@sharransepulchre Forgot That Only Sith Deal In Absolutes. Continued From .

@sharransepulchre forgot that only sith deal in absolutes. Continued from ✨ .

Anne actually snorts when Shadowheart, prickly and defensive, tries to cast aspersions onto her. Here all she’s said is the world isn’t as against the cleric as she thinks, simply is not in love with her, and her hackles have gone up! What in the hells is in the water these religious types drink? Anne levels a look that says you really should have seen this coming before she replies.

“Oh, the world’s fucking against me, have no doubt! Hates me. Made me what I am and rejects me, don’t matter a whit. I live on spite and audacity alone.” That’s at least mostly true. Anne shrugs and falls silent.

They share an inability to express vulnerability, but Anne’s found that to be standard in those who would take on a life of adventure. The burdened few, ignoring their burdens by facing the burdens of others. Anne’s known their type, her type, all her life. She’s been surrounded by them since birth.

“I only meant to say that the world hasn’t proved half so hostile to ye as ye act it does. Just ‘cause the world don’t love ye don’t mean it hates ye.”

who up feeling like an open wound that will never heal

Someone letting Anne seduce their muse during a rehearsal/performance for her band when? Whomst?

Oh, God. For the first time in since she’d first gone a-sea, Anne feels something like seasicknesses roiling over her in tempestuous waves. She’s cracked herself with rage already: her face remains an open book, disgust and nausea rippling across it. The feeling ran deeper than terror, the imagined weight of it already yoked across her neck. She’s the brains and the brawn’s for leadership, but only that; the benign temper, the beaming charisma, the separation of self from work, all things she lacks. Her response isn’t born out of malice or contempt, but out of the rising bile in her throat.

“War.” It’s this horseman or none—at least none that tries to place her as captain. “I haven’t the stomach for leadership. Turns like sour milk in the gut. Jack was right about it disagreeing with my sunny disposition.”

She would sooner jumped into shark-infested waters than agree to a captaincy.

Anne looks away with a tsk when the question’s batted back to her. Without Rakatak’s knowledge—or perhaps with it, but unannounced to her—Anne has tried to leave the Red Horse. More than once, even. She’s tried wheedling her way into other berths, but touched by the Horseman as she is, she’s been turned away at every opportunity. Those that don’t turn because of the Red Horse turn because of Jack and the Ranger. She’s well and truly committed to her watery grave now.

Irritable—as if she’s ever anything else—Anne flips her hand in an almost violent gesture, as if trying to wave the matter off altogether.

“Congratu-fuckin-lations, ye now know the disposition of yer fuckin crew. En’t my fuckin duty t’figure out the oughts; that’s a right of the captain.” Quartermasters, even unofficial ones like Anne had been, are not in charge of praise or reward among the crew. They keep the ship ready and primed, and mete out discipline on the captain’s behalf. Finding the missing pieces to a successful voyage has never been on her roster of duties, never mind within her skill set. It seems to her to be one of the few duties of a real captain, a successful captain.

by comfortintheunknown

@sharransepulchre is starting to figure out why Anne has no friends. Continued from ✨.

Shadowheart can pout all she likes: Anne’s no intention of telling some tales with a damned good reason, and passing curiosity is hardly that. It’s funny, finding her footing as a barbarian now: it explains why the light fighting style of the sea has always alluded her and her bull’s strength and stride. She’d rushed blindly into that gnoll and she’d paid for it—more than was expected even at the time. She knows the story Shadowheart’s reading in the rest of her back, nick’s and scrapes and burns and the like that would’ve healed much sooner at a cleric’s magic touch. The avoidance that speaks of. The recklessness, the rash action.

Some scars she’s proud to bear. That godsdamned J isn’t one of them, nor will it ever be.

It had taken more than a little pain to finally drag Anne’s arse to the radiant (she’d hate to hear that, no doubt!) cleric’s little purple and gold setup.

Anne huffed a laugh when Shadowheart snaps back: fair enough, one whipcrack of a lashing tongue for another. Than the ancient chanting started and Anne braced herself for…who knew what. She wasn’t altogether sure, obviously, but it wasn’t the sharp spike of pain she’d halfway assumed it must be, based on the Sharran’s brief lessons of Shar’s divinity. Anne drops her forehead down onto her kneecaps in relief and reminds herself to breathe.

“—Among other things, aye. Just so happens to match a description of someone with an unfortunate resemblance to me.” Though one might think that if they welcomed a vampire in their midst they would would almost certainly welcome a pirate, one would be wrong. In the wrong circles, Anne is to a pirate what Strahd is to Astarion. There’s a difference between welcoming a pirate and Anne Bonny the pirate, and Anne would frankly rather err on the side of caution. “Turns out we traveled in similar company for a time. Though…I take it ye have an inkling of what is to own. Can’t imagine that thing on yer hand is any more a thing ye’d like to discuss as I would mine.”

Anne glances over her shoulder, winding her blouse around her hand and between her fingers out of habit. It’s never taken much for Anne to lose her shirt, and it’s proved a surprisingly strong tactic to employ in any fight, from a bar brawl to a mid-sea battle. She lets the silence rest between them for a moment before adjusting her head into a more comfortable position.

“Is it hard? Healing? I got used to the sight of blood early on, but there are some things that even clench _my_ stomach to think of. Can’t imagine that’s easy.”