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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AS IT TURNS OUT, this ship is not actually Sturmhond's infamous Volkvolny. Marya could sense something was off the moment she realized the Captain's cabin was as barren as land in the Fold. Nevertheless, it was only once she stepped out of said cabin that realization hit her in the face. The stench of blood, bone, and animal fat was no longer hidden underneath the scent of explosives and battle.
This is not a pirate ship. This is a whaler.
And off to the side of the whaler, Marya could see her precious vessel being guided by crewmen she does not know. The harpoons and ropes still tie the two together, leaving the Repentance to look tiny next to the ship they ride on.
"What happened to your ship?" Marya asks, steps easily falling in line with Sturmhond's.
"Client asked for a whaler. So I got him a whaler."
Marya raises a brow. "You stole one."
The man responds with a grin. "Borrowed, bought, stole— who can keep track of those things these days?"
She shakes her head. The sun casts an tangerine glow over the True Sea, illuminating the two vessels. Sturmhond's Tidemakers don't seem to bother with creating another barrier of fog. Not when the sun will be going down soon enough.
Marya feels her nose crinkle as the stench of animal fat hits her again. She can't help the shudder that runs down her spine. She'll have to sink in a tub of incense and flowers to get the smell out of her hair.
"Hounds!" Sturmhond calls out with a booming voice. His crew responds with yapping and howling, making Marya straighten. He stands over the railing, casting all attention onto himself.
She wasn't wrong when she called him a peacock— after all, he seems to flourish underneath the attention. Yet the presence of the bright teal frock coat around his frame feels remarkably peacock-like. Gaudy gold buttons and enormous cuffs decorate the coat— that, along with a brace of pistols at his hips.
It only serves as a reminder of her lack of pistols and knives by her belt. Taken away by his crew, no doubt. And without the familiar weight around her waist, Marya has to consciously stop herself from rubbing her wrists. They still feel sore, the phantom weight of the chains still lingering. She inhales. Nothing a little sea air can't fix.
