, . , :

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟐𝟐𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟕𝟐𝟏, 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐲. 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭

𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙽𝚈 𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙳!

independent / slightly selective s/low activity history & headcanon based captained by ren 21+ only, please

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« how many lives you plannin’ on ruinin’? »

Don’t Starve starters - part 2

Funny question. Anne lowers her gaze to the table to consider it, but lets herself think aloud. It doesn’t matter what Mary does or doesn’t hear from her anymore; that ship has long since sailed.

“Huh. I don’t plan on ruinin’ any lives other than my own—maybe an ex or two’s—but that don’t mean I won’t ruin others, I s’pose. I imagine ye’ve ruined a fair few more.”

prompts taken from my personal wishlists >:)

Send one of the following numbers for me to write a starter based on one of these scenarios! Feel free to mix them up and strikethrough any you don’t want to recieve!

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angst, violence, romance and MORE!!!

30 starters || TW: violence, kidnapping

a fistfight between our muses

(sender) muse finds (reciever) crying out of fear // 

our muses cuddling under the blankets during a lazy morning

our muses fighting back to back against a horde of enemies

(sender) muse finds (reciever) bloody and bruised 

our muses in a haunted house in an amusement park

(sender) muse is on a date, (reciever) follow them in secret to make sure everything is fine

(reciever) is woken up from a nightmare and looks for comfort from (sender)

(reciever) finally gets to yell about all their frustration to/about (sender)

(reciever) drunkily opens up about their problems to (sender)

our muses wake up one next to the other after a party night… and don’t remember a thing

(sender) chains (reciever) up ( threatening )

enemies with benefits kind of making out

(sender) slams (reciever) against a wall

(sender) discovers that (reciever) hurt someone dear to them

(sender) discovers that (reciever) hurt someone they hate

our muses go on a shopping spree

our muses destroy a room/car/(sender/reciever’s choice) to release some anger

(sender) is (reciever)’s muse parental figure and sit them down to have a good chat

crimes. just crimes.

(reciever) talks to (sender) about their crush / love life, asking for suggestions on what to do

(reciever) cooks for (sender)

(reciever) cooks with (sender)

(sender) tends over (reciever)’s wounds after they got into a fight

our muses kiss in a moment of general happiness, chaos ensues

(reciever) tries to cheer up (sender) after a bad moment, keeping their mind busy

our muses play a mmorpg together

our muses play dnd together

our muses talk shit about someone neither of them like

random choice!

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Ah, poor fucker. Camp rations are better, fresher, more varied fare than she’s used to—but then, most others would lose their minds on the hardtack diet she’d grown accustomed to. She could almost pity Astarion in some ways; hadn’t he said the first night how unused he was to the quiet of it all? Something about nightlife and the city? She could remember some things about when she’d been a spoilt city girl, about her first lonely night without a bed beneath her. It hadn’t been easy then, for a variety of reasons. For an entirely different variety of them, Astarion is no doubt having difficulty with it all.

Sick in the dead quiet of the night and trying to keep your business your own—Anne empathizes immediately, and probably would have left with an only slightly awkward good-bye and a warning about the damned deer…if only her pride didn’t have a hair trigger. She’d agreed to take orders from the party-voted leader, and while that sure as shit wasn’t her—the suspicious, violent, rage-fueled sailor, she didn’t blame them in the slightest—neither was it him.

Anne wasn’t about to take orders she hadn’t agreed to. It was a matter of pride. And besides, there was the buck to consider—and, more importantly, whatever had scared it. Two fare better than one in a fight.

“En’t the buck I’m worried about. Like ye said: something spooked him first.” Anne turns the dagger in her hand and starts a bit away from the tree, trying to peer through the shadows across from them. The forest is deeper in that direction, harder to see through. Is that where the buck came from? “Empty yer gut and I’ll help ye back to camp. Between the squid-men and the tadpoles, and now the damned goblins, we need to stick closer together. ‘Specially when unwell.” It’s impossible to say where the deer came from; the brush is undisturbed to her untrained eye. Fucking frustrating; it only serves to remind her of how out her depth she is here.

“…I’ll give her what privacy I can. Did ye see which way it came from? I’ll go have a look, give ye time to finish up.”

@estarion

Anne flit between dream and meditation fitfully, as she did more nights than not: even before the leech in her brain, peaceful sleep had eluded her grasp at every turn. Its gross, wiggling presence certainly didn’t make sleep any easier. Despite all of this, and every other warning sign in the night, it was base need and base need alone which finally dragged Anne back into the waking world. If she ignored the issue much longer, it was going to manifest, with or without her blessing.

Anne turned onto her side and fished for the dagger she kept under her pillow, only changing the unnatural brightness of the dying fire’s glow after she had it in hand. Between the fire and the glare of the full moon, she elected to do without another light, walking a short ways off into the woods. Wouldn’t do to attract unwanted animal visitors, after all, especially not to where they slept. She stopped nearby the short ditch instead, a ways off of where they made camp; it seemed a safe enough distance to her, though some might argue it was excessive.

Her hands stilled on the fastening of her trousers when a scuffle echoed up from the ditch. The nearby corpse of trees rattled with the sounds of it. The dagger was naked in her hand before Anne could blink, abandoning her chosen latrine plot to sneak up on the trees down the ditch instead. She slid down the short hill, staying low as she crept nearer the trees. When the young buck came galloping out, Anne dove to the side, barely missing being trampled by the wide-eyed beast. Even without knowing the habits of deer—and why would she, having been at sea all her life?—Anne could tell that whatever had scuffled with that deer was something mucking about with the natural order. In the dead of night like this, anything could be prowling about…but something big enough to tussle with a deer-sized opponent could certainly try tussling with an Anne-sized one, or some other in their company. Best to deal with this quickly, away from the others.

Anne picked her way through the corpse as carefully as possible, moonlight making shadows between the tree roots below and through its branches above. She stayed as close to the shadowed trunk as possible, hoping for the element of surprise—only to lose it in the next moment, too startled by what she finds on the other side of the tree to remember secrecy.

He doesn’t look well; he’s always been pale, mind, but he looks especially bloodless in the moonlight in a way the campfire prevents one from seeing. Or perhaps that’s not a trick of the light, and rather than it being moonlight robbing him of all color, it might be his health. He truly doesn’t look well, tired about the eyes in a strange sort of way Anne’s only seen once before, a very long time ago. She can’t quite place the look now, but she knows she’s seen it. They haven’t traveled together long, but even so, she’s moved to concern for him. It’s that damned look. It isn’t good news.

“You alright there, Astarion?”

Anne wouldn’t, doesn’t, disagree. She owes Elizabeth her life, although not for the wound’s sake. At least not in her opinion. Were it not for Elizabeth, she’d never have managed the jailbreak, let alone have taken the ship she now steered. The problem Elizabeth faced was that Anne simply did not care. When Elizabeth grabs the wheel Anne came only sigh, giving up and leaning most of her weight against it. That was another count she was right about: Anne needed rest, and a doctor, badly. If it were (almost) any other port in the world, Anne would have conceded. She wouldn’t be having this argument in the first place! She’d have just set the damned course! But Port Royale will only ever mean her end.

She opened her mouth to lecture Elizabeth about why she couldn’t sail there—to explain the situation with her bounty, with Jack, with everything tied up in it and how her next visit to that port may very well be the thing to damn them all—when she keeps going. Anne chokes on her disbelieving laugh. Gold? Opium? Ridiculous on their own, given Anne’s interests in piracy, but added to the idea that anyone could vouch for her and have the courts save her life? It’s at least as funny as it is insulting.

“Christ alive!, I’d’ve thought even Jack’s whore knew better than that!” It slips about unbidden. She sounds, looks, incredulous. “Don’t you have any idea who I am? I signed my life away at age nineteen. Afore that, even, when I were still a wain. I’m Anne fuckin’ Bonny.”

Anne grunts and leaves the mooring, about to head for the helm when Elizabeth shoots ice directly into her veins using just two words: Port Royale. Wouldn’t that just fucking figure? The cellmate turned partner in crime, helping her pull a legger, isn’t just English but fucking English. And an idiot to boot. Who in the acquaintance of Jack would ever willingly sail to Port Royale, of all places? Anne resumes her walk—it’s a limo, really—back to the helm, setting them on a course that wouldn’t lead straight to the gallows. Port Royale can catch the fucking plague for all she cares; their heading is New Providence. She says none of this, guiding them out to sea without a fuss. It’s more important they leave this place, anyway, than that they agree on where they make landfall.

Anne relaxes into her duties long before Elizabeth does; it’s well evident that they aren’t being chased, or canon fire would have marked their departure. When they’re out of canon shot Anne breathes easier. Well. Except for where she’s been run through on one side. The wind is strong and in their favor; it won’t be more than a day or two on the water before they reach Anne’s destination, by her own reckoning. Chances are good they’ll meet another crew with her same heading before the coast is even in sight—but whether that’s a good thing or a bad one can only be determined when it happens.

Anne waits until Elizabeth’s done fussing to say her piece, ignoring everything the other woman’s had to say since “Port Royale.” Since they’re taking care of the dire needs first, this comes before wound care.

“We’re headed for New Providence,” Anne announces, deadpan. Had Elizabeth suggested any other port it would have been hers—but the port named is one of only two Anne’s sworn to never dock in again. “I don’t know what kind of pirate ye are, are ye think ye are, but I en’t fuckin’ consigning myself t’death for ye. ‘Will’ can fucking well wait: it’s only a bit further from Providence t’the gallows, I’m sure he’ll survive.”

Who or whatever Will is, he isn’t worth dying for—not for Anne, at least. Port Royale is the bloodiest port in these waters, with its rotten, godforsaken docks soaked through with the blood of pirates hanged there; New Providence, on the other hand, is the capital port of that most dangerous of new ventures, the Republic of Pirates. Anne’s wanted poster hangs in both cities, one in pride and one in infamy. Notorious pirates tend to fare better in one of these ports than in the other, though smuggling ships, privateers, and even some fledgling company sail from one to the other still.

“I can find a ship’s doctor in port and you can find passage to hell for yerself.” On Anne’s tongue, it’s less insult and more barefaced truth, setting aside her vanity and letting Elizabeth see the exhaustion naked on her face. She’d been in that jail for weeks before Elizabeth arrived and made escape possible. She simply won’t give up her freedom again so soon.

“We can fight about it, but let’s call a spade a spade, aye? I paid attention when I were sailed into that port, a’cause I knew it’d be on me t’figure out where in the fuck I’d been landed. I figured it out the next morning, in that jail cell, and been plottin’ a route back out t’open sea ever since. Gotta get there ‘fore ye can get t’either of those ports, and I’m willing t’bet you came up the other way—from the opposite coast. Meanin’ ye don’t know which way’s t’sea and which way’s gonna trap ye in the bay here. Means I gotta be the one navigatin’ either way, so it can be agreed that we’re for Providence or ye can feel deceived when we get there. Choice is yers.”