Untwist Yer Knickers, Shady One, Anne Replies Almost Immediately. Gods Aboveis This What Dealing With

“Untwist yer knickers, Shady One,” Anne replies almost immediately. Gods above—is this what dealing with her is like? Unpleasant and mean without a real reason? …what a stupid fucking question. Of course this what dealing with her is like, right down to the dismissive assumptions. Anne isn’t used to dealing with someone like herself; James and Jack were loud, brash arseholes, and Read was a serious, quiet shadow at her shoulder. She doesn’t miss James, or Jack, or any other shit-dick excuse for a sailor on the Ranger save Read. They were always a good sort. “Didn’t say I would stop ye. Hells, didn’t say I wouldn’t help ye!” She also didn’t say she would, but that’s another matter. “Just lookin t’understand. Ain’t met something I’d risk my everything for like that.”

She thought she had, twice.

Both times she’d been sorely mistaken.

Anne rolls her eyes when she’s accused of jabbering. Leaves crunch underfoot and a breeze stirs the trees, but without the sound of canvas snapping against it, it just doesn’t seem like real wind. These others, except the elf, they all seem so…unbothered by it all. Like they’ve spent their whole lives traversing woods and caves and what all else, likes midges and flies and mosquitoes and goblins are just run of the mill nuisances one must suffer to continue living. She’d known the sea was a world apart from any other, but the unexpected loneliness of that truth keeps driving Anne to do stupid shite she wouldn’t normally.

Like all the talking. She usually enjoys being reticent, closed off, let alone—but maybe Read’s broken something in her, because now being totally alone feels…lonely. She has to choose between horrible hyper-awareness of the leech in her skull, being alone with her thoughts and unoccupied hands, or making an arse of herself to distract from it all. It’s an easy choice to make, despite looking so out of character for her in the face of it.

Besides, she isn’t jabbering. The Blade fella jabbers. A never-ending source of sound, that one! Always on about his exploits or trying to woo one of the women in the party. He reminds her of Jack in that way, and she can’t trust herself to go ply him for talk. Might end up with her blade in his belly out of reflex.

Anne scoffs at the idea of rotting her gut the moment they make port. “Is that yer best? ‘Sailors are drunkards, har-har’? Pull yer head outta yer arse.”

Truthfully, Baldur’s Gate is only her destination because that’s the heading her companions have taken. Anne isn’t from these parts, wasn’t even before she turned pirate; she’d been born and partly raised in a different country of Toril altogether, and hadn’t spent more than a few years in Faerûn before marrying James and running off. She has no home here, no home anywhere as of ten minutes prior to ending up kidnapped by the squids. The question of her fate is an uneasy one. The uncertainty and the terror of it threaten to choke her: frankly, if it weren’t for the whole becoming one after part, letting the little bugger in her brain finish its bidding might just be a mercy for her. No more living in lesser men’s shadows.

“I done more drinking at camp with you lot than I done in all my life, gods’ honest truth.” There was always something to be done on the ship, after all; knots to check, tighten, tie, supplies to be accounted for, training to be had, navigation, mending, polishing, cleaning, and in the few stolen moments she’d allow for it, Anne would bury herself in more shameful pursuits. Read aside, the things she misses most about the Ranger already are the books she’d so unexpectedly left behind. Jack would toss them overboard if he found them, and only him and Read actually know that Anne can read at all. To be a woman at sea is already to be considered cursed, and each thing Anne is after that is another curse compounded upon her: not just a woman, but a learned woman. Not just a learned woman, but in fact the captain’s whore wife. And more! The result of an illicit inter-class affair, red-haired and left-handed, a murderer, a law clerk—all of it too much! All of it that could be hidden away kept just so. She forced herself to use her right hand until that became an easy, unconscious ruse. She’s disguised herself as a boy and, when that was discovered, quit her place as a law clerk. She left her father’s name so it would never be tied to her and feigned ignorance in the face of arithmetic and literature. The first murder was swept under the rug, the rest justified as battle.

And now she’s hiding one more thing. In a world where it isn’t as bad to be a woman, or even a learned woman, it’s considerably worse to be a pirate.

Anne stretches her arms over her head and tries to relieve the pain in her back. These fucking packs are awful. (That’s another thing; no need to carry all of your effects with you at sea.) In all the ways that Shadowheart can sense the sea on Anne, Anne is all but insensible to the Sharran influences on Shadowheart. Like her father before her, she isn’t sure if she does or even can worship a god, though also like him and her mother she knows them all to be real. Her mother instilled a fear of the gods into Anne before her passing that her father only plastered over with his indifference to them. Though unaccustomed to the company of other women, Anne is confident that the things she does sense in Shadowheart are more telling, anyway. Aside from being a fellow utter twat, Shadowheart’s hiding a hurt in plain sight. The strange black mark on her hand she sometimes rubs as if it pains her when she thinks no one is watching. Anne doesn’t need to know its story to recognize that it’s nothing, in the same sense that the scar on Anne’s own back is nothing. She knows better than to pry uninvited into nothing.

“S’pose I’ll figure out my fate when it arrives.” Anything’s better than what she’d had, and even has now. She pretends she doesn’t feel the tadpole shift, but her small flinch at the sensation says otherwise. It’s less subtle than the waver in Shadowheart’s voice, making it harder to ignore. “’Less it gets figured out for me before then.”

@neverhangd sent: “So…let me get this straight. Ye’ve got a magical doohickey in yer possession of foreign origin and unknown purpose, and it just so happens t’be keeping the tentacles at bay…and ye still plan t’hand it o’er when we get t’the fucking Gate? Does that apply even if the wriggler’s still present for ye?” She isn’t judgmental of the religious aspects of the cleric’s plans—that’d make her one hell of a hypocrite, her own sordid past considered—family’s family, whether that family’s a torture cult or a band of thieves—but the lack of self-preservation continues to astonish her. Especially seeing as Shadowheart’s yet to present such an astonishing lack of care for the self, both in battle and in camp.

The plan was intended to be simple. Horrendously dangerous and almost certainly liable to result in her own death, but simple.

Steal Retrieve the prism, keep it safe and out of unsafe hands, and deliver it personally to the control of her sacred enclave. This changed the moment she discovered its true capabilities. The moment she learned it was all that stood between them and their agonizing mutation. Not just a permanent end, but a resurrection into something monstrous and unfathomable. A mindflayer.

She still intends to carry out her mission in its entirety. Failure is not an option she is willing to consider, but she's not immune to doubt. To the grim reality of what obedience means for both her and her fellow companions. To choose between thoroughbred faith, and the atrocious violation of body and mind to live onward as illithid, well, such a decision is beyond what she's prepared to handle.

Still, if there's anything Shadowheart can rely on, it's faking it. And she will fake it until she makes it, or, until it breaks her.

"There is no outcome that ends in me forfeiting my duties. I will deliver the artifact, with or without help, and will face whatever consequences as they come." It's nearly imperceptible, almost invisible, but her voice wavers. She is scared. "… if you intend to stop me, I won't show mercy. Anyone who stands against me will be brought to their knees, through force, if necessary." A well-placed, violent threat might add a bit of credence, and she was eager to prove herself worthy of the responsibility placed upon her shoulders. Not that she needed to prove anything to anyone, of course.

The group treks onward, carving a route through a mountainous forest. Sun speckled polka dots filter through the canopy, still hours away from dusk. The day had been long, and it only promised more to come. Their journey's been anything but peaceful, and more than anything, Shadowheart just wanted to go home.

"We're a long way from the Gate, though. Might want to conserve your strength and focus on the more pressing matters at hand. There's a decent chance we won't even make it that far, especially with you jabbering my ear off." A rather abrupt plea to end the conversation. Shadowheart isn't chatty even in her sunniest of dispositions, and much less so when she feels cornered and probed.

"... and what of your fate? I can only imagine you'll find the nearest leaking tap and drown your gullet in pints of ale." Or rum. Or mead. Or whatever it is that seafarers seek to fill their barrels. That's what Anne is, no? Either a caster of nets, or an explorer of tides, or a castaway sailor seeking glory. Her story is sealed away, hidden behind chapters unopened, perhaps permanently. Shadowheart has pieced together a small bit of Anne's heritage, based on the odd off-hand comment or educated observation of the redhead's wardrobe. She smelled of the sea, as well. Whiffs of salt breezed water and a sun-kissed complexion. All the trademarks of a seasoned mariner.

Baldur's Gate is a port teeming with much of the same breed, and the Sharran would recognize their stench a mile away.

Anne leans on a wall in the foyer of the brothel, pointedly ignoring the growing pile of wood shavings at her feet. It isn’t so bad, agreeing to be hired muscle, except on the days like today where instead of knocking together heads she’s expected to stand by and babysit, “just in case.” Fucking boring is all it is, even with whittling to at least keep her hands busy.

No one’s approached to proposition her for the last fifteen or so minutes, after she’d threatened to cut the last one’s dick off if he didn’t take her no and fuck off already, and no one’s got the nerve now to approach her about the mess she’s making. She’ll be gone as soon as the rich, dim fuck upstairs is done with his shag and ready to drag her along on his next errand. Anne consigns herself to boredom until then.

Though perhaps she needn’t have done that so soon, since trouble’s come to brothel’s door in a humanoid shape. The steady scrape of steel on wood slows to a stop as suspicious eyes narrow in the stranger’s direction. The fuck’s this on about, then?

Just to be clear - 

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Anne doesn’t truck with the supernatural. She may be unsure of whether or not she buys into religion, but (even in more grounded verses) she wholeheartedly believes in things like magic, ghosts, devilry, etc..

And she does not fuck with them.

Which is probably why one of my favorite things to do is to make her contend with the supernatural. :3c

That said, there’s a fortune-telling “game” played with a pack of cards that she takes seriously and will sometimes, usually reluctantly, participate in.

Anne huffs out a laugh at the response she gets; whatever she was expecting to hear, it wasn’t a joke about microplastics and oil spills. Her hand slips down the bottle a little as she does, exposing the line of liquor for a moment. If it’s gone down at all since Mary found her seat, it’s not been by much.

Anne knows she needs to press on in the conversation. She’s only got tonight to prove herself, and she’ll never hear the end of how disappointing and incompetent she is if she spends the whole evening talking and gets nowhere. But there’s something in way the other feck shites fucked off that’s got Anne almost too on-edge to keep going.

So she clicks her tongue and recovers her grip on the bottle before rolling her head Mary’s way. “Bollocks. Mean fuckers tend t’look like mean fuckers. I mean…..” Anne gestures around the room, the cacophony of villainy surrounding them without her actually knowing it, then looks back to Mary. “Who outta these gobshites had done more’n just bully a cop? They don’t got it in them!”

Tonight’s a fucking carnival blur and the laughing doesn’t help matters. The room feels like it’s staggering under the weight of its own manic tension, like a pair of clowns doing a high wire routine. It’s lurid, dangerous, vulgar. Anne shivers and pretends she isn’t on display here, even though she is. Everyone is. (That was the whole fucking point of coming here to find a local friend!)

Anne leans forward as the others flee leave, choosing to take it as a gesture of good will, or least interest, rather than an omen of death. She offers Mary a salute with the bottle as she fakes another shot, weighing her options.

“Fucking stranger,” Anne admits with a shrug. To be friend or foe, she’d have to know him, right? And if it’s the wrong answer…well. She’ll figure it out. “I bribed a doorman at the back t’let me in.” Sort of. She’d sort of just stabbed him and taken her bribe back when he’d tried to press his luck on their deal.

“Ne’er been t’Gotham afore,” she continues, slurring her words a little even as she slides closer in the booth towards Mary’s table. “Thought the thugs here would be scarier-lookin, reputation like they’ve got. My two-bit biker boyfriend knows a two-bit bike gang leader who’s scarier’n anyone in this room, and he’s supposedly a fucking purring kitten compared to some of what I hear this lot’s done! What in the hell’s in the water here, hey?”

abigail sentence starters

i’m sorry about what’s gonna happen to you.

our game ends here.

how many bodies we talking?

i thought i heard someone out here.

let’s just leave. get the fuck out of dodge.

i love you so much. and i’m so proud of you.

vampire on my ass! vampire!

a deal’s a deal.

i can smell your blood.

i like your tattoos. do they have a meaning, or…

you got bullied in school? probably by dad, too. so when you got bigger than everyone else, you turned the tables.

i’ve always hated this room. lot of painful memories.

you’ve made a mistake.

are you lying to me?

so, you got a boyfriend or… something like that?

what’s happening?

___’s not here.

promise me you’re not gonna let anybody hurt me?

you’re the one good thing i did in life. and i just needed you to hear that.

what can i say? i like playing with my food.

you in recovery or something? how many days you got?

my dad, well… he thought he wanted a child, but then he just lost interest.

please, please let me out.

you literally got nothing right.

can we not do this, please?

you’re not as smart as you think you are.

i saw the way you were looking at me earlier.

all right, let’s go kill us a fuckin’ vampire.

i’m scared.

you don’t get your hands dirty and tell yourself that makes what you do not as bad. good luck when the illusion wears off.

fucking bullshit. it’s not about the money. the money’s an excuse.

you backstabbing son of a…

i couldn’t sleep. i heard something.

here’s the thing about being a vampire. it takes a long fucking time to learn how to do all the cool shit.

something doesn’t add up.

listen, you sit here and bleed… or you trust me.

i didn’t mean to scare you.

you want to have some fun? all right. let’s have some fun.

you’re just in time for dinner.

there’s a secret door in the library. the bookshelf on the right wall.

why do you have a dick on your face?

this whole thing is a trap.

you’re so bloody and so gross.

getting shot hurts!

how much do you trust ___?

shut the fuck up!

oh, you’re a fucking priest now?

i came when you needed me. i’m here now.

i don’t scare easy. so when i do, i pay attention.

i feel like i got bit by a fucking vampire!

tell me one true thing about me.

what color are my eyes?

i can’t breathe.

i just, um… i can’t do it.

if this is about revenge, why didn’t you just kill us?

you fucking set me up.

the hard part is already over.

with that money… i can start over, you know?

that wasn’t a lie.

i like you. you’re scary, though.

god, everybody’s got to be a fucking victim now.

if you fucking say, ‘i told you so’…

you could be the richest headless man in america.

i don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but you don’t sound very calm right now.

you’re mine. you’re mine.

wow. you got a lot going on up there, but your brain’s not quite putting it together, huh?

do you have any kids?

nothing different about you. nothing special. just something to help me pass the time.

___ was here when you weren’t.

i just want to get to the bottom of this, you know?

i’ve had a few centuries of experience.

we got a real fucking situation here. so i don’t give a shit what you think. either you’re helping us, or you’re dead weight.

i feel sick.

i’d really prefer not to have to fucking shoot you.

this is so fucking disgusting.

you changed your name, you left town, and you never saw your family again… but it wasn’t for their safety, was it?

keep an eye on the door.

you grew up with a bunch of brothers and sisters, huh?

you’re gonna be a real pain in my ass, aren’t you?

looking for some light reading?

i’m not gonna touch you.

can you take the blindfold off? it’s really tight.

this isn’t the time for sarcasm, okay?

let’s watch each other’s backs.

that’s an urban legend. calm down.

i fucking hate ballet.

you shot me! you shot me!

i brought you here to offer you a deal.

just had to do your little magic trick, didn’t you?

you think i could do that?

maybe it’s worth a try.

you’re my friend.

wow. you might be the least perceptive person i’ve ever met.

i’m sorry. did i hit a fucking nerve?

no. i’m not betting our lives on your fucking hunch.

we’ve got to get out of here. there’s got to be another way.

i’ve gone by many names over the countless years.

you can have anything you fucking want.

bite me.

what the fuck?