SEVEN DEVILS | ❝ Oh, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The devil is after both of us. ❞
❝ Lay my curses out to rest, make a mercy out of me. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. ❞
In which Captain Marya of the Repentance is ready to tear the world in half to f...
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CAPTAIN MARYA'S CABIN IS NOT LIKE THE OTHERS ABOARD THE REPENTANCE. Star-shaped lanterns hang from the ceiling, white and yellow candles, purple silks and threads laced around the window and her personal hammock. Aerial silks lie discarded near the back, along with what seems to be chalk and jurda balms. The warm aroma of incense and saltwater clings to the room, and while Marya finds it relaxing, Emerens can't help but wrinkle his nose. Not that he's one to talk, given that his cabin reeks of alcohol and chemicals.
"He's a pirate," Neyar starts, dark hair woven into a braid behind her back. Olive green silks cling to her leather belt, and Marya isn't oblivious to the fact that they are new. Probably stolen from one of the ships she raided during the past days. Good. Green looks good on her.
"A very, very rich pirate. He rides in a ship called the Volkvolny."
"Wolf of the Waves." Emerens narrows his eyes from across the table, boot nearly kicking over a violet bottle with a strange liquid inside it. Marya gives him a look, which he promptly ignores.
"Tacky," Marya comments, pushing Emerens' legs off her table. Bottles of different colored glass clink against each other as his feet slide off the counter.
"It's a ship he stole from a Zemeni pirate off the coast of Ravka," Neyar continues, giving a slight side-eye to the blond. "Big schooner."
"What about him?"
Him. Sturmhond. Rich pirate with enough money or enough glory to send ships of slavers scurrying away from Red Harbor. Marya feels her jaw twitch. Despite her own title, pirate and slaver are terms that can be easily confused by regular folk. She can't help but wonder if this is one of those cases.
"Not a lot of people were willing to talk," Neyar shakes her head, golden eyes narrowed. "Whoever he is, people seem to be loyal to him."
"—Or afraid of him," Emerens adds. He reaches for a green bottle resting over her table, toying with it for a moment, before swiftly pocketing it. Marya can't find it in her to care.
"Does he have contact with other slavers?"
"That's the oddest thing," Neyar meets her Captain's gaze, "he doesn't seem to be knee-deep in any network of trafficking, Grisha or otherwise. But some did mention he grants passage to certain people."
