One's first kill reveals the body to be just a bag of meat and bone. After, one begins to see the shape of people's skulls in their heads, and how their guts must wind under their corset. Murder, death, dissection, and decay, betray the magical illusion that life is special. Jorah's first kill left him numb and confused. He thought he would see the soul rise up, or a ghost over his shoulder the following night, but there was no story to be told of it. There is only a story to be told when the kill is a challenge. And even then, these were never stories that he told his children, nor his wife, when she too once lived.
Ten years ago, one night in Llomerryn, Jorah Mesonero, swung his legs over a balcony and dropped like a coin into the sea.
When the sun rose, red tendrils casting yellow warmth on the docks, Jorah was but a disheveled rapscallion like every other scoundrel in this pirate's port. With a sack of his humblest belongings thrown over his shoulder, he stood in line to board a boat for passage back home to Antiva City. One day, he would tell the tales of his travels here and how grateful he was for the Eluvian Network, but at the present, his mind was aloof to danger. He had studied the port for a fortnight, and he knew the schedule of the sailors, dock-masters, cargo-hands, and merchants. He picked out the differences today. For one, the Rivain flag was not, as of yet, hoisted by the fort walls. Sprinklings of seafolk stood idle, huddled and looking about like he was. The pub was busier than usual for the morning, as if a party had lasted all through the night.
Last night, Jorah had slit the throat of Captain-Commodore Riviera, a Rivain-appointed naval officer, once pirate, who had united the sea's outlaws with enough clemency and mercilessness to make the big-thinkers of Antiva City sweat. Killing him was another story, too long and complicated and detailed to contemplate as Jorah couldn't help but yawn and be grateful the tasked was finished. He had yet to abscond the island, and soon, the body might be discovered and the murder announced. If and when that happened, getting his trousers off of an island would become another story as difficult and complicated as the one he'd just managed by the skin of his teeth.
The first mate of the ferry crew jumped off of the prow, and began accepting passengers onto the vessel. He was a grizzled man with gold messily pressed into some of his teeth, and a sun-bleached bandana covering his greasy hair. He smelled of bad breath, stale beer, and urine, as did the other miserable deckhands. Neither had Jorah rinsed his mouth out this morning, but their extreme lack of hygiene was too much for the crow to perfectly replicate. Nothing like Llomerryn cologne, he thought.
The first mate approved several other passengers before him and after him. There chat was brief, money the centerpiece of their roguish morning grunts and glares. Keeping an eye out for shocked expressions, Jorah leapt aboard, and found a place to idle about with a small, stale loaf of bread to eat. The vessel departed. All was quiet. The news had not broken, the era of Riviera's command trailing on as Jorah lived in its final ellipsis.
When the island was but a speck on the horizon, a great shout rose up, and many eyes suddenly looked towards the wheel and saw the first mate's blade had impaled the elderly scoundrel of a captain. [color=pink]"Did ya'll not hear? Riviera's dead,"[/color] the mutinous first mate announced with a baleful grin. [color=pink]"We ain't bound, no more. We ain't gotta follow no rules no more. Tie up the passengers, the slavers have them!"[/color] A boisterous whoop prevailed as sea hands grabbed Jorah's shoulders, as the other passengers by him were similarly approached.
Ten years ago, one night in Llomerryn, Jorah Mesonero, swung his legs over a balcony and dropped like a coin into the sea.
When the sun rose, red tendrils casting yellow warmth on the docks, Jorah was but a disheveled rapscallion like every other scoundrel in this pirate's port. With a sack of his humblest belongings thrown over his shoulder, he stood in line to board a boat for passage back home to Antiva City. One day, he would tell the tales of his travels here and how grateful he was for the Eluvian Network, but at the present, his mind was aloof to danger. He had studied the port for a fortnight, and he knew the schedule of the sailors, dock-masters, cargo-hands, and merchants. He picked out the differences today. For one, the Rivain flag was not, as of yet, hoisted by the fort walls. Sprinklings of seafolk stood idle, huddled and looking about like he was. The pub was busier than usual for the morning, as if a party had lasted all through the night.
Last night, Jorah had slit the throat of Captain-Commodore Riviera, a Rivain-appointed naval officer, once pirate, who had united the sea's outlaws with enough clemency and mercilessness to make the big-thinkers of Antiva City sweat. Killing him was another story, too long and complicated and detailed to contemplate as Jorah couldn't help but yawn and be grateful the tasked was finished. He had yet to abscond the island, and soon, the body might be discovered and the murder announced. If and when that happened, getting his trousers off of an island would become another story as difficult and complicated as the one he'd just managed by the skin of his teeth.
The first mate of the ferry crew jumped off of the prow, and began accepting passengers onto the vessel. He was a grizzled man with gold messily pressed into some of his teeth, and a sun-bleached bandana covering his greasy hair. He smelled of bad breath, stale beer, and urine, as did the other miserable deckhands. Neither had Jorah rinsed his mouth out this morning, but their extreme lack of hygiene was too much for the crow to perfectly replicate. Nothing like Llomerryn cologne, he thought.
The first mate approved several other passengers before him and after him. There chat was brief, money the centerpiece of their roguish morning grunts and glares. Keeping an eye out for shocked expressions, Jorah leapt aboard, and found a place to idle about with a small, stale loaf of bread to eat. The vessel departed. All was quiet. The news had not broken, the era of Riviera's command trailing on as Jorah lived in its final ellipsis.
When the island was but a speck on the horizon, a great shout rose up, and many eyes suddenly looked towards the wheel and saw the first mate's blade had impaled the elderly scoundrel of a captain. [color=pink]"Did ya'll not hear? Riviera's dead,"[/color] the mutinous first mate announced with a baleful grin. [color=pink]"We ain't bound, no more. We ain't gotta follow no rules no more. Tie up the passengers, the slavers have them!"[/color] A boisterous whoop prevailed as sea hands grabbed Jorah's shoulders, as the other passengers by him were similarly approached.
04-16-2023, 10:45 PM
