Im Sorry About Whats Gonna Happen To You.

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

abigail sentence starters

“Yeah,” Anne mumbles back, fighting to keeping her swollen eye open, “ye look real fuckin’ torn up about it.”

Blood has dried to crust under her nose, between her fingers, on her knuckles. She didn’t go down without a fight—without one hell of a fight, in fact, and that’s a thing she can at least die proud of when she inevitably dies for it. She went down swinging and kicking and fighting and scratching and screaming bloody murder. She outnumbered and overwhelmed and even then she sidelined two of the worst of the brutes on her lonesome.

Now caged up in a cell who the fuck even knows where—there are more cells in Gotham than there are apartments—Anne knows what’s gonna happen. What’s gonna happen is someone is gonna take one of those famous Gotham guns of theirs and stick it right between her eyes and send her off to Hell. The writing’s on the wall, and in blood no less. (Quite literally. The wall opposite her cell proclaims that ur gunna die here :), bad spelling and all.)

What should the final words of Anne Bonny be? Something appropriately defiant and stinging. Something angry. If it weren’t for the throb in her head moving in time with her pulse, maybe she’d be able to think of some haunting last sentiment. For now, she gives the best she’s got:

“Fuck you.”

At least they’re still fitting final words, even without the chance to amend them.

Based off my blog, what other characters could you see me Roleplay as?

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?

It isn’t until Gale goes a bit pink in the cheeks that Anne realizes she’s won. The gambit taught by her father—the only gambit she knows in chess, truth be told—is a seemingly dirty trick. The only person Anne knew who could stop it was the same one who’d taught it to her, after all; she hadn’t realized she was playing it, unconscious as it was, until she’d accidentally accused the wizard of bottoming for her.

Well. There are worse idiot comments to make. The ghost of a smile haunts Anne’s lips when she’s called clever. She isn’t often accused of it, though she certainly thinks it’s true.

“Pa played, when Ma was still ‘round. He tried t’teach us both at the same time, but neither of us really had the head for it. I only ever learnt the one strategy; more luck than anything else in that win, I’m ‘fraid.” After all, if Gale had played more aggressively and set her on the back foot, it would’ve been all over. “Prefer card games myself. Easier to learn, I think, and definitely easier t’teach.”

@neverhangd asked

“is  letting  someone  win  in  chess  bottoming for smart people?” 

"Ah-ha..." Gale gave a little bit of a nervous laugh with a sheepish smile on his face, shaking his head a little as he leaned back where he sat, staring down at the board between them. Was that a small flush to his cheeks, perhaps? She'd snuck in a rather diabolical strategy that lead her to checkmating him, catching him a little off guard. He'd been a bit too arrogant going into the game, apparently, and was paying the appropriate price for it.

"Clever, that's clever, Anne. But, I didn't let you win." Gale said, smiling a bit more easy now as he looked up at her. "Not many can say they've bested the Chess Champion of Blackstaff Academy, but you can certainly add that accolade to yourself."

My, my! What a beautiful, brave, cutthroat of a woman! >:D

S'pose I could say the same to ye. What ever will two beautiful, brave cutthroat women do left to their own, I wonder?

unfortunately for you, my love language is gift-giving. thank you for letting me shout about anne! psd is from calisources!

The Hook: Anne is new to the party and still struggling to find her place in it. She’s standoffish and mean, but this is the fourth day in a row she’s asked for a chore to do at camp. Finally, someone let her prep food. Your muse, also a member of the party, is coming over for whatever reason they have, giving them a chance to catch Anne unguarded and softer than she’s ever shown.

Your Muse: must be a member of the same party or a high stealth antagonist. Anne’s guard is a little down but not all the way! The rest is completely up to you. ♥

Team Tadpole: Anne is one of the infected and can play as either a companion or a Tav, whatever suits best. She was with you on the Nautiloid and vaguely refers to her past as a sailor. (Compared to everyone else’s secrets at camp, Anne’s is laughably vanilla.) She’s proven herself a capable party member as a barbarian.

link to alternate version

The bucket to her right is already half-full of peeled potatoes, the skins caught in the bucket sitting between her thighs. The sun is just beginning to set, and from her angle westward facing, it’s a lovely sight. Anne leans back against the trunk of the tree and scrapes the knife against the spud. Anything to prove she deserves her place in this camp.

The work is easy, familiar even. She used to help John in the galley, times were, him setting her with her buckets at a table so she could croon to herself and he could be alone with his thoughts. She can skin damned near anything thanks to him, from fruits and vegetables to most common meats, without wasting hardly any of it. John said it made the food feel like it stretched further. That can’t hurt out here any more than it did out there.

The familiarity and the breeze come together to coax out an old memory, a song half-forgotten that had been popular when she was a wain. It was from before Faerûn, when her mother was alive and Laerakondan school girls played in the market on shopping days. Anne had always liked the song, despite never having sung it herself.

How did it start again? Anne hummed a few dissonant notes, trying to find the right sequence of five. She stops almost as suddenly as she started, having jogged the memory. Quietly, and slowly, remembering more or less as she goes, Anne begins to sing the song she heard in the markets so often.

“My mother says I have Irish eyes, Irish eyes, Irish eyes…My mother says I have Irish eyes….” The last note waivers uncertainly in the air for a moment. Feck. What was next?