaning but simply to gift itself. Perhaps there was a moment in which he was taken aback. The girl so full in her slavery seemed to long for this he granted? A girl that had been almost the true embodiment of a woman so liberated that she shamelessly could be whom ever she truly was? But he would rid himself of these thoughts. “I want you to warn me. Warn me when physicians dare to venture upon paths that might be questioned by the Priest Kings themselves.” he would now take her head between both his hands so she was forced to look at him. So he could spy a false ‘promise’ if she dared to give him one.
[12:06] Promisa: was easily held and tilted so she was looking him in the face. In her eyes, there was devotion of a slavegirl. There was fear of the future, of being placed back into the position of being Free and responsible for both herself and other duties. But there was also the complete acceptance of a submissive female who would die for the man who had collared her. By telling her to live free again, she would do as he asked with her entire being, and if he asked her to cross her wrists in front of him again, she would do so as well, without hesitation. Free or collared, she belonged to him through debt and history. All of this read in her eyes, upon her visage, and she let his arms bear her small weight for her, so overwhelmed with this responsibility placed upon her, she was not quite realized of what just happened. Promisa: stammered “Yes Master… I will watch, listen, and report back to you. As I have done, and as you taught me. My eyes are your eyes, and my ears are your ears.”
[12:12] Crow would lean down as he held her face. His lips brushed her softly as if to memorize the sensation to his lips. The words were truly heard and measured. Not much would go unnoticed. He was a man for the details and as ever calculating the odds. As he held her so close he could feel the complete surrender. The one that made the woman the most precious gem a man could ever hold. At his mercy and completely devoted. As she stood so close he inhaled her scent. A fragrance that would always tell him where she was if she was near. “Be careful, dear. “he murmurs against her lips. “As you know promises are a thing if you remember me well.” his kiss would deepen if she replied in eager to his kiss.
[12:15] Promisa: standing on her tip-toes to meet that deep kiss, she yielded just as the softest girl could, malleable in his grasp, she was still very much Promise the slavegirl, in this moment. she was His. “I promise, Master. When you have need of me, I will be at your side without hesitation.”
[12:21] Crow would heed her promise and the kiss that still lingered upon his lips. “Go back to the court. You will find enough funds to buy yourself a life. There is a small package with a dress, veils and a pin for in your hair. The pin is engraved with a feather. As a reminder of who it is that took and gave your freedom. Perhaps we will never cross paths and yet if there is need of it – we might. As ever I have whispers that come to me. This feather. Leave it in your window if there is something that needs my attention. And I will ensure your concerns will be met with either a scroll or a place to meet.”
[12:26] Promisa: solemnly looked for the last time into his eyes as her Master, and nodded with absolute obedience. “I shall never forget. Your Promise will remain in my heart, and I will willingly return to keep that debt, whenever you command.” She clutched her arms tightly around his chest. Small and frail, she moved as the embodiment of the perfection he had awoken within her, permeated with the essence of his expectations and demands. It would never leave her, and she would forever keep that part of her as her being.
[12:30] Crow chuckles and grins as she hugged him. He would brush down her hair “Now be aware … when you are dressed and step outside wear this.” he would give her a small scroll “It is proof of what I have given you today.” A rare paper as he had never ever granted his slaves their freedom. “Be well, Promise.” he stated in farewell.
[12:33] Promisa: accepted the scroll offered with both hands, raised high above her head, forehead bowed. “Thank you, Master. I will do as you say, and I wish you… joy, happiness, and prosperity. May your sword sing, and your feet never slip. I wish you the best.”
[12:33] Crow would watch her go with a look that could tell a thousand stories on how he met her, taught her, had her and eventually lets her go.
Bear’s cry shattered the night like thunder on glass. “Captain overboard! We’re adrift!” His voice rolled across the black, treacherous waters, echoing off waves that knew no mercy.
He scanned the churning dark, but found only a single sign— a purple ribbon, dancing on the tide like a ghost’s whisper. Silas would never part with it willingly. Something had happened. Something unspeakable.
“Captain!” Bear roared again, his voice raw with desperation. Soon others joined him, their calls rising: “Captain? Captain!” But the sea gave no answer. No hand broke the surface. No breath gasped for air. Only silence, and the cruel rhythm of the waves.
The crew shouted until their throats bled salt. They turned the Stromcrow, circling like mourners around a grave, refusing to believe the sea had swallowed their soul.
Bjorn was the first to voice the shadow in their hearts. “It must be his broken heart,” he murmured defeated. But his words were met with fury— a fist raised, a jaw targeted. “How dare you!” the other spat. “He would never abandon us!”
Bjorn lifted his hands, not in defense, but in surrender. “I didn’t mean he failed us,” he said, his voice trembling like a sail in storm. “I meant… we all saw what happened. Even the strongest hearts can crack.”
Bear stepped between them, his presence like iron in the wind. “Enough,” he commanded. “We’ve sailed too long together to forget— the sea does not ask. When it takes, it takes with purpose.”
And so they stood, men carved from salt and sorrow, staring into the abyss, where the ribbon floated like a final prayer.
A few weeks prior in the captainshall
The captain’s hall lay steeped in silence, the kind that settles only after the day has exhaled its last breath. Outside, the sea whispered lullabies to sleeping slaves, but within, two men sat cloaked in flickering candlelight, faces half-lit, half-shadowed—like truths not yet spoken.
“This one is rare,” the host murmured, his voice smooth as velvet, as he poured the wine with reverence, as if it were blood drawn from memory. “I know you’re no lover of wine,” he said, “but this… this is different. It tastes like a delicate slave— seductive, playful, a tease that dances on your tongue, then strikes with a kiss that leaves you aching for more.”
He smiled, but it was a smile carved from old stone. The jest hung in the air, a veil over something darker.
In the hush between words, the man with too many names leaned back, his eyes reflecting the candle’s flame like twin secrets. “I heard you met Snow,” he said, and with those words, his voice changed— deeper, colder, stripped of the charm that had played the part of captain.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): Noted the change in his friend and looked concerned…”Yes Niahm was noticed by him in Turmus and invited us to his home…that they knew each other was obvious”
“Yes,” he said, voice low and measured, “They know each other well. Just as she knows me… intimately.” He let the final word linger, like smoke curling from a candle’s flame.
Then, with a quiet breath that felt like a shift in wind, he added, “I wonder how long she’s known that I was the man she once called Crow.”
His gaze sharpened, cutting through the candlelight like a blade through silk. It wasn’t suspicion—it was calculation. He studied Portus not with curiosity, but with the precision of a man who had worn too many masks and knew the cost of each one.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “I knew Crow a little back in Torvaldsburg and I never enquired too deeply of him and was quite prepared to take him on face value”….looks through the dim light to the man standing before him….”never once did she indicate that you were he….her past remained that…the past bothr for her safety and my own though it was never explicitly stated”
He grinned, the kind of grin that didn’t reach the eyes— a blade hidden in velvet. Lifting the glass with deliberate grace, he let the wine catch the candlelight, a crimson swirl of temptation and threat.
“Your mate,” he began, voice smooth as aged silk, “is far more than the naive girl you once collared. Axlan was wise— wise to keep her breathing, wise to deny her return to the man who claimed her like property. And his warning to you?” He paused, letting the words settle like ash. “Keep her past buried. Let it rot where it lies.”
He took a sip, slow and reverent, as if tasting prophecy. The wine danced in his glass, a silent witness to the storm brewing between them.
Then he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something ancient and cold. “This conversation,” he said, “will end with one of us owning the company— and the other, his demise.”
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): looks at him and feels the chill run through his body knowing that in front of him stood an accomplished fighter…a man with many contacts….charming when needed…”my friend I hope i have not caused you alarm so that you feel my demise is necessary…i can assure you her past has been left there and i have no desire to learn it”
He lowered his gaze when the word friend was spoken— not out of shame, but out of memory. In the shadowed caste of assassins, friendship was a relic, a fragile thing buried beneath steel and silence. Most who called him brother wore the same mark, but few outside the caste ever dared to touch the part of him that bled.
“This isn’t your demise, my friend,” he said, and for the first time in years, his voice held warmth— not the heat of fire, but the glow of a hearth long cold.
He straightened, the candlelight catching the edge of his jaw, revealing not the assassin, but the man who still loved his Home Stone, who still believed in honor, even when the world had taught him to kill.
“It is the demise,” he continued, “of your good friend, your partner, the captain of the Stormcrow— Silas Drake.”
The name hung in the air like a funeral bell, and the silence that followed was not empty, but sacred.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): could not bring himself to speak….there were many unanswered questions racing through the mind and the principle question being why…..”are you in any kind of trouble? is there no other option?”…the words spoken with the realisation that there was something more behind this….something deeper
He swirled the wine in his cup, watching the crimson cling to the glass like old blood. The question hung in the air, gentle but persistent—like a hand on the shoulder that wouldn’t let go.
He shook his head slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not trouble in the way you might think,” he said, voice low and steady. “As a man of the caste of assassins… I suppose I am trouble. Living it. Breathing it.”
He paused, the silence stretching just long enough to feel sacred. “But I hope you’ll listen. It’s a tale I’ve not told to many.”
A deep breath followed, drawn from somewhere beneath the armor he wore—not the steel kind, but the kind forged from years of silence and survival. Only a few knew the truth of him. Fewer still had earned the right to hear it.
And yet here he was, ready to speak it aloud to the one man who had become more than a comrade—his brother in all but blood.
“Take some wine,” he said, offering the bottle with a half-smile. “Just to humor me. This will take some time.”
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): returns the smile and relaxes some as i pour a good measure prepared to listen to the man who despite his recent revelation still counted among the closest and dearest…takes a sip of wine savouring it before looking back…..”I am all ears my friend”
: “I was born in Ar,” he began, voice steady but distant, as if the words were stepping out of a long-forgotten dream. “My father was a tarnsman, and so I followed. It was natural. I loved the beasts—wild, proud, untamed. I understood them. They understood me.”
He paused, letting the wine warm his throat before continuing. “In time, I mastered my steel. I was ambitious, young, and full of fire. I companioned a woman of my caste—strong, wise, beautiful. She bore me three children. We had a good life. Not perfect, but ours.”
His eyes darkened. “But always, there was the shadow of the Ubar I served. A man who thrived on chaos. His greed was a blade that cut through Ar, and many good men fell in his wake.”
The words slowed, thickening with memory. “One time, I returned from Ar’s Station. I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped through the gate. The air was too still. My house—plundered. I should have braced myself.”
He swallowed hard. “Our kettle slave lay dead in the hallway. Brutally murdered. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for what I found next.”
His voice cracked, barely audible now. “She was there. The woman I loved more than life. Her clothes torn. Her body… marked by her resistance. Covered in blood. Taken from me in violence.”
He turned his face from the light, as if even the flicker of a candle might expose the tear he refused to shed. Even now, after all these years, the wound had not closed. It had simply learned to live beneath the surface.
“I never lost it,” he said, voice low and hollow, “but in that moment… I lost everything. Even the will to live.” A confession that, for any Gorean man, was as unthinkable as surrender.
His eyes burned with memory. “In rage, I stormed the palace. I stood before the Ubar, demanding justice for her death— for the blood spilled in his name, for the ruin he left in the streets of Ar.”
But the Ubar did not flinch. He did not listen. He waved me away like filth, a maggot crawling across his marble floor.
“I threw my insignia at his feet,” he continued, his voice now a blade. “I spat in his face. And I walked out of that palace no longer a servant— but a man untethered.”
Outside, the wind had shifted. And in its wake stood a figure, silent, watching. Perhaps he had watched for years. Perhaps he had waited for this exact moment.
“That man was Scar,” he said, “and he did not offer comfort. He offered purpose. He recruited me into the caste of Assassins.”
And so, Melchior Wardell died that day— not by blade, but by choice.
From his ashes rose Crow. A name not born, but forged. A shadow with steel in his veins and silence in his soul.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): The tale hits hard as I think how such an action would have on my family situation….the reasons for his path and demeanour clearer now and also the pain of the loss of Belle bringing back so many painful memories….”and what of the children…please say they were spared”
The question cut him—not like a blade, but like a memory too sharp to forget. “I lost my two boys,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of ghosts. “My daughter Rose… she was taken. I met her only when she was grown. By then, I was no longer a father— just a man in livery, trained to sever ties, to forget blood for steel.”
He straightened, not with pride, but with the discipline of a man who had learned to survive by burying his heart.
“Your mate,” he said slowly, “Raven… I knew her. She belonged to Scar. But she was never just a possession. She was warmth— the only ember in a compound built of frost and fury.”
He paused, eyes distant. “She taught Snow and me more than any blade. Only one in ten survived the compound.”
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “I do not comprehend how you managed to endure such a terrible loss as I can only think how much i would suffer losing Niahm let alone Caspian or Elodi”…….gives a puzzled look…”but why the need for the Demise of Silas…I can understand the need to hide away under the guise of Silas but why do you need to die?”
He poured the red liquid with practiced ease, the flask catching the light like a relic of old sins. The question hung in the air, reasonable, but heavy. He met it with a quiet nod.
“I won’t bore you with the contracts,” he said, “nor the names of those I served… or ended.” His voice was calm, but beneath it lay the echo of steel.
“The captain of the Stormcrow—he was a mark. Port Kar, as you know, is ruled by its council of captains. My client wanted to ensure he never claimed a seat at that table. And so, I became Silas Drake. A deckhand. A shadow among salt and sail. I climbed the ranks, earned the crew’s trust, and when the time came— I ended the contract. But something strange happened,” he chuckled, a sound more bitter than amused. “They didn’t question me. They didn’t ask where their captain had gone. They asked me to take his place.”
Silas Drake lived longer than intended. Longer than the contract required. Long enough to become real.
But his purpose is done,” he said, his gaze steady, his voice now that of Crow once more.
He looked to the man beside him— not as a mark, not as a mission, but as a friend.
“You’re capable of holding this on your own,” he said, and in that moment, it was not just a passing of responsibility— it was a passing of truth
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): nods in agreement…somewhat understanding the current situation…..”So where are you headed now….i ask not if you are one again contracted but where your futures lies if not here among us….for you have become family…indeed but for that unfortunate incident which need not be mentioned we would be brothers now”
He drained his glass, the wine warm in his chest, a gentle haze settling over the edges of his vision. For once, he allowed himself to loosen the grip— to speak not as Crow, but as the man who had once dreamed of peace.
“I will return to my first love, Portus,” he said, his voice softer now, as if the words themselves were sacred. “To Ar… as it rises from its ashes.”
He leaned forward, the candlelight painting his face in gold and shadow. “I’ve made arrangements. I will walk its streets again— not as assassin, but as scribe.”
The name he chose was not his own. “Trajan Cernus,” he whispered, a mask carved from lineage and anonymity. “He was schooled, raised in quiet halls. If kin pass me by, they will not see me. They will see a scholar. A man of ink and parchment.”
But beneath that disguise, a deeper purpose stirred.
“I’ve accepted a seat on the council,” he said, “Tribune to the lower castes. A voice for the forgotten. A sentinel against the cruelty that once shattered my home.”
He paused, his gaze steady on Portus, no longer veiled in secrecy.
“This is my vow,” he said, “a sacred promise I’ve never spoken aloud. Not to Snow. Not to Raven.”
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): listens carefully noting the sense of pride in his voice “far be it from me to deny a man his destiny but your council and guidance will be missed…..and I will miss a friend and companion with whom to share the finer things in life”….pours another glass of wine……”the company will go on in it’s operations of course but the loss of your presence will be felt keenly…is there no other way?”
Crow felt the heaviness of the words that were shared between friends. His mind as ever sharp as he of course had thought this through.
“The man Silas will find his grave in the thassa. When Bear comes to you with the news you will know that everything that is of the man Silas is yours. My gold, the exquisite wine collection and my girl.” he paused
“But you will gain a friend. A man with influence in Ar. A man that might persuade you to settle there too. To build that company with the talent and knowledge of your skill in the training of girls.” he would regard him now with a teasing gaze “Surely you will see the profit of such an arrangement.” he laughs
“The man Trajan a regular visitor as to ensure your interests are well represented in the council.” than his gaze turned a little dark “What do you think … can we trust Caspian and Elodi with the truth ?” as to Niamh he already knew he could give his life in her hands. She had kept it all this time.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “Caspian needs to mature a little as he reacts quickly to new situations and could reveal something in the heat of the moment and Elodi loves her uncle Silas as did her Aunt so i think it is a good idea to keep the truth of the matter between the three of us to lessen the risk of Trajan being discovered unduly”…takes another swallow of wine
He nodded, slow and solemn, as if sealing a pact not with words, but with the weight of memory.
“Then it will be done, my friend,” he said, his voice carrying the finality of a closing door. “I only hope Elodi’s heart does not shatter beneath it. After Belle… she has known enough ruin.”
He paused, and for a moment, Melchior stirred beneath the mask— the man who once wept, who once held children in his arms, who once believed in peace.
But Crow had no room for ghosts. He exhaled, and with it, let go of every objection that belonged to the man he used to be.
Then he turned, his gaze steady, his tone softened by the candle’s dying flame.
“Now,” he said, “this is the moment for your last questions, my dear friend. The farm will wake early, and I know its rhythm well.”
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and the stars blinked like old companions. Inside, two men sat in silence— not as assassin and ally, but as brothers on the edge of farewell.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “go in peace my brother….your secret will be kept and under the secrecy of your new identity i hope in time that our friendship continues in Ar although I am sure that although our interactions when others are present will be guarded we will both fully understand one another”
Crow would tip the glass to that of Portus as to seal the deal. Not a deal of the devil but one of the heavens. How both men defeated the cruelty of the gorean world. Challenged the codes of waht was considered true. A man that had murdered more men and women he could count and yet capable of forging bonds that would last a life time.
Crow did not speak. Words would only fracture the silence, and silence was sacred now.
Would step before the man he knew so well. And could not help but to open his arms as to beg for that brotherly embrace. Their embrace was not long, but it was deep. A communion of hearts, a farewell written not in ink, but in the press of ribs and breath.
When they parted, Crow’s eyes lingered— not on the face, but on the soul behind it.
“The purple ribbon,” he said, as if tasting the memory of it. “I will remember. Let it be a signal for communication. A sign that we have need for a moment like this.”
Then, without ceremony, he turned toward the door. The night was still, the farm quiet in its slumber, and the stars above bore witness to the closing of a chapter.
Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): watches him leave a wistful expression over my face and I drain my glass and sits back and contemplates my future
[2025/08/24 04:22] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would turn back to his cabin to see if she was awake. He had left her upon the couch with a blanket over her. As he entered he noted her near his desk. “Ah .. you are awake.”
[2025/08/24 04:23] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): Greetings my jarl ‘She moved around and moved closer to stand before him while pressing herself up to stand on the tippy toes’ did you sleep well i hope i did not move to much in my sleep.
[2025/08/24 04:25] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would lift her chin as to brush his lips to hers before he would kiss her. “No .. need to worry about it” he replied. He would not tell her of his own doings. some things were best not to know. “Are you rested?” he asks.
[2025/08/24 04:27] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘The little soft puckered up lips pressing and touching with such a tender kiss as the lips parted away and smiles while resting her feet back onto the ground below’ I did yes very much, i am fully awake. Did work hard on the farm.
[2025/08/24 04:29] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me nodded “Let us see how the farm is doing.” he replied as he would leash her. “Now I want you to be aware where your hands are. If they help you in moving more beautiful.” he gave her that little assignment as he ensured the leash taunt.
[2025/08/24 04:32] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): oh no ‘she would then place her hands up upon her hips seeing the grain was not done. ‘ Oh i shall make sure to get that done soon ‘slid both hands down from her hips to rest at her side’
[2025/08/24 04:33] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would glance back to her as he indeed noted the grain to be ready. “I trust this to be done. As the animals depend on the right amount.” he stated. But not really that much occupied with it as he observed how she would hold herself.
[2025/08/24 04:36] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘As they moved along the path, her head help up high as her hands would keep sway just a little with each step short before they came to a stop and would smile seeing malik positioning herself a little more resting both hands to the side ‘ Malik it is nice to see you again. yes my jarl i will make sure to get onto that, i did fill the feeds and water not long ago.
[2025/08/24 04:38] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me smiled to his girl as they entered the workshop and noted Malik at work. “Greetings Malik. I come with news considering the thrall that we named after your pet.” he could not help to think of what might be the reaction of Malik when he learned the man had gained his freedom.
[2025/08/24 04:38] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Scared to hear Silas’s heavy footstepping, he is turning to nod to Silas, unsure of what to say. He will smil to Bahirah – ” Good to see you, Bahirah “
[2025/08/24 04:39] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Listens while working and sweating much at the burning forge.. wondering about the new arrival and what has become of him, though not daring at all to ask
[2025/08/24 04:43] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): I hope your well malik ‘She turned to look at her jarl with a slight concern to her face’ my Jarl mailk has been working very hard and not seen him been able to enjoy relaxing or even been able to travel very much with off course the other jarl.
[2025/08/24 04:43] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me frowns as the slave did not greet him. He would take the leash from Bahirahs collar. Having need of his personal space as to address it. He knew that he needed to be firm against him. There was no room for compassion or leeway. “Come before me, slave.” the mere mentioning of what he was instead of his name was already an indication that he was in trouble.
[2025/08/24 04:46] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘hearing the leash being removed and would move herself off to the side a little more as she was only able to watch and hope malik may address her Jarl proper and sighs softly’
[2025/08/24 04:50] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Greatly terrified, he ceases works and approaches, the word ” slave ” to ring in ears. He leaves more steel ingots aside for cooling, puzzled yet so, so terrified.. He stands, blinking and not understanding
[2025/08/24 04:52] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me seemed to be calm, nothing in his demeanor might show any sign of anger or frustration. Yet out of no where he would stretch his arm and smack the man with the back of his hand across the face. The force of a man that was trained and able to kill a man with his bare hands. The intent was to struck him hard, to have his hand sting or even have him fall backwards. He would deal with it in the way he knew how. Violent and with no consideration to the feelings of the man he struck.
[2025/08/24 04:56] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Yelps loud as dog on a massive hit to his face. He falls backwards, crashing heavily to the trough of water and is slumping to knees, in shock and massive stunning. He checks for blood, astonished completely and he coughs, wondering why the huge bash to him
[2025/08/24 04:59] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would watch how the man fell and would step towards him while he placed his foot to the mans back as to force him on the floor. “You greet my girl but you do not greet me.” his voice calm – nothing indicated the violence or determination of his actions. In this very moment he was the man that was trained to keep his emotions out of his actions. His foot would not give the man any leeway. If he moved or tried to fight it he would use his own body weight to pin him further down.
[2025/08/24 05:02] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Squeals to be forced to face on the floor. Briefly, he squirms, then squeaks as mouse to be so expertly pinned under very heavy boot and strong leg. Gasping, he can now only snort as tarsk, shaking with terror
[2025/08/24 05:03] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘Jumps a little and would turn herself away some not truly wanting to watch and would move herself over to the shelfs and would see what needed to be stocked as this was something she did not do but was a good distraction and would point’ yep thats needs filling oh and that one, wait did my jarls pet need a new head to eat ‘she moved to the door and peeked out but could not see and moved herself back to think and look at the stock’
[2025/08/24 05:06] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would now place his foot at the back his neck. His force taking away the mans ability to breath. He knew that panic would quickly come over the man as it was not a first he would do such. He knew how it worked in a body that would struggle to survive. It needed extensive training to remain calm. Something he had been taught after learning to control his feelings in training. “Listen!” he shouts as to ensure the man would hear him over his own squeaks. “When I let go you adjust your error immediately or I will keep this foot a lot longer.” he promised. His voice held that authority that could not be questioned.
[2025/08/24 05:11] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me He is shivering and he scrabbles pathetically, terror and panic to rise much as the massive boot crushes into the thick, heavy collar. He will gurgle and dribble as baby, squirming as worm. He drools more and shakes much, gasping and croaking as frog
[2025/08/24 05:13] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘Was only able to look at the stock for so long and turned herself around and was to see the situation at hand and would not get herself involved but mabeh she could offer some help to malik later something she would speak to her jarl about when he was finished with him’
[2025/08/24 05:15] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would cut a glance to his girl as she stood and observed. She had not seen him to follow through to disciplining the slave. As she had become silent. He would now move his foot a little up as to give the man some breath – as he would wait if the slave would do as he was told – or – that he again had to press his foot to the mans neck. It was clear that he would proof his point. Regardless of the consequences. He was not known to back down on a warning given.
[2025/08/24 05:18] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Feeling slight lessening in pressure, he gurgles and tries to mumble a ” S….orry, M…Masterr…. w..ish t..to correct err…or… I.. s..sorry “
[2025/08/24 05:20] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘She truly wanted to leap in and try to help but she knew it would result in herself being placed in trouble but it was hard to see malik in the situation and would only look to her Jarl with sympathy in her eyes then down to mailk’
[2025/08/24 05:20] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would hear the man and would now step back “In whipping position.” came his command. “This will be the last time you forget to greet me properly, slave.” he added. He would uncoil the whip that had been attached to his belt. “Bahirah, bet a bucket of water from outside the well.” as he would feel the leather between his fingers.
[2025/08/24 05:21] LR Tormentor Whip [40-35% Sword] Draw 2.10: Drawn
[2025/08/24 05:25] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): yes my jarl ‘she rushed offside and moved to the well, still her head held proper and her feet strode. the plump cheeks gave a slight wiggle and her bare breasts started to bounce some, the flow of the lightly colored hair would move about. Then stop by the well , placing both hands upon the rope and would allow the bucket to go down collecting water as she brought it back up and placed it onto the ledge. Letting go of the rope and would place both hands upon the bucket and with a mighty heave picking it up and walked her way back inside and stood near her Jarl’ the bucket of water my Jarl ‘she got herself just a little wet off course she was holding it in a hug’
[2025/08/24 05:29] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Shaking and coughing, he wobbles into a curl, in so much shame, exposing his bare back and is so terrified that he is so shaking
[2025/08/24 05:32] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would indicate his girl to be ready to splash the cold water over the slave on his gesture. For now he took position behind the slave as he would have the whip caress the mans back – just before he would lift it and have it struck across his back. The whip a weapon that needed little force, but was handled with this deadly precision as if to betray his true profession. “The next time you do not greet me properly I might take your tongue, boy. ” he suggested. “As you do not use if properly.” after his first strike he would ask “Tell me what will be a proper punishment when it comes to the number of strikes that are needed?” the question to both of the slaves.
[2025/08/24 05:32] LR Tormentor Whip [40-35% Sword] Draw 2.10: Melee Hit on Abhumali Resident
[2025/08/24 05:35] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Pulls deeply for much strength, he remains from crying out that the whip hits hard with much expert handling. He hopes that five would be acceptable and this he mumbles to say, mixed with terror and shock and pressure to throat that could have killed.. ” F….ive…. FIVE. M… Masterrr “
[2025/08/24 05:38] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘She truly did not wish to watch and gave a little flinch feeling the water run a course down her front as a little escaped the bucket, the whip was something she did not enjoy nor wanted to see it ever again. ‘ my Jarl i would try and not make the mistake and would avoid the whip best i could, but for this situation i would agree 5 ‘all though 5 was too much and would try and change it’ no 3 my jarl 3 would be better fitting.
[2025/08/24 05:40] LR Tormentor Whip [40-35% Sword] Draw 2.10: Melee Hit on Abhumali Resident [2025/08/24 05:40] LR Tormentor Whip [40-35% Sword] Draw 2.10: Melee Hit on Abhumali Resident [2025/08/24 05:40] LR Tormentor Whip [40-35% Sword] Draw 2.10: Melee Hit on Abhumali Resident [2025/08/24 05:40] LR Tormentor Whip [40-35% Sword] Draw 2.10: Melee Hit on Abhumali Resident [2025/08/24 05:40] LR Tormentor Whip [40-35% Sword] Draw 2.10: Melee Hit on Abhumali Resident
[2025/08/24 05:40] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would see the first strike light up on the blackness of his skin. As the man answered Silas would not wait and struck him five times. With each strike his force would increase. “You both were wrong. I shouldn’t have to struck you any more as the lesson was already learned.” of course no answer would have been the right one – such was life when it came to being a slave. “Give him the bucket over his back – Now.”
[2025/08/24 05:43] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘sighs softly and moved closer to malik and while hugging the bucket tightly she would allow it to move some watching the water pour over his back, to only letting half the water go out, enough so that she was able to hold it with her hands by the handle and shuffled to drop the rest of the water over and would step back placing the now empty bucket to her side and kept herself quiet for now’
[2025/08/24 05:45] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Shudders under the attacks and massive hittings, he accepts and does not cry out with the terror and pains, promising to self never to cause the attacks again to happen. So relieved that the whippings are over, he sags to forehead on floor to steady self and holds too from sobbing or weeping. Although the thick shackles say ” slave “, he considers himself man, though admitting to self that the pathetic ropes and thick metals with the hideous branding will advertise otherwise. He shivers, then trembles, as cool water is poured and groans just a very little, having accepted stripes and he tries to gather self, awaiting orders from the one who has handled his betrayal and later puniishments
[2025/08/24 05:50] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would coil back his whip after ensuring it wasn’t stained with blood. He would regard his girl that was more considerate to Malik than he desired. But he would not yet fault her for it. Although she might walk a thin line. “Get another bucket full.” he tells her. It served a purpose. The cold water would cool the mans skin as it would swell by the strikes of the leather and have the man to remain conscious. “What did you learn?” he asks – testing him instantly.
[2025/08/24 05:52] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Petrified, he will try to control trembles and he mumbles a ” Mistake made.. bad mistake. Hoping is corrected and apologies, M… Masterrr “
[2025/08/24 05:54] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘Leans down taking the handle into her hand as the bucket was lifted up from the ground ‘ yes my jarl ‘Moved in a little half spin letting her hair flow with the sway, walked herself back out and to the well, placing the rope around so that the bucket was able to be guided down to refill after a few she would bring it back up, again letting it sit upon the ledge removing rope and would give it another big hug and with a might heave and huff picking it up and moved her way with steady steps all though she was having herself a little bath with each step as she stopped with the bucket’ my Jarl it has been refilled.
[2025/08/24 05:56] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me shook his head “That word Master … needs to come quick … Try again.” he stated to the slave as he would tip his head to Bahirah as to pour the bucket again empty upon the mans back. “That word needs to be the first thing you think of when you speak.” he demands.
[2025/08/24 05:59] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Defeated after the humiliations of the costume and all that is locked to him, with the so-obvious brand and now masses of pains with shocks at whippings, he will make new attempt. With just small recovery times to help, he says more clearly, trying to hide his hatred for the M-word but.. he must: ” Mistake made.. bad mistake. Hoping is corrected and apologies, M… Master “
[2025/08/24 06:01] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘Moved closer towards malik she felt really sorry for him, but she would not go against what she has been asked to do, with the same as before leaning a little to let the bucket come to a slight lean allowing the water to flow so that it would hit his back. It came to half way she would let her hand move around to the base taking a better hold so that the water was emptied from out the bucket wand stood herself back still’
[2025/08/24 06:04] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me shook his head “Not doing it for me, boy.” as he ensured the words would cut as deep as the whip would. “Quicker … no stutter … Master.” he demanded again … already close once more to drawing his whip.
[2025/08/24 06:08] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me He pulls self together and sighs as cool water is soaking, causing reliefs. He is careful in obeying now, though the control over his is so hated and absolute. He knows that he must and he does as dictated. ” Master. Mistake made.. bad mistake. Hoping is corrected. Apologies. Master “
[2025/08/24 06:11] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘The slight of relief and relaxed herself a little and not had to stand on the tip of her toes, all though she stood quiet but would only watch on seeing mailk’s back gave her shivers’
[2025/08/24 06:12] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me was only now satisfied as the word had come withotu hesitation and more clear. He would look at his girl “Get a rep cloth and see to his whipmarks. Ensure to keep them cooled. ” he instructed her “Now … Malik … do you still want to learn of the outcome with this thrall with the name of your pet ? “
[2025/08/24 06:15] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Defeated and controlled, he will continue with the humiliating position as he has not been ordered to cease. He tries desperately to clutch to his small remaining morale and he remembers the arrogant one that was renamed. ” Master. He is Nyrmyl as named now. Would like to know. Master “
[2025/08/24 06:17] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): yes my Jarl ‘as she moved around the room and out the door with a bolted sprint to the main building up the steps and into the kitchen where there was a nice pile of rep cloths, instead of taking one she would take a bunch 4 to be exact and not sure why she was in a rush. With a bowl taking some fresh clean water and would walk her way back steady paces down the steps and around passing grain fields and back into the workshop. Kneel down at the side of mailk and whispered softly’ I am sorry if i hurt you by cleaning your back ‘take the dry rep cloth and would softly pat it along his back over the marks that had been made’
[2025/08/24 06:20] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would observe his girl and picked up her words. He could imagine how it felt to her as he had been so violent to the thrall. “I have taken the collar away. I did not want to feed the man that was clearly not up to the task. I allowed him to go with this understanding that he can only return when he brings a thrall to replace him and when he can be more humble in his approach.” each word he spoke would be another lash – most likely – as the man he just struck was not given his freedom while the other was. Yet in the act there was a much deeper understanding. Malik was wanted, desired and kept. While Sosla was discarded, thrown away as if he had been nothing.
[2025/08/24 06:25] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me He gasps on learning that Nyrmyl had been allowed to go and feels the small morale to become much smaller, given that he is still the slave that desperately he wishes not to be. Astonished, he is, though the recent shocks and pins to floor and whippings are so recent and causing pains. ” Master. And I.. may be free as is he ? I can be home and to have my status returned ? Master ? “
[2025/08/24 06:29] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘While she was taking it very gentle upon his back with the rep cloth and heard his words and would lean her hand over with a finger to cover his mouth some with a whisper’ please do not make my jarl angry again ‘then moved herself back up with her hand to look up upon the marks as she was nearly done and would look to her jarl’ my jarl might i have permission to help malik, train him on how to greet and who to greet first, with what to say and what not to say ‘she truly wanted to help him so that his back would not be soo wounded from being whipped’
[2025/08/24 06:30] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would arch his brow “You wish to be released ? To return to a home that has not mourned your loss ? That even went as far as knowingly to let you be the slave you are now ? The to be companion that now is bounded to your father ?” he questions. Each sentence another whipping most likely as he would shake his head “Here I am telling you that you are valued and treasured and you wish to slap me in the face ?” as his girl spoke he would turn to her more fully “What is it that you wish to suggest mine ? That he has not been trained or taught well enough?” the question a trick one.
[2025/08/24 06:37] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): “looking down to malik and onto his back as she placed the rep cloth down and stood herself up and moved closer to her jarl, while looking up into his eyes she would flash a little smile’ my Jarl there is all ways room to help provide a little guidance to help avoid situations like this from happening again. ((tyt)).
[2025/08/24 06:38] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me Sags with more relief at Bahirah’s expert caring and gentle tending to the burning back of his. He does not squirm or struggle or weep, plumbing deep to inside strength and to stop from being complete coward. The Master’s words of home, which has betrayed, his girl, stolen, the father who sold him as low animal, the points made each drilling to his soul with daggers of ice, he will sag more to the floor, realising that probably never can he return to that which he had been so recently. He considers, too, Bahira’s words and the Master’s word ” slave “, it is aimed at him to hurt hundreds more than a thousand whips could do. He shuts up, the walls of slave closing tight and locking him inside the tiny box. He can only manage a pathetic, though clearly-said, ” Master. No, Master “, detesting the full control and remembering the boot on back and later on neck
[2025/08/24 06:51] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘Would turn slightly to look at malik her words where at a lost but felt sorry for him’
[2025/08/24 07:02] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me would keep that stern look upon his girl “You can always help others to improve. In truth such should not be asked but already ingrained in your entire being. ” he lashed out to her. “You both are ours … and being ours means something. It means that you are owned, desired, treasured and kept. Do we not feed you well ? Do we not give you warm furs to sleep under. What is it that we ask of you we do not ourselves?” Part of it was true. Portus, Niamh and himself worked the same tasks as they did. But they carried the weight of owning them.
[2025/08/24 07:10] Lυlυ Lÿţє Õђηαкα (lululyteohnaka): ‘moved well stepped closer pressing herself more so brushing softly upon him looking into his eyes, truly she was devoted to him in many ways then others’ my jarl, i like to ask ‘It could be from her past but it was just her thing’ but my Jarl i wear your collar with much pride and love as for the brand for the black compass. Oh i think i get over fed and if i keep going i might be the one rolling away, must keep up the exercise and keep fit ‘she gave a little laugh hoping that he might get a little kick from that to she did not complain at all and loved her position here it filled her heart with such desire and meaning’
[2025/08/24 07:12] Obi Ouma Abhumali (abhumali): /me So defeated is he that all he once had been seems as remote as a thousand worlds away. Although he burns to know more of the ” deal ” which has landed him so in the shaming position of his now, he shuts up on the subject, expecting now that never can he know more. Knowing now that being the Free that he once was will probably never again happen, he feels at the thick and heavy collar that is so bolted by expert that he knows it will be impossible to remove, he tries to move past the horrible situation. Feeling now as no more than some animal pet thing, he feels much the shame, still and all he can say now, from his pathetic state on the floor, water to drip into the shaming slave cloth, is ” Yes, Master. As you say, Master “. Hoping now that Bahirah’s kind attempt to distract with humour the terrible events of the day, he says no more
[2025/08/24 07:17] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell): /me was grateful for not doubted, questioned or challenged on his words. In his mind these slaves should be on their bare knees praising any god that they were owned by him or Portus. He knew that others would not allow slaves this kind of freedom or having the luxury of what they were fed. Of course he himself never considered the freedom of them. They both served them too well. He would look at his girl “I think it is time to get to pool … ” he stated as he would pull her close to leash her once again. “I believe you promised me the pleasure of yourself.” he stated – leaving it to no imagination as to what was to happen.
Silas had wandered far, chasing whispers of wind and the shimmer of light that felt just right. He sought a place where the birds sang without fear, where the sun spilled gold across the earth like a blessing. A final place. A sacred place. One where her memory could take root and bloom for lifetimes.
The crew of the Stromcrow had puzzled over the weight of the marble, the strange request for stones that seemed to speak of temples. But Silas had seen it in dreams—in flickers of memory and longing. He knew where it must stand, and why.
After meeting Elodi and Caspian beneath the old ka-la-na trees, he understood: this was not only for Portus, or Niamh, or the elders whose names were etched in the family’s bones. It was for those yet to be born. The children of their children. The ones who would ask, “Who was Belle?” and deserve more than silence.
So he built. Brick by brick, stone by stone, he shaped a portal—not of magic, but of memory. A threshold between what was and what might be. Those who stepped through it would see the past if they looked back, or glimpse the future if they dared to look ahead. It was all a matter of light and perspective.
And when the birds wheeled above in the amber dusk, Silas sat in the grass, hands resting on his knees, eyes lifted to the sky. “Oh, my Belle,” he whispered. “My dearest. You are not gone. You are not lost. You are woven into the wind.”
Strange, how the words now came aloud—words he once only dared to write. He longed for her ghost, for a trick of fate, for her laughter to echo from the stones and call him foolish. He longed for her to say it was all a jest, a cruel joke played on an old man’s heart.
He saw the question in Niamh’s eyes. Felt it in Elodi’s silence. Heard it in Caspian’s breath. And still, he could not answer.
A breeze stirred the dandelions nearby, lifting their seeds into a quiet dance—weightless, radiant, eternal. Light and wind moved together, carrying something unseen but deeply felt.
How he wished to dance with her, on the sea’s breath. To hold her in the moonlight. To hear her teasing laugh as he stumbled through rhythm, hopelessly out of step.
“Oh, my Belle,” he murmured. “You will never be forgotten. Not while the wind still moves. Not while the light still falls.”
It might take long before this letter finds you. You might not even know or remember me. It was a brief flicker of time — I saw you. And nothing has felt quite the same since.
I’ve spent days wondering what color your eyes truly are, and whether you hum to yourself while washing dishes. Silly details, I know. But isn’t that how love begins — not with fireworks, but with the sound of someone laughing at just the right moment?
I don’t expect anything from this note. I only wanted you to know: for a single, quiet heartbeat in this vast world, you were deeply noticed. And cherished — if only from afar.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe not. But it’s real. — A stranger who saw the sun differently after seeing you
Belle was surprised when the man walked up to the bakery with a letter for her. She held it in her hand and looked about the quiet lands, seeing no one except for the man as he climbed into his serpent and sailed off into the distance. Turning and getting a tankard of mead she went and sat at the table and opened the letter and began to read. Her eyes skimming the paper for some sort of clue as to who would of written such words. Was this a horrid prank from her brothers, or a cruel trick of the God’s. Her heart still clung to the man who gave his life for the lands. But after reading such words she felt the small glimer of warmth from her cold heart. Only briefly though as she finished her tankard and folded the letter up placing it in her pouch and returned to work not giving it another thought, for now anyway.
The second letter arrives with a merchant. When asked the merchant only knows that it arrived with supplies. The scroll is tied with a blue ribbon and it says:
Dear Belle,
It is strange that I can’t be truly sure for these letters to reach you. They must cross perhaps so many hands to come to you that I dare to question if they come in the right order. I just have to trust that meeting you was a Godly intervention.
I don’t know if you kept the letter. Maybe it fluttered away in a breeze. But I meant every word. Still do. The world feels strangely richer since I wrote it — as if that moment of seeing you etched something permanent into my days.
I’ll stop here, before this turns into another confession. Only this, then: you were lovely. You are lovely.
And if nothing else, at least this letter got to say so.
The days of the letter had passed. Belle busied herself moving through each day as if ok auto drive. Her focus for anything other then her orders at the bakery had long vanished.
This day Belle was accepting the supplies from the traveling merchant. As she signed the manifest and handed it back to the man his eyes grew wide as if there was something else. That name, he thought to himself..then its as if a switch went off and he held his finger up to Belle and rushed over to a bag filled with scrolls, where he pulled one out and smiled..”This belongs to you also” he said handing it to her and turned to finish his business.
Belle stood there woth the letter in her hand the blue ribbon binding it. Unsure of what it was, as she had hoped it was from her brother or sister in their new lands telling her of her niece and nephews. Stepping over and settling down on the bench she tugged on the ribbon having it unroll in the palm of her hand. Reading it she couldn’t help but to first frown as she looked about for someone but found nothing.
Her eyes skimmed over the letter again and with it held tightly in her fingers she couldn’t help but to grin and rest the hand with the letter in her lap as she looked out upon the waters. Thinking of who this person was and when did they meet.
Every day he wrote a letter and yet not all would truly arrive. But the urge of writing became more and more of moment of calm in his restless life. Some spoke of his feelings, while others wrote of his dreams. And again one letter finds you via the hand of a merchant.
My dearest Belle, I wasn’t going to write again. Not really. But then I passed a bakery where the aroma of freshly baked bread transported me back — and I thought of you. I always do.
There’s a strange comfort in writing to you, like pressing my palm to the warmth of a stone that’s been sitting in the sun. You never asked for these letters. You might not even know from who they are. But they’ve become the way I breathe deeper — as if naming this feeling gives it permission to be real.
You still don’t know me. Maybe you never will. But in a world full of danger and noise, you felt like silence — not the lonely kind, but the kind that wraps around you and says, “Stay.”
There’s beauty in restraint, I suppose. In loving without expectation. In carrying someone quietly inside your every day. I won’t say more. I’ve said enough in ink already. But I’ll keep this ritual — writing, folding, letting go — like a lantern drifting on a still lake.
Not expecting this to reach you. Just to remember that once, you made something inside me feel weightless. — Still a stranger, but no longer empty
Belle had missed the delivery on the day the next letter arrived, she had spent the day in the forest collect berries and just taking in all that the God’s surrounded them with, the beauty the unknown. She once enjoyed the time alone but since her days gad grown cold and dark, the happiness that allowed the light the shine through casted out by nothing but shadows now.
Reaching the bakery and walking in to supplies on her table, she at first didn’t notice the letter, not until the rolled up scroll rolled off a crate and onto the floor. Catching it out of the corner of her eye she couldn’t help but to be hopeful. Picking it up and taking it out onto the porch where she sat and read it. Her mind really began to race. Who was this man, where did she meet him. How could she respond to him?
She sat back in the chair and for the first time in a very long time she felt the sunshine on her face, the warmth of the kiss of the sun. Closing her eyes to enjoy it for the moment as she held the letter in her hand and a soft smile curled upon her lips.
This will be the last one.
Or at least, that’s what I’ve tell myself everytime.
It’s strange — how a person you only casually met can become a thread woven through your every season. You, who never asked for this.
And yet, I’ve written to you. Not because I believed I had the right, but because I didn’t know how else to keep this feeling alive. Writing has been my only way of holding truth still long enough to see it clearly.
But now, I find myself wanting more.
Not more letters. More courage.
Strange that this is what is missing. I can face a knife without trembling. And yet when I think of meeting you. I don’t know if that frightens me or sets me free. What I do know is this: if someday — perhaps soon — you find a man standing quietly nearby, hands tucked nervously into his belt, watching the flowers near the bakery or a small gathering near the long hall… that may be me.
I’m not asking for anything. Not your heart. Not even your attention. Only the chance to exist without shadows. To let you know that all of this — the ink, the ache, the wonder — came from somewhere real.
Until then, I remain — Still anonymous, for now. But not for long – so I tell myself.
A merchant comes grinning to the baker stall. “Well Belle, you seem to have an admirer.” he jested totally unaware of the content of the letters. But it was getting the attention of some that these letters with the blue ribbon became more frequent. “This was given with great urgency. The child that brought it even asked if the one that was delivered earlier could be taken and replaced. Of course I would not do such a thing.” he shook his head “I even think the child might have been mistaken. As it was unsure from which the order and this letter came.” He would give the letter. As always the same blue ribbon tied it together. When you unfurl it a small flower that seemed to have been pressed within it falls to the floor.
My Dearest,
I just hope this letter will be more quick—rushed by winds, hurled across distance with the speed of lightning—so it may find you before hesitation catches me once again. If there is any God who peers down upon me with some affection, I pray it guides this message to you before my previous one will.
For I was a fool to even suggest that my last letter would be final. How can it be, when I cannot stop? I cannot stop writing, cannot stop breathing you into every silent space I occupy. My heart refuses to forget. It longs for that brief moment, that single glance that left me weightless and wanting.
You’ve undone me. I never knew these feelings before. This sensation of being adrift and yet more myself than I have ever been. To be both found and lost in the same breath. To be so thoroughly captivated and yet uncertain. You are like some delicate bloom growing wild in an untamed meadow too lovely to pluck, too rare to risk fading.
And who am I to even reach? Not one of those refined southern men with words that charm like wine, nor a northern giant whose strength could silence doubt. I have neither finesse nor force. Only this, this small moment in this quiet corner of the world where I write to you and pretend, to be the man I wish I could be.
Ever yours in silence, but I keep writing.
Ps. Next time I will try and sent something pretty. But I first need to obtain it.
As the merchant approached she hoped it would be, then she saw the letter with the blue ribbon, just like the one she began to tie her hair with. A smile beamed from ear to ear as her eyes danced with happiness. With a raised brow she looked at the man when he spoke “urgency you say” she then looked down to the letter then back up to him “if you would wait, I have one to return to where this came from. Please I dont know if you know but I have to at least try.. just one moment and ill be back.” She quickly hurried off to the bakery where she read the letter, her heart began to flutter briefly as she read it. Quickly setting it off to the side and began to write one back.. a chance she had to take, a slim chance knowing nothing! With the dried flower close she began
To the the man who broke the darkness,
This is a long shot, not knowing who you are or where you are or even what you look like. But its a chance I have to take. Sending you words of my own.
You’ve taken the darkest of days and beamed your ray of light down upon me, brightening everything I do, shinning so bright.
I’ve found myself watching not to see if a letter is to be delivered. Feeling my cold heart filled woth warmth each time it does. My eyes scan the docks, the hall, the paths to see if someone is standing there. But nothing! I’ve found myself hugging myself tightly as I stand on the edge of a cliff looking oht and over it. Even though it be my arms i long for yours.
Come to me, tell me whom you are, I beg of you
Becoming yours, Belle
Rolling it back up and knowing the same blue bow around it, this time though taking a pink flower from the bakery walk and tucking it in tightly as she ran to the merchant and handing it to him..”Give this to the man who’s been giving you mine, or how ever its been happening, pleade I beg you” then reached in and handed him a few coin hoping it would help.
Some time later …
The boy gripped the letter loosely, yet with caution. He hadn’t dared read it—of course not—but something in the way it had been folded made it feel alive and special. He couldn’t explain it, only that it seemed with something heavier than words: hope, maybe, or sorrow tucked between the lines. He didn’t know who the sender was, but he knew—deep in his chest—that something inside this paper mattered. And so he had rushed to the bakery as his father had explained that this letter was to be delivered immediately. “Miss Belle!” the boy called, his voice bright against the hush of the afternoon. “There’s another one,” he added, holding the letter like something sacred and strange. He didn’t move, only stood there with wide eyes. “There’s something in it,” he whispered then, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. A secret, maybe. Or a heart, carefully folded. As the scroll would be unfurled a small gem fell out of it. Not the kind one would often see. Surely something precious.
My Ray of Light,
As I sat to write you, fate intervened—I was handed a letter. Strange, perhaps, but before I even unfolded it, I lifted it to my face, hoping against hope for that familiar fragrance I so vividly remember. Foolish, I know. The merchant who brought it had no knowledge of the precious cargo he carried. It bore instead the scent of sweat and suls. Yet if words had a scent, if ink could carry the essence of meaning, I’d be intoxicated by the very first breath of yours.
Still, the moment made me smile, like a boy triumphant in his first battle, convinced now he will conquer the very world he walks upon. I remember that boy. I remember his vision, the golden future he believed in. I am not that man – I wished to become. But perhaps one day I’ll find the courage to tell you the story of the shadows, the storms and quests. I only wonder… will your light dim if I offer the truth of my darkness?
Tonight, in the hush between heartbeats, I picture you. I see you on that cliffside, arms around yourself as the wind tries to steal your warmth. And from where I sit, I ache to close the space between us—to fold you in my arms and whisper to your ears that you are safe, you are cherished. For as long as I may, I will treasure you.
Ask anything of me, and I shall obey. But this—this confession—is the one task I tremble to complete. To tell you who I am beyond these letters… that frightens me. For never before have I spoken so truthfully, so deeply. And what becomes of a man, once his heart has been so gently, yet so entirely, stolen?
Yours in silent awe, — Anonymous
Ps. This gem was the first thing I ever truly won. It is something one can not give to anyone but the one that is more precious then the gem itself.
In the hustle and bustle of the docks, Belle went about her daily ways, the sounds of the birds landing and sqawking while they fasted on the scraps of fish being tossed aside. The laugher of the people trading woth the merchants that had docked. Her basket hooked on her arm and her thoughts with the man who seemed to light her ways in the words he leaves. Hearing her name she stopped and turned around only to see a young boy run with something in his hand, the blue ribbon she caught right away. A smile gleaming from ear to ear. Handing him a cookie she took the letter and sent him on his way.
Finding an empty bench at the edge of the dock she carefully opened the letter and catching the gem. Her eyes danced with the way the sun would hit it. Bringing it to her lips she held it close while she read the letter.
Once finished she folded it up and leaned back once again closing her eyes as she imagined the scene he laid before her on the cliff. The flashing to the boy he once was and wondered who he was now. Pulling out a scroll she decided to teat fate once again and began to write using the bench to press against.
Im so thankful you were able to receive my letter, I was unsure that it would ever touch your hands. The God’s saw that it did, so im trying once again. Thank you for the gem, I will cherish it and keep it close to me at all times, when I lose my breath in my lungs I will clench it in my hands for it to never leave me.
I nae know of the man nor the boy but im beginning to know of the one who is writing me, and nothing that you’ve done or storms you’ve mastered could change the person in my eyes that sits and writes me. I’ve often pictured you sitting there at your desk, your face lightened by the candle thar burns fiercely beside you. If only I meet this man who has letter by letter given me reason for hope. A reason to smile. As I hope ive done for you.
Tell me of our first meeting, give me that, I beg of you
Yours through the dancing rays of light when you look upon the sun, Belle
Rolling the letter and placing but a dark lilac ribbon around it. And set out to search for the boy whom delivered hers. As she found him she gave him the letter and a few coin. “Please give this to the man you recieved it from and hopes that the God’s take it the rest of the way’ she patted his head and went about to the bakery lost in her newly found dream land
He had been writing, yes—but these past days, the words refused to obey him. Each letter scratched across the page felt lifeless, unworthy. Crumpled pages gathered at his feet, rolling like driftwood across the wooden floor of his cabin as the sea rocked him gently. They whispered among themselves like quarrelsome ghosts: fragments of longing, of dreams too fragile to bear the weight of ink.
She had begged for a letter. A simple thing, really. How could he deny her such a tender plea? And yet, the tremble in his hand betrayed the storm within. Would he survive her silence—if silence came? Could his heart weather that particular kind of tempest?
Still… hope had crept in. Slow at first, shy like moonlight on dark water. He dared to dream. He saw her there on the dock, dress billowing in the salt-heavy breeze, one hand shielding her eyes, the other raised in joy. A smile—yes, he imagined that most of all. That she would be glad he had returned. Was that not the secret yearning of every sailor? That someone waits?
In the rich tapestry of his longing, she did not stand alone. No. In time, perhaps, a small figure would appear beside her. A child—his child—eyes wide, heart innocent. Or more than one. A family. A future.
And yet… what did he have to offer them? A purse heavy with ill-gotten gold, perhaps. But honor? A name that might be carried with pride? No. His deeds were shaded in smoke and blood. He was no hero of tales, no merchant of virtue. He was a thief. A pirate. A wretch cloaked in charm, living off the misfortune of others and calling it necessity.
Still, he wrote. Because in those scattered scraps, in those ghostly quarrels of paper, lay the one fragile hope that love might still anchor him to something pure.
My dancing ray of light,
I have begun this letter more times than I dare count. A thousand times, perhaps more. Because this letter… it could change everything. What if you already know who I am? What if your next words carry sorrow or anger? The fear of that has held my hand still for longer than I care to admit.
And yet, these letters—these quiet confessions sent across—they have been my lifeline. They linked me to something beautiful in a world I’ve long wandered without anchor. Like a single flower pushing through refuse to reach the sun, you reminded me what it is to feel warmth again. How could I ever deny the plea of the one I now carry in my thoughts like a flame?
So here it is. The truth, or as close as I can bring myself to write.
We met only briefly in Hjartaskjold, a village small enough that you’d think the world paused when you laughed. And for me, it did. In that sliver of time, not only did I see you. I found in this village a friend. One who remains, to this very moment, the most cherished I’ve known.
Belle, I have not had an easy life. Since boyhood, I’ve carved my path alone, salvaging meaning from hardship. And yet… when I think of you, I understand why some might see me as unworthy. Why even I sometimes do.
But still—I hope.
Your lilac ribbon is tied to the key of my cabin. It’s a simple thing, but every night as I slip inside, it reminds me that beneath the same star-scattered sky walks someone who has stirred something better in me. Someone who makes me want to be worthy. And that someone is you.
Yours—no matter the tides, A man learning how to hope again
Crows Murder 