It was one of those days. One of those days where it rained and rained and rained, so much so that it was colder than usual. The sun had been gone all day, replaced by thick black clouds. It made it hard to tell the time, and it made people feel like being cozy and snuggled into a bottle of rum.

Lacey wanted to do that right now. It might have been evening, it was starting to get a little darker so it could have been evening. As the pirate wandered through the waterfront, she was battered by a strong gusting breeze whooshing up the street. Standing with thumbs in her belt as she looked up at the sky, the woman laughed loudly. There was a storm coming. A big blower. Time to get inside. Looking around, she spotted the familiar entrance to the Widows Walk. With an untrying sort of grace, she climbed the ladder that began the long and perilous walk to the real Widows Walk. As the wind gusted again, blowing up leaves and water droplets, Lacey chuckled, holding onto a wooden post, wobbling as she looked at the rooftops below her. The pirate quickly walked along the makeshift bridges and up the ladders, finally reaching the Widow as a bright flash lit up the sky. Running to the balcony, the green eyed blonde grinned wildly into the wind, watching the boiling ocean as an almighty crash of thunder filled the air. Laughing again, she tipped her hat to the scene.

"Tis gonna be one hell of a storm mateys!" The human yelled, turning and beckoning to the barkeep.

"Rum! Bring th' bottle!"

After nearly a week past, Carmine had wanted to speak with Tristaan. The other passive had been making him think about very important hoity-toity things, things like law and consequence, of identity and memory. Lots of ugly stupid things Carmine was well enough without.

Words like had and want-ed were particularly key here. Meaning past. Meaning he did not want to see hide nor hair of Tristaan, much less speak to him, at least not now. Truth be told, he’d only come to that decision after trudging in the brewing storm from Sharkswell to the Waterfront for fuck know’s how long. Only after standing quietly outside of The Blushing Hingle waiting for his nerve to decide to show up. Truth be told, he only decided this after it never did.

His pockets had been weighty with cutter, stolen directly from Charlie Ewing’s coffers or from some of his little things pawned away. That stupid golly boy was too busy gnawing on Carmine’s neck or poking at his scrap metal contraptions to notice fine silverware or bottles of ink going mysteriously amiss.

Booze, then, he decided -- to drown these stupid little feelings. He wasn’t about to show up on any man’s doorstep feeling vulnerable as a box of blind mewling kittens. The Widow’s Whatever. It was right across the damn street and had to serve booze of some breeding, and expense wasn’t really an object when the money in your pockets wasn’t yours to spend.

He’d secured himself at one of the little tables for not very long at all, too busy glowering at the dainty lace on the tablecloths and the sweet smelling candles in the bottles with the distrustful eye of something about to be bitten. He’d almost considered sloshing back to Chuck and abandoning the whole damn venture – the place seemed too painfully nice to be guttering yourself brainless in.

That is, before the loud blonde thing came roaring in. His sullen glower faded and he lit up like a spark. Carmine hadn’t seen a ballsy girl in ages, not since the sweet-hard bites who worked beside him in the Viendan tumblehouses. The Rose had too many bitches moping around like they’d gotten fistkisses from their drunken sailor man one too many times. Warm, that’s what he felt, bursting up somewhere in his chest and flowing up across his bristling smile.

“Ye ent the type t’ be so cruel as t’ keep a whole bottle for yer own damn self, are ye girl?”

Making a big beautiful mess of this frilly place would be much more fun if he had someone to do it with.

Corwynn should've gone home hours ago. It wasn't like he had to clocking walk home in the rain. He had a carriage, after all. And a driver. And a warm, dry house of stupidly useless size. However, if he had left all those hours ago—gods, if he left now even—he would've been forced to go home alone, and that would've really been something unquestionably terrible on a night like this. It would've felt something like a crime, had the concept of actual criminality been capable of tarnishing his thoughts anymore.

Still, cards had lost their entertainment value with increasingly diminishing returns even as alcohol had continued to keep its charm and warmth. The blonde galdor wasn't really one to frequent the Walk, so he had contented himself to observing this side of the Harbor's general population in their various states of inebriation as he continued to alter his own.

Really, he might have just been sizing up his options. It wouldn't have been the first time.

There were a few who had some promise—some lovely witches giggling at the bar, one of the prettier things he'd willingly lost a few hands of cards to (and coins), and ... well ... that was perhaps about it.

A slow night that wasn't going to get any better if the storm got worse.

Still, Corwynn might have taken notice of the loud, slightly wobbly seaworthy woman who announced her presence to the entire tavern with her needs for rum. Maybe the night wouldn't be so bad, after all.

He'd have to wait and see.

Lacey turned toward the voice, still grinning, holding her hat on with one hand. It was a redheaded fellow, all scars and skin and bone. Raising an eyebrow, she chuckled.

"Now laddie, whare would th' fun in that be? Aint no point gettin' drunk in a blowie like this if yer alone." A gusting breeze pushed at the pirate from behind, and as if commanded, the blonde took a few bounding steps and planted herself in a chair at Carmine's table. Looking up at the bar with a frown, she snapped her fingers.

"Come on, come on, before th' rain hits dontcha know?" Turning her green eyes back to the man in front of her, she shook her head.

"Pretty place aye, but th' service is slower than a wet week stuck inland." Removing her hat, she placed it on the table and stuck out a hand.

"Lacey Lovell, Cap'n o' The Cutless and The Laced Lady...well, used t' be. Ye a sailor laddie? Or just a harborman?"

Carmine chuckled and took her hand with affected gentility. It was somewhat nice, for once, not being the person making an erse of themselves in public. Not yet, anyway, if the promise of free dark rum was any indication as to how his night would be going.

“’S dreaful, is what it is. No offense t’you Lacey,” his lips tip-turned into a cat-like smile, full of sharp teeth and warmth. “but I could go th’rest o’ my life wifout seein’ another ruffly thing an’ be all the better for it.”

He drew himself up into the chair -- they had cute little cushions on them, for Alioe’s sake -- drawing his filthy boots up onto the seat and crossing them lotus style. He had a slight, impish build; there seemed to be a lot more the fancy oaken chair than there was of him.

Bright blue eyes flickered thoughtfully under their fan of lashes, eyeing the ominous dark lump of the woman’s hat. On the off chance she was a pirate -- Carmine didn’t believe a lot of things he heard -- she’d have quite a bit of money. Hell, as captain of not one but two ships, she ought to have a lot of money. For the first time in a long time, he was glad his bruises were fading and that his face was free of its nigh constant swelling. No scabs or shiners, just freckles and freckles and freckles.

He thought briefly about throwing the woman his name without a thought, just for the thrill of it, but the slight pressure of a field cut his tongue. “Red, love. Ye can call me Red.” He doffed an imaginary hat to her, all mocking propriety. “But yeah -- ‘m neither. I’mma gravedigger. I build houses tha’ last forever.” His cat’s smile hitched higher. After a slight pause, filled with beetled brows and a close inspection of Lacey’s hair, he added:

“I hardly knew they made girls tha’ color. Tha’ real? I once knew this tumble who dunked her hair in horse piss to get it tha’ color. Sweetest thing livin’, but she always smelled like flowers an’ horse piss.”

Lacey laughed uproariously at Red's comment about ruffles, slapping her thigh and picking at the lace on her skirt.

"Well, no harm laddie, I aint one t' git upset if ye don't like me outfit. Ain't yer fault the Widow has scarred ye for life!" Looking up as a scrawny looking girl brought over a dark bottle of liquid warmth, the pirate took it with a quick snatch and a biting slap on her rear end as she left.

"Gah, they just don't make 'em as luscious in th' Rose anymore, ye know? Nothin' but bones!" Popping the cork, she took a deep swig of the rum, before handing it to Red.

"Grave digger eh? That's a interestin' job. Ye get good coin fer that?"



The blonde laughed again, reaching up to undo the messy bun in her hair, letting out the sunbleached sandy locks, still slightly damp from the ocean air. Shaking it, she leaned on the table, looking into the fair blue eyes of the freckled man in front of her.

"Tis real as th' nose on me face, Red my luv. Aint no horse pissin' on my hair!" Reaching for a lock, she smelt it, before wrapping it back into its messy bun.

"Smell nothin' but the salt in thare lad!" She said with a wink. A gust blew against her back and she glanced over her shoulder. The stormclouds were roiling over a frothy ocean, lighting punctuating the sky with a bright flash and a loud boom.

"Arr, tis a sight t' behold. I sailed through somethin' like this last month, huge blowie. Hulali is a violent God." Looking back at Red, she grinned.

"So, ye got a little tumble here in the harbour lookin' out fer ye too luv?"

This woman was contagious. His cat’s smile broke out into coarse, barking laughter as the spindly girl scampered away. Thoughts clicked together in his mind, and his grin only broadened. His bright eyes were wily when they flickered up to Lacey’s again.

“Sure ent luscious, not a bit,” he drawled, words painted with suppressed laughter at some private amusement. A skirt lifter, then. He‘d really missed his skirt lifters. “…’ere needs t’be more bakery an’ candy stores about, like they got out in the City. Maybe then the li’l piglets’ll get fattened up to yer likin’. Nobody in the Harbor seems to ‘ave much o’ a tongue fer sweet things.”

His hand moved for the bottle, but he paused on the table. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly or decorous, if knew the meaning of such words, to drink before the lady. If he could call her that, hard bite thing she was. Lacey. Well, ent that just precious. It was like knowing a girl missing her front teeth and poxed up with the seven year itch named Rose. Lacey seemed to be in better shape than Rosie was -- physically, at least. He smiled at that, couldn’t stop smiling.

Carmine leaned forward on the table too, propped up on one arm. “Oes, love. I know all about huge blowies.” He took up the bottle and knocked back a long drink, stifling his snicker, the glass rim coming away from his lips leaving a broader smile than before.

“Nah, I ent got no whore here,” -- unless you counted Charlie, but he didn’t so much have that whore as he had that whore’s rent money, dishes for pawning, and his single set of house keys. “I worked for a real sweet bundle of ‘em out in Vienda -- plump things, most of ‘em, you woulda liked ‘em -- sweepin’ up an’ lookin’ after ‘em an’ the like.”

The wistful glint in his eyes faded when he slitted them on Lacey, bright with mischief.

“’ow ‘bout you, Lace? ‘ave you got a tumble girl lookin’ after yer skirts?”

Lacey smirked in return to the red headed man's grin. It was a mischevious grin, a not-to-be-trusted grin. The best kind of grin. As he talked, she watched his hand take the bottle and drink, thinking of all the sweet little things he was talking about. A girl could really sink her teeth into somewhere like his old tumble house.

"Ye make me jealous laddie! All them lassies an' their curves...oooh its enough t' make a girl swoon, arr!" She took back the bottle after he'd drunk, knocking back a good mouthful and banging the bottle down with a small whooping noise. It burned so good.



The piratess snorted, crossing her arms and shaking her head.

"Nah luv, I had me a nice mug girl. Small thing with a handful above an' below, if ye know what I mean." She cupped her own breasts and bounced them for emphasis, before sighing.

"But I ain't a one woman show! I left her on me boat an' made fer the lads an' lassies of th' harbour. I tell ya, thare is a smithy here...oooh my....Red...muscles t' die fer." Lacey shuddered a little, her smirk turning positivly wicked, before she cast an interested eye over the freckled features before her.

"Aint really had much luck since coming inland. Me mug, she's gone. An' th' smithy...well...muscles never did get around t' showin' me his sword." Chuckling, she took another swig and pushed the bottle towards Red.

"Everyone is all prim an' proper lately. Honestly, what happened t' th' harbour!" Her voice echoed through the Widow as another wind gusted around them, like some sort of war cry. Looking around at the other patrons, she shrugged.

"Yarr..." She muttered, shivering at the cold wind dancing around her legs.

It might have been because the scrawny waitress had delivered the blond gunman's drink before relinquishing an entire bottle of rum at that table across the way, giving the blond gunman an excuse to follow her movements. It might have been that the occupants of said table were distractingly interesting (one perhaps more than the other, though that might have been debatable from a distance). It might have even been the discussion of the quality of selection in the Harbor or the mention of tumbles or even the lamenting of his home. Whatever it was, Corwynn found the entire show (and it was definitely a show if the piratess' hands were going to stray anywhere again like that in the course of conversation, regardless of the subject) too much to ignore.

There was a moment of consideration, feet sliding from their usual position on the tabletop to the floor as coins found their way onto the abused wooden surface. Then, the older galdor was out of his chair and had closed the distance, drink in one hand, elevated out of the way.

With the same lack of any particular impulse to be polite, Corwynn was in the empty chair at Lacey's table, sea-weathered lines of his face drawn into something shamelessly amused. His blue eyes traveled from woman to gravedigger to rum bottle and back again before he offered smugly without introduction,

"I would venture to guess you're simply not haunting the right parts of the Harbor for this time of year ..." Purred the blond with a hint of sympathetic disappointment, as if he too greatly suffered under the burden of some kind of abstract lacking (though, he hardly ever did).

He hadn't really heard the entirety of conversation, so, figuring his comment sufficient enough of an "in" to their small gathering, he settled back into his chair and took a swig from his glass, seemingly unconcerned about whatever the wind was threatening even as it ruffled his well-kept curls,

" It would indeed seem as though the damnable Loshis weather sends so much of the choicest selection into hiding."

If Carmine had been a cat, his fur would have been standing on pins and needles. Not in that terrified kind of way, but in that ‘I am going to claw your eyes out’ kind of way. Unfortunately, Carmine wasn’t a cat. He was a man and passive and wildly impulsive, and that sudden hard wash of field looming over him made his stomach clench. He didn’t like being anxious -- when Carmine was anxious, things usually ended up bleeding. Mostly himself, sometimes other things, too. He tried not to let his nerves seize him up, tried to laugh it off.

“The choicest selection, huh?” he cackled, taking up the bottle again. A long drag, the dark whiskey spluttered somewhat because he couldn’t reign in his laughter. He wiped his mouth dry on the back of his hand. “Yer thinking’ in terms o’ wine or whiskey, right? Right, sirrah?”

And he laughed it off quite successfully.

He toasted the heavy bottle towards Corwynn, his smile broad as it was malicious.

“Keep you on the higher shelves, don’t they?“ he bit his lip to try and suppress his gods-awful grin, but it wasn‘t working too well. Carmine looked so tickled he was about to burst. He knew, knew, knew deep down that laughing your balls off at a golly with a field stronger than a tickle wasn‘t strictly advisable. But the liquor was stronger than usual in him tonight, and swindling a greenie fuck something fierce all week was making him bold in the face of someone he probably would‘ve cringed in fear from only a week ago. And some small part of him was cringing, somewhere, the part needling him with reason.

Carmine was very good at ignoring reason.

He added, with a filthy wink to Corwynn:

“I don’t think age ‘as made ya sweeter so much as it’s turned yet erse to vinegar, dagka.” And then to the girl: “He don‘t look like a spoonful a sugar to me, does ‘e now, Lace?”

The green eyed pirate turned her head as a blonde approached the table. Older than her, but still fairly decent in the looks department. And a galdor, his field was like a strong smell, undeniably there.



Looking over at Red, Lacey raised an eyebrow as if to say 'friend of yours?'. She was of the mindset, the more the merrier, but the look on her newfound drinking buddy seemed to indicate otherwise. In fact, it looked almost manical, the way he grinned at the man. Nervous, he was nervous. Interesting.



Grinning, the woman hooked her thumbs in the loops of her belt, fingertips brushing the hilt of her sword thoughtfully.

"Well, sometimes th' vinegar comes from th' best wine...has just been over done along th' way." Looking at the galdor, she winked.

"Ye been overdone luv?"

Had Corwynn not recently spent too much unnecessary free time around any particular passives, he might not have paid attention to the hints of delicate features hidden beneath Carmine's thinly disguised, anxious expression. He was most certainly used to the reaction his company caused to certain individuals, and the gravedigger's ire and insult only caused his grin to broaden, blue eyes not quite disappearing into the weathered age lines at their corners.

The blond gunman shifted his gaze from the passive to the bottle, expression hardly faltering even as he purposefully drifted to the piratess, languidly traveling downward from her face to her belt without a word. If anything, he sunk further into the chair he'd stolen, stretching in such a way that let the folds of his expensive jacket fall away to reveal his firearm and drooping his right hand over the back of the seat in such a way that his fingers brushed the hand-carved handle.

Grin turning mischievous, the galdor choose not to take the double effort at pointing out of his seniority personally—it'd never been a problem thus far—and let the warmth in his tone wash over any potential, dangerous tension like the tide (though he was certainly just as comfortable with trouble of the violent kind should it occur),

"Overdone? Oh, sweets, there's plenty I've done and plenty I'd do over again, but I'm not sure I believe it's possible to overdo much of anyone-er-thing." Corwynn had let his eyes return upward with purposeful slowness as he purred his response before looking back to Carmine, adding with an arch of one sun-touched eyebrow,

"Some things age better than others, that's all ..."

"Oh, mer-cy. Yer puttin' a tickle in me skirts, sir, ye really are."

Carmine snorted and sank down into his seat, dragging the black bottle across the table and settling it in his lap. Just drink, and drink, and drink. Settle his nerves until the storm blew over, then he could go crawling back home and curl up under his bed next to the radiator. Godsdamn galdor weren't supposed to be here -- even if they were inevitably there, they didn't always have to come sauntering up to him with a big rubbery one.

Bright blue eyes slitted, pinching at the corners -- it wasn't a challenging look, just a bitter one. I was prettier than you ever were, he thought, even when you weren't so clock-stopping old.

"Be sweet as you want. Yer old enough to be my da, gitka." He nodded stiffly to Lacey. "Her's too. You ent too picky, are ye girl?" He rolled his eyes to the rafters with all the kind condescension and tired grace of a brothel matron. With that, he drew a long drink from the bottle, snorting through the burn. His gaze moved heavily back to Corwynn, taking an unabashed full body slide. Something in him might have twitched at the expensive cloth of his coat, his manicured clothing, the beautifully kept pistol at his hip. An old impulse from the Viendan days, estimating how big a payout you could get for an hour or so's discomfort.

"An'...y'know?" He smirked lewdly, a slow cat's smile, a bristle of broken teeth peeking at the corners of his lips. "I ent never had much of a tongue fer dried fish. Always gets stuck in my teeth."

Lacey watched the galdori's jacket fall away, revealing a very nice piece in its own holster. The pirate's eyes lit up and her grin broadened. Very nice indeed. Her thief's mind began to tick, how much rum would it take to loosen this fellow up? Or, by the way he was talking, how much skin? Surely he would remove the gun for a bit of a romp in the hay...and then...she could snatch it away and be gone before he even woke-



Looking at the bitter man, the blonde cackled, leaning back on her chair with a raised eyebrow.

"Now now laddie, ye can't judge a book by its cover. I've been around long enough t' know that age brings experiance...an' experiance is a mighty fine thang. Besides luv, thare be room in most beds fer more than two bodies." Laughing again, she winked at him, before reaching for the bottle and snatching it from his grasp. Drinking deeply, she watched the wretch eye the golly. From the open balcony, another all mighty gust whipped through the tables, bringing a light spray of rain from across the ocean. There was a flash, bright as daylight, then the sky exploded with sound. All throughout, the piratess laughed, eyes wild.

"Aye! I do love me a storm! Drink, ye fools! Aint no enemies in a storm! Keep yer enemies whare ye can watch them!" Placing the bottle on the table, she nodded to the golly.

"So...ye come here often Mister....?" She already had a name for Red, but this one she didn't. Names of course, didn't always matter...but it was nice to have a tag for someone.

Corwynn's blue eyes didn't falter in their brightness despite Carmine's undiluted unkindness. His smile might have even broadened, catlike and amused—never the canary despite his sun-touched blond curls. The age lines that crinkled the corners of his eyes just so softened a bit as he studied the passive's features, marred and broken, dirty and worn. Still, the galdor managed to keep any distaste from his expression, sea-worn features still maintaining his well-bred looks.

"Mmm," he finally purred, stretching in his chair, right arm flung so carelessly over the back, fingers brushing at the shining pistol at his hip, "It's alright ... at least my age has still left me with my beauty. Not all of us can say the same, even if I may be twice your—"


The gunman allowed himself to be interrupted before he said anything too rude. He let his voice trail off and his grin turn lop-sided and wicked. There was always room for more than two in his bed, but he might have had the more discriminating tastes compared to those he now entertained the table with. Regardless of popular opinion and rumor, he didn't just sleep with anyone. Mostly.

The thunder rolled over them and the older galdor laughed, rolling his narrow shoulders and rubbing his chin with his four-fingered left hand.


"Corwynn."

He said simply, unconcerned as to whether or not either of the two would recognize his name or his employment. It didn't matter either way, really, "And I'm more of a Dove man myself, if you know what I mean. However, some nights even I need a change of scenery. It seems as though I picked a good one."