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Under normal circumstances, her cry, born from frustration and distress, would have delighted him. A gorgeous woman underneath him was generally enough to ensure that he was a happy man, and while Callidora had his attention, she inspired nothing but the desire to see the light die in her eyes. He wanted her pretty throat crushed inside his hands, her face turning red, then purple, paling to blue and fading to gray. Nothing in this world would have made him happier than the knowledge that she would finally shut up permanently.
As they rolled, with her pathetic attempts to get free, their bodies made hollow thuds across the deck. The shriek of clashing swords, screams of the dying and roars of rage from assailants, stomping boots, and falling bodies reverberated off the Aegean’s churning surface, magnifying the sounds to a deafening level. He tuned it out, paying attention only to their own grunts of aggravation and refusal to back down. She was such a nightmare; not even having the decency to know when she was beaten, but he didn’t realize until two seconds too late exactly how stubborn she really was.
“Your kind are vermin!” To him, her voice was a shrill screech and he didn’t answer the harpy writhing beneath him. Her wriggling and wailing reminded him of an eel and just as unpleasant. Her eyes bored into his and he glared right back, but it was a sudden fury contorting her features, combined with the feeling of her hand finally slithering up his body. Whether he raised up in an unconscious response to head off her attack or she was simply stronger than he’d guessed didn’t matter. Silver glinted out of the corner of his eye. The pale snake of her arm and then he ducked his head into his shoulder, but he wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge completely. The knife glanced across the top of his shoulder and up his temple, sliding unevenly over his forehead in a jagged line.
The pain did not immediately register. It was the pressure of the knife and the tickling of red dripping into his eyes. The blood, slow drips at first, poured down his face as he raised up, hand lashing around her wrist to stop her from getting in another attempt. He bared his gritted teeth, wrenching her wrist sideways to either break or sprain it. He didn’t care which. All he wanted was that knife skittering across the deck. Once his immediate threat was gone, Lukos looked straight at her, watching several drops of blood spatter across the once pretty planes of her face. His sucked in breath her only warning, he slammed his forehead onto her nose, feeling a satisfactory break for his trouble.
Pushing off her and swiping his entire arm over his face to clear his eyes, he left a horrid red smear obscuring his features with more blood pouring down his temple and dripping from his jaw and ear. Tendrils of curly hair stuck to his forehead and he pushed them back, his hair slicked back with shimmering red in the blazing afternoon sun. His wound was not life-threatening, but it was a face wound and they bled an annoying amount. He aimed his boot, kicking at her side, ready to break ribs and end this idiot woman in one of the more painful ways he could think of.
This character is currently a work in progress.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Under normal circumstances, her cry, born from frustration and distress, would have delighted him. A gorgeous woman underneath him was generally enough to ensure that he was a happy man, and while Callidora had his attention, she inspired nothing but the desire to see the light die in her eyes. He wanted her pretty throat crushed inside his hands, her face turning red, then purple, paling to blue and fading to gray. Nothing in this world would have made him happier than the knowledge that she would finally shut up permanently.
As they rolled, with her pathetic attempts to get free, their bodies made hollow thuds across the deck. The shriek of clashing swords, screams of the dying and roars of rage from assailants, stomping boots, and falling bodies reverberated off the Aegean’s churning surface, magnifying the sounds to a deafening level. He tuned it out, paying attention only to their own grunts of aggravation and refusal to back down. She was such a nightmare; not even having the decency to know when she was beaten, but he didn’t realize until two seconds too late exactly how stubborn she really was.
“Your kind are vermin!” To him, her voice was a shrill screech and he didn’t answer the harpy writhing beneath him. Her wriggling and wailing reminded him of an eel and just as unpleasant. Her eyes bored into his and he glared right back, but it was a sudden fury contorting her features, combined with the feeling of her hand finally slithering up his body. Whether he raised up in an unconscious response to head off her attack or she was simply stronger than he’d guessed didn’t matter. Silver glinted out of the corner of his eye. The pale snake of her arm and then he ducked his head into his shoulder, but he wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge completely. The knife glanced across the top of his shoulder and up his temple, sliding unevenly over his forehead in a jagged line.
The pain did not immediately register. It was the pressure of the knife and the tickling of red dripping into his eyes. The blood, slow drips at first, poured down his face as he raised up, hand lashing around her wrist to stop her from getting in another attempt. He bared his gritted teeth, wrenching her wrist sideways to either break or sprain it. He didn’t care which. All he wanted was that knife skittering across the deck. Once his immediate threat was gone, Lukos looked straight at her, watching several drops of blood spatter across the once pretty planes of her face. His sucked in breath her only warning, he slammed his forehead onto her nose, feeling a satisfactory break for his trouble.
Pushing off her and swiping his entire arm over his face to clear his eyes, he left a horrid red smear obscuring his features with more blood pouring down his temple and dripping from his jaw and ear. Tendrils of curly hair stuck to his forehead and he pushed them back, his hair slicked back with shimmering red in the blazing afternoon sun. His wound was not life-threatening, but it was a face wound and they bled an annoying amount. He aimed his boot, kicking at her side, ready to break ribs and end this idiot woman in one of the more painful ways he could think of.
Under normal circumstances, her cry, born from frustration and distress, would have delighted him. A gorgeous woman underneath him was generally enough to ensure that he was a happy man, and while Callidora had his attention, she inspired nothing but the desire to see the light die in her eyes. He wanted her pretty throat crushed inside his hands, her face turning red, then purple, paling to blue and fading to gray. Nothing in this world would have made him happier than the knowledge that she would finally shut up permanently.
As they rolled, with her pathetic attempts to get free, their bodies made hollow thuds across the deck. The shriek of clashing swords, screams of the dying and roars of rage from assailants, stomping boots, and falling bodies reverberated off the Aegean’s churning surface, magnifying the sounds to a deafening level. He tuned it out, paying attention only to their own grunts of aggravation and refusal to back down. She was such a nightmare; not even having the decency to know when she was beaten, but he didn’t realize until two seconds too late exactly how stubborn she really was.
“Your kind are vermin!” To him, her voice was a shrill screech and he didn’t answer the harpy writhing beneath him. Her wriggling and wailing reminded him of an eel and just as unpleasant. Her eyes bored into his and he glared right back, but it was a sudden fury contorting her features, combined with the feeling of her hand finally slithering up his body. Whether he raised up in an unconscious response to head off her attack or she was simply stronger than he’d guessed didn’t matter. Silver glinted out of the corner of his eye. The pale snake of her arm and then he ducked his head into his shoulder, but he wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge completely. The knife glanced across the top of his shoulder and up his temple, sliding unevenly over his forehead in a jagged line.
The pain did not immediately register. It was the pressure of the knife and the tickling of red dripping into his eyes. The blood, slow drips at first, poured down his face as he raised up, hand lashing around her wrist to stop her from getting in another attempt. He bared his gritted teeth, wrenching her wrist sideways to either break or sprain it. He didn’t care which. All he wanted was that knife skittering across the deck. Once his immediate threat was gone, Lukos looked straight at her, watching several drops of blood spatter across the once pretty planes of her face. His sucked in breath her only warning, he slammed his forehead onto her nose, feeling a satisfactory break for his trouble.
Pushing off her and swiping his entire arm over his face to clear his eyes, he left a horrid red smear obscuring his features with more blood pouring down his temple and dripping from his jaw and ear. Tendrils of curly hair stuck to his forehead and he pushed them back, his hair slicked back with shimmering red in the blazing afternoon sun. His wound was not life-threatening, but it was a face wound and they bled an annoying amount. He aimed his boot, kicking at her side, ready to break ribs and end this idiot woman in one of the more painful ways he could think of.
When Callidora saw blood, a brief smirk of triumph flashed across her face, but that flooding sense of victory didn’t last very long. Before she could even blink, the pirate’s face was crashing into hers, a sickening crunch the first indication that something had gone very wrong. The overwhelming rush of pain was the second.
Her shrill scream rent the air, hands reaching to cover her face. All she could see in that moment was red—the reflecting red of the setting sun, the dripping red from her adversary’s face, the gushing red that fled from her own. Was she blind? For a devastating moment, she couldn’t tell, fingertips hesitantly probing over her features. When she touched her nose and wanted to die, at least she knew she’d pinpointed the problem. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much time to dwell on it.
Hard booted toes kicked at her ribs again and again, Dora sobbing on a half-caught breath. Was this it? Was this her end? Screaming in pain as a man pummeled her into a watery grave? She supposed there were worse ways to go out; at least, in this case she fought to her final breath. But it was hard to care about that when every nerve ending in her body was wailing in agony.
Curling into a ball to protect herself as best she could, Dora simply prayed. She prayed for a quick end and a peaceful afterlife, that the next blow would finally be the last. She prayed for her husband’s safety, that he should make it out of this and continue on with his life in spite of her. She prayed for her crew, for either a miraculous deliverance or a swift death.
She was almost at peace with her impending demise when suddenly, it just… stopped. Was it over? Was she dead? Given the amount of pain she was in, she certainly hoped not—after all, shouldn’t death be the end of such things? Lowering her arms from her face in confusion, she blinked open her eyes to witness one of her crewmen coming to her rescue. The man intercepted Lukos’s attack with a bellowing cry, blocking the leg kicking at Dora and punching him in the gut.
“Go, Mistress!” he shouted at her, voice as frantic as his face while he sought to keep the pirate occupied. “Go while you still can!”
Eyes filling with tears at the man’s unexpected sacrifice, she nodded and struggled to her feet. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, one arm wrapped around her injured ribs as she started limping away. She spared only one last glance for the man fighting for her life, her heart clenching. May the gods grant you a swift and clean end, she thought before she shoved him from her mind. She had to find Demetrius and get off this sinking ship.
Desperately searching the deck for her husband, she found him at last, still locked in a battle with their now former first mate. Face grim, she repositioned the dagger in her hand as she pushed forward. While she still clung to life, she would make sure Demetrius did the same.
Whistling to catch the hulking man’s attention, she set her jaw and raised her knife. Taking desperate aim, she hurled it with every last bit of strength that remained to her. Judging from his cry, she knew she struck true, but she didn’t bother waiting to find out where. Rushing over to her husband, she slung his arm over her shoulders and urged him away from the chaos.
“This battle is lost Demetrius,” she told him, even as he glanced back at those who still fought. “We have to go. Now.”
The captain almost protested, but he knew Dora was right. Perhaps one day he would come to regret abandoning his ship, but he could not let his wife die here. Not when he still had the strength to save her. Though at this point… who was really saving who?
Nodding in agreement, the pair shuffled to the side of the ship. Dora took her husband’s hand and squeezed it with a weak smile. Both knew what to do, separating from each other and hauling themselves over the rail, diving into the depths below with a resounding splash. The pain of hitting the water was indescribable, but at least they were still alive to feel it.
Now, all that stood between them and safety was the length of the Aegean. Surely, not such a difficult obstacle to overcome…
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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When Callidora saw blood, a brief smirk of triumph flashed across her face, but that flooding sense of victory didn’t last very long. Before she could even blink, the pirate’s face was crashing into hers, a sickening crunch the first indication that something had gone very wrong. The overwhelming rush of pain was the second.
Her shrill scream rent the air, hands reaching to cover her face. All she could see in that moment was red—the reflecting red of the setting sun, the dripping red from her adversary’s face, the gushing red that fled from her own. Was she blind? For a devastating moment, she couldn’t tell, fingertips hesitantly probing over her features. When she touched her nose and wanted to die, at least she knew she’d pinpointed the problem. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much time to dwell on it.
Hard booted toes kicked at her ribs again and again, Dora sobbing on a half-caught breath. Was this it? Was this her end? Screaming in pain as a man pummeled her into a watery grave? She supposed there were worse ways to go out; at least, in this case she fought to her final breath. But it was hard to care about that when every nerve ending in her body was wailing in agony.
Curling into a ball to protect herself as best she could, Dora simply prayed. She prayed for a quick end and a peaceful afterlife, that the next blow would finally be the last. She prayed for her husband’s safety, that he should make it out of this and continue on with his life in spite of her. She prayed for her crew, for either a miraculous deliverance or a swift death.
She was almost at peace with her impending demise when suddenly, it just… stopped. Was it over? Was she dead? Given the amount of pain she was in, she certainly hoped not—after all, shouldn’t death be the end of such things? Lowering her arms from her face in confusion, she blinked open her eyes to witness one of her crewmen coming to her rescue. The man intercepted Lukos’s attack with a bellowing cry, blocking the leg kicking at Dora and punching him in the gut.
“Go, Mistress!” he shouted at her, voice as frantic as his face while he sought to keep the pirate occupied. “Go while you still can!”
Eyes filling with tears at the man’s unexpected sacrifice, she nodded and struggled to her feet. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, one arm wrapped around her injured ribs as she started limping away. She spared only one last glance for the man fighting for her life, her heart clenching. May the gods grant you a swift and clean end, she thought before she shoved him from her mind. She had to find Demetrius and get off this sinking ship.
Desperately searching the deck for her husband, she found him at last, still locked in a battle with their now former first mate. Face grim, she repositioned the dagger in her hand as she pushed forward. While she still clung to life, she would make sure Demetrius did the same.
Whistling to catch the hulking man’s attention, she set her jaw and raised her knife. Taking desperate aim, she hurled it with every last bit of strength that remained to her. Judging from his cry, she knew she struck true, but she didn’t bother waiting to find out where. Rushing over to her husband, she slung his arm over her shoulders and urged him away from the chaos.
“This battle is lost Demetrius,” she told him, even as he glanced back at those who still fought. “We have to go. Now.”
The captain almost protested, but he knew Dora was right. Perhaps one day he would come to regret abandoning his ship, but he could not let his wife die here. Not when he still had the strength to save her. Though at this point… who was really saving who?
Nodding in agreement, the pair shuffled to the side of the ship. Dora took her husband’s hand and squeezed it with a weak smile. Both knew what to do, separating from each other and hauling themselves over the rail, diving into the depths below with a resounding splash. The pain of hitting the water was indescribable, but at least they were still alive to feel it.
Now, all that stood between them and safety was the length of the Aegean. Surely, not such a difficult obstacle to overcome…
When Callidora saw blood, a brief smirk of triumph flashed across her face, but that flooding sense of victory didn’t last very long. Before she could even blink, the pirate’s face was crashing into hers, a sickening crunch the first indication that something had gone very wrong. The overwhelming rush of pain was the second.
Her shrill scream rent the air, hands reaching to cover her face. All she could see in that moment was red—the reflecting red of the setting sun, the dripping red from her adversary’s face, the gushing red that fled from her own. Was she blind? For a devastating moment, she couldn’t tell, fingertips hesitantly probing over her features. When she touched her nose and wanted to die, at least she knew she’d pinpointed the problem. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much time to dwell on it.
Hard booted toes kicked at her ribs again and again, Dora sobbing on a half-caught breath. Was this it? Was this her end? Screaming in pain as a man pummeled her into a watery grave? She supposed there were worse ways to go out; at least, in this case she fought to her final breath. But it was hard to care about that when every nerve ending in her body was wailing in agony.
Curling into a ball to protect herself as best she could, Dora simply prayed. She prayed for a quick end and a peaceful afterlife, that the next blow would finally be the last. She prayed for her husband’s safety, that he should make it out of this and continue on with his life in spite of her. She prayed for her crew, for either a miraculous deliverance or a swift death.
She was almost at peace with her impending demise when suddenly, it just… stopped. Was it over? Was she dead? Given the amount of pain she was in, she certainly hoped not—after all, shouldn’t death be the end of such things? Lowering her arms from her face in confusion, she blinked open her eyes to witness one of her crewmen coming to her rescue. The man intercepted Lukos’s attack with a bellowing cry, blocking the leg kicking at Dora and punching him in the gut.
“Go, Mistress!” he shouted at her, voice as frantic as his face while he sought to keep the pirate occupied. “Go while you still can!”
Eyes filling with tears at the man’s unexpected sacrifice, she nodded and struggled to her feet. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, one arm wrapped around her injured ribs as she started limping away. She spared only one last glance for the man fighting for her life, her heart clenching. May the gods grant you a swift and clean end, she thought before she shoved him from her mind. She had to find Demetrius and get off this sinking ship.
Desperately searching the deck for her husband, she found him at last, still locked in a battle with their now former first mate. Face grim, she repositioned the dagger in her hand as she pushed forward. While she still clung to life, she would make sure Demetrius did the same.
Whistling to catch the hulking man’s attention, she set her jaw and raised her knife. Taking desperate aim, she hurled it with every last bit of strength that remained to her. Judging from his cry, she knew she struck true, but she didn’t bother waiting to find out where. Rushing over to her husband, she slung his arm over her shoulders and urged him away from the chaos.
“This battle is lost Demetrius,” she told him, even as he glanced back at those who still fought. “We have to go. Now.”
The captain almost protested, but he knew Dora was right. Perhaps one day he would come to regret abandoning his ship, but he could not let his wife die here. Not when he still had the strength to save her. Though at this point… who was really saving who?
Nodding in agreement, the pair shuffled to the side of the ship. Dora took her husband’s hand and squeezed it with a weak smile. Both knew what to do, separating from each other and hauling themselves over the rail, diving into the depths below with a resounding splash. The pain of hitting the water was indescribable, but at least they were still alive to feel it.
Now, all that stood between them and safety was the length of the Aegean. Surely, not such a difficult obstacle to overcome…
Moments like these were the ones he played over and over in his mind, later. He’d think of this one while he sat below deck on his own ship a few hours from now, enduring poultices applied to his wound and having to bear bandages being wrapped around his head for a few days. He’d think about the satisfying give of her body beneath his boot. The tightly curled ball she made, offering her ribs to him in an attempt to protect the more delicate and exposed flesh of her stomach. It wouldn’t matter, in the end. He’d break through her ribcage and pummel her anyway...except that wasn’t what happened.
His eyes were huge and dark and depthless, soaking up her agony and suffering the way wolves fed on a carcass. While he was in port, among normal people, sitting in their taverns, spending time with whores, or whiling away his hours on his own time, it was easy to think that he wasn’t some crazy, blood thirsty killer. He didn’t seek it out, most of the time. But if he was honest - really honest, he lived for moments like this one. Where life and death wriggled in his grasp and he was like some kind of god, having the ability to snuff out someone’s last breath, or have mercy and let her keep it. He wasn’t going to. He wouldn’t let her have the years she might have with her idiot husband. He’d end it here and now, kicking whatever was left of her off his boots when he was done. Her piteous cries were music and he felt a little like a conductor, drawing out each note in a steady, pounding rhythm, with his arms held aloft, ostensibly for balance but they looked a little like he was reaching out to bring an audience into this crescendo.
Too absorbed in his purpose, he didn’t see her crewmate running at them until it was too late. Foot already descending, gravity had too great a hold on him. He could not draw back and defend himself as the other man hurled at him, diving and catching him around the middle. His last kick never reached Callidora. The only thump Lukos heard was his own shoulder and head hitting the slick deck. He couldn’t even be sure the fresh splatters of blood were his as the world tilted sideways and fresh pain exploded in his abdomen from the man’s fist. It was the crewman’s momentary ”Go Mistress!” that gave Lukos the opening he needed. Knife out, he slashed straight up the man’s body, with a cross slash to the throat. A quick end he wasn’t going to give Callidora when he got hold of her.
Dizzy and holding his middle, he rose unsteadily to his feet, looking for her but she was already across the deck and might as well have been a world away from him by now. Blood rushed in his ears and spots swam across his vision. Lukos looked away from Callidora the moment she plunged the knife into Arktos and blinked away the spots, realizing with a jolt that he was in real danger of passing out. Which was unacceptable. He wasn’t entirely sure how he got to the railing of the ship. He had the impression he might have floated there but he looked over at the far end of the ship again. Somehow the whole deck had narrowed and he squinted, having the strangest idea that he was staring through the wrong end of a glass bottle. Like the bottom end was up against his eye and everything that way was warped and bottlenecked.
“Kill her!” he heard himself shout in a single minded drive that hadn’t yet untangled itself from his intentions. Whether it was the wound on his head, or the knock he’d taken a second ago, or a combination, it didn’t matter. Lukos swayed, watching his hands grip the rail so hard his palms hurt and he barked the order a second time but by then, Callidora and her husband were in the water. Cheers went up from around him and he felt a thin, shockingly strong arm brace itself against his ribs.
Catos peered down at him. “Permission to haul all salvageable cargo and persons to our ship, Captain?”
“Haul ass,” Lukos swore his voice was echoing somewhere but Catos didn’t appear to notice anything odd. Or he didn't care. Either was likely. Time went weird and slippery after that. He somehow managed to get back to his ship, occasionally swiping blood out of his face and sit on his own deck. It was the blood that hid his unusual paleness and the sweat was easily explainable from the battle that had just raged. But he didn’t pass out. He remained staring at the world through that weird, half warped vision that remained until the ships were literally pried apart, all cargo was aboard, all new men were in cages, and his new first mate collapsed in a gigantic heap beside him. Stars twinkled above them by then. The storm that all of them knew was a certainty had fizzled itself out before it reached them and they now had clear skies above.
“Arktos,” the big man reached over to shake Lukos’s blood slick hand. “Lukos.”
“You look terrible.”
“I can wash my terrible off,” Lukos leaned his head back against the familiar railing of the Aceton, closing his eyes for a few minutes. He could already hear Hedrion coming for him to haul him below deck and be unmerciful to the wounds he’d suffered. “You’ll always be ugly.” Arktos had laughed at that and it was the realization that he’d probably gained a lifelong friend that eased the irritation he would later be thinking on of not being able to kill that fucking bitch. He’d try again if he ever saw her again. Poseidon willing.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Moments like these were the ones he played over and over in his mind, later. He’d think of this one while he sat below deck on his own ship a few hours from now, enduring poultices applied to his wound and having to bear bandages being wrapped around his head for a few days. He’d think about the satisfying give of her body beneath his boot. The tightly curled ball she made, offering her ribs to him in an attempt to protect the more delicate and exposed flesh of her stomach. It wouldn’t matter, in the end. He’d break through her ribcage and pummel her anyway...except that wasn’t what happened.
His eyes were huge and dark and depthless, soaking up her agony and suffering the way wolves fed on a carcass. While he was in port, among normal people, sitting in their taverns, spending time with whores, or whiling away his hours on his own time, it was easy to think that he wasn’t some crazy, blood thirsty killer. He didn’t seek it out, most of the time. But if he was honest - really honest, he lived for moments like this one. Where life and death wriggled in his grasp and he was like some kind of god, having the ability to snuff out someone’s last breath, or have mercy and let her keep it. He wasn’t going to. He wouldn’t let her have the years she might have with her idiot husband. He’d end it here and now, kicking whatever was left of her off his boots when he was done. Her piteous cries were music and he felt a little like a conductor, drawing out each note in a steady, pounding rhythm, with his arms held aloft, ostensibly for balance but they looked a little like he was reaching out to bring an audience into this crescendo.
Too absorbed in his purpose, he didn’t see her crewmate running at them until it was too late. Foot already descending, gravity had too great a hold on him. He could not draw back and defend himself as the other man hurled at him, diving and catching him around the middle. His last kick never reached Callidora. The only thump Lukos heard was his own shoulder and head hitting the slick deck. He couldn’t even be sure the fresh splatters of blood were his as the world tilted sideways and fresh pain exploded in his abdomen from the man’s fist. It was the crewman’s momentary ”Go Mistress!” that gave Lukos the opening he needed. Knife out, he slashed straight up the man’s body, with a cross slash to the throat. A quick end he wasn’t going to give Callidora when he got hold of her.
Dizzy and holding his middle, he rose unsteadily to his feet, looking for her but she was already across the deck and might as well have been a world away from him by now. Blood rushed in his ears and spots swam across his vision. Lukos looked away from Callidora the moment she plunged the knife into Arktos and blinked away the spots, realizing with a jolt that he was in real danger of passing out. Which was unacceptable. He wasn’t entirely sure how he got to the railing of the ship. He had the impression he might have floated there but he looked over at the far end of the ship again. Somehow the whole deck had narrowed and he squinted, having the strangest idea that he was staring through the wrong end of a glass bottle. Like the bottom end was up against his eye and everything that way was warped and bottlenecked.
“Kill her!” he heard himself shout in a single minded drive that hadn’t yet untangled itself from his intentions. Whether it was the wound on his head, or the knock he’d taken a second ago, or a combination, it didn’t matter. Lukos swayed, watching his hands grip the rail so hard his palms hurt and he barked the order a second time but by then, Callidora and her husband were in the water. Cheers went up from around him and he felt a thin, shockingly strong arm brace itself against his ribs.
Catos peered down at him. “Permission to haul all salvageable cargo and persons to our ship, Captain?”
“Haul ass,” Lukos swore his voice was echoing somewhere but Catos didn’t appear to notice anything odd. Or he didn't care. Either was likely. Time went weird and slippery after that. He somehow managed to get back to his ship, occasionally swiping blood out of his face and sit on his own deck. It was the blood that hid his unusual paleness and the sweat was easily explainable from the battle that had just raged. But he didn’t pass out. He remained staring at the world through that weird, half warped vision that remained until the ships were literally pried apart, all cargo was aboard, all new men were in cages, and his new first mate collapsed in a gigantic heap beside him. Stars twinkled above them by then. The storm that all of them knew was a certainty had fizzled itself out before it reached them and they now had clear skies above.
“Arktos,” the big man reached over to shake Lukos’s blood slick hand. “Lukos.”
“You look terrible.”
“I can wash my terrible off,” Lukos leaned his head back against the familiar railing of the Aceton, closing his eyes for a few minutes. He could already hear Hedrion coming for him to haul him below deck and be unmerciful to the wounds he’d suffered. “You’ll always be ugly.” Arktos had laughed at that and it was the realization that he’d probably gained a lifelong friend that eased the irritation he would later be thinking on of not being able to kill that fucking bitch. He’d try again if he ever saw her again. Poseidon willing.
Moments like these were the ones he played over and over in his mind, later. He’d think of this one while he sat below deck on his own ship a few hours from now, enduring poultices applied to his wound and having to bear bandages being wrapped around his head for a few days. He’d think about the satisfying give of her body beneath his boot. The tightly curled ball she made, offering her ribs to him in an attempt to protect the more delicate and exposed flesh of her stomach. It wouldn’t matter, in the end. He’d break through her ribcage and pummel her anyway...except that wasn’t what happened.
His eyes were huge and dark and depthless, soaking up her agony and suffering the way wolves fed on a carcass. While he was in port, among normal people, sitting in their taverns, spending time with whores, or whiling away his hours on his own time, it was easy to think that he wasn’t some crazy, blood thirsty killer. He didn’t seek it out, most of the time. But if he was honest - really honest, he lived for moments like this one. Where life and death wriggled in his grasp and he was like some kind of god, having the ability to snuff out someone’s last breath, or have mercy and let her keep it. He wasn’t going to. He wouldn’t let her have the years she might have with her idiot husband. He’d end it here and now, kicking whatever was left of her off his boots when he was done. Her piteous cries were music and he felt a little like a conductor, drawing out each note in a steady, pounding rhythm, with his arms held aloft, ostensibly for balance but they looked a little like he was reaching out to bring an audience into this crescendo.
Too absorbed in his purpose, he didn’t see her crewmate running at them until it was too late. Foot already descending, gravity had too great a hold on him. He could not draw back and defend himself as the other man hurled at him, diving and catching him around the middle. His last kick never reached Callidora. The only thump Lukos heard was his own shoulder and head hitting the slick deck. He couldn’t even be sure the fresh splatters of blood were his as the world tilted sideways and fresh pain exploded in his abdomen from the man’s fist. It was the crewman’s momentary ”Go Mistress!” that gave Lukos the opening he needed. Knife out, he slashed straight up the man’s body, with a cross slash to the throat. A quick end he wasn’t going to give Callidora when he got hold of her.
Dizzy and holding his middle, he rose unsteadily to his feet, looking for her but she was already across the deck and might as well have been a world away from him by now. Blood rushed in his ears and spots swam across his vision. Lukos looked away from Callidora the moment she plunged the knife into Arktos and blinked away the spots, realizing with a jolt that he was in real danger of passing out. Which was unacceptable. He wasn’t entirely sure how he got to the railing of the ship. He had the impression he might have floated there but he looked over at the far end of the ship again. Somehow the whole deck had narrowed and he squinted, having the strangest idea that he was staring through the wrong end of a glass bottle. Like the bottom end was up against his eye and everything that way was warped and bottlenecked.
“Kill her!” he heard himself shout in a single minded drive that hadn’t yet untangled itself from his intentions. Whether it was the wound on his head, or the knock he’d taken a second ago, or a combination, it didn’t matter. Lukos swayed, watching his hands grip the rail so hard his palms hurt and he barked the order a second time but by then, Callidora and her husband were in the water. Cheers went up from around him and he felt a thin, shockingly strong arm brace itself against his ribs.
Catos peered down at him. “Permission to haul all salvageable cargo and persons to our ship, Captain?”
“Haul ass,” Lukos swore his voice was echoing somewhere but Catos didn’t appear to notice anything odd. Or he didn't care. Either was likely. Time went weird and slippery after that. He somehow managed to get back to his ship, occasionally swiping blood out of his face and sit on his own deck. It was the blood that hid his unusual paleness and the sweat was easily explainable from the battle that had just raged. But he didn’t pass out. He remained staring at the world through that weird, half warped vision that remained until the ships were literally pried apart, all cargo was aboard, all new men were in cages, and his new first mate collapsed in a gigantic heap beside him. Stars twinkled above them by then. The storm that all of them knew was a certainty had fizzled itself out before it reached them and they now had clear skies above.
“Arktos,” the big man reached over to shake Lukos’s blood slick hand. “Lukos.”
“You look terrible.”
“I can wash my terrible off,” Lukos leaned his head back against the familiar railing of the Aceton, closing his eyes for a few minutes. He could already hear Hedrion coming for him to haul him below deck and be unmerciful to the wounds he’d suffered. “You’ll always be ugly.” Arktos had laughed at that and it was the realization that he’d probably gained a lifelong friend that eased the irritation he would later be thinking on of not being able to kill that fucking bitch. He’d try again if he ever saw her again. Poseidon willing.