Thread: streetlight swag

That night even Rusko found himself drowned in alcohol. His crew all gathered beneath the deck after their respective labours were seen to completion, each with a flagon, horn or flask in their hands as they crooned on about the Drowned God and his consecration. Rusko, however, was noy a jolly fellow, not even in his cups. He sat at the head of a long, oval table marked with foreign regalia, virtually inhaling what little of his drink remained. His rum was as dark as the midnight sea and spiced with a posset and curdled wine to diloute its potency. Falling victim to intoxication on a stormy night such as this was unwise for a captain, but Rusko wasn't all to thrilled to watch his crew enjoy their spoils without him. As they sang, the captain admired his plunder. The barracks were stacked to the rafters with barrels of white rice. Sacks of potatoes and corn were neatly piled off in the corners next to the beams that kept the deck aloft. Rusko's lounge, or the ship's heart as the crew coined it, was where the entire crew collected for a meal. The wood was mahogany, varnished with pricey Palan lacquer and each beam was gilded with thick, obsidian bands that shone like dragon glass. There was an ornate golden hind strung up on the walls with various paintings, each gifts given by men and women at port when they saw Behemoth's great black sails. Gold, treasures and other spoils were a means to show acquiesence. In return, Behemoth's crew chose not to ransack local towns. But the gold and jewels weren't among the only spoils Rusko and his men happened upon. The woman Naila was quite a prize, nubile enough to be fucked from Pala to Miribar. With his crew in their cups they'd likely turn their attention to Rusko's guest. He was half in his right mind to let them have her, but it would be a bittersweet means to show slaves that they were protected under Behemoth's sails. As he pondered, Edmure circuited around the table, an ornate spy glass tucked in his palms. We'll pass the Maelstrom on morrow, he explained, Might be that we should shack up somewhere inland 'til the storm passes, though. Rusko remembered the Maelstrom quite clearly - they were a series of enormous whirlpools reaching out miles in diameter. They swallowed ships whole and drew them into the abyss. Some sailors claimed the void was at the bottom while others believed that a lost city was beyond its maw. Stay the course, Rusko said firmly in reply as he leaned upon his throne throne with its immaculate ivory inlay, downing the remainder of his rum. His eyes were like hard, black stones aglitter after being polished and his chest reflected the dance of adjacent flames through its sweat and grime. There was no doubt that Yeaman Un Rusko was a strikingly handsome man, but all the years at sea made him care little for his appearance. And bring me that woman. I would have words. The entire night Samosa was haunted by nightmares. They often plagued her even in Pala to cull them, she lit incense in her quarters and meditated under their haze. Come morning she was like an entirely new woman, but such luxuries were costly here. Troen's maester was as restless as she, making his rounds about the palace when even the moon grew tired. He was perturbed by Samosa - her mournful yet proud eyes wounded him he envisioned a proud, vigilant lion trapped in a cage. Like all beasts, domestication would creep in slowly like a disease until it festered and turned to rot. That defiant smoulder in her eyes would die with the passing days, and she, too, would wane. Perhaps the poppy's milk would give you rest, he suggested when Troen slept. Samosa politely declined, but he had none of it. My dear, you are just like your father. Those same defiant eyes and majestic black mane. Oh yes, you are of the Quaz'cacia through and through. But I know the Quaz'cacia like I know the Jahari, I do indeed. The Quaz'cacia are survivors! They adapt! Yet you fight fate. You combat destiny. Samosa gazed at the stoop-backed octogenarian as he whipped the poppy milk in his mortar. She felt mortally ashamamed, but most of all, she was curious as to how this strange yet soft old man came to know her father. Come, child. Drink this. How did you know my aegis ? I mean, my fa- Father, yes. I know your language quite well, I wrote many books in Palan. But, that is a story for another time. Come, drink, then to bed. If the gods are good they'll pacify you enough to lay with our young lord. If Samosa was some virginal lady from one of Miribar's castes she would have blushed redder than a tomato, but instead she swallowed the knot in her thoart and the mortar of poppy milk, then slid back into bed. Morning came quick after that and even when Samosa opened her eyes the maesters words boomed in her head. Rather than flee to break her fast, Samosa, too, donned her robe and cantered over to the window-side with her trademark sashay. Troen. She whispered his voice in the sweetest song, placing her hands lovingly upon each shoulder. You hurt, she nearly winced. It was as if the maester's observations had re-birthed her. I ... I can remedy that.