Fantasy The Little Things (IC)

[Headphones]

Judgedom of Sardinia

Code by Serobliss

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Province of Cagliari

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Town of Tubero

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Lore

18th May

On a late spring day, in the midst of May, not a single cloud could be seen sailing through the vast blue skies above Tubero. The sun had just risen above the distant low mountaintops, its rays quickly bringing warmth to the otherwise cool morning, transforming what had been a somber scene of tightly stacked buildings into a brilliant spectacle of soft yellow, ochre and tangerine facades. Sparrows came down from the eaves for their morning dust bath, chirping away by the sidewalks and minding not the busy forest of pedestrians moving past them, only the rare close encounter with a leather shoe provoking them to take flight. Men in thin modest suits and fedoras. Women adorned in cloches and light or pastel dresses above the ankle. Each was distinct yet moved in unison, creating an ensemble of buzzing conversations with the occasional jovial laugher or cackling call of a gull on a roof. They flowed through the streets like a vivacious wave, assembling and dispersing whenever they pleased, but none was more lively this early in the day than the piazza, where the so-called “News Wall” stood.

It was a light red building, four floors in height, the first of which was much taller and began with a series of white pillars and arches that provided free entrance into an open space the width of the second-floor room. The noteworthy wall was, in fact, the outer side of the solid wall of the first floor that came after and had a number of enclosed bulletin boards where the newspaper and printing agencies on the upper storeys hung some of their latest releases to be read free of charge. It was an island in the restless sea, where people slowed down their pace, stopped on their own or waited for friends in order to have a look at the freshly pressed pages.

Seeing groups who browsed or stood to chat on the side was commonplace, but on this morning the shade cast from the second floor could not hide the unusually large crowd that had formed in front of the News Wall. Its members were predominantly men who, after scanning every glass case, grimassed in displeasure and, more often than not, gestured disapprovingly and complained outloud to strangers and acquaintances alike. The source of this agitation that went beyond regular commentary was the lack of news regarding the murder of Sardo Ramene.

An accountant by education, Mr. Ramene had been a well-known and beloved citizen, whose high class and remarkable business success had not weaved him a veil of daffodils. Throughout his life he had remained grounded, lending a helping hand to many in Tubero and earning a much-deserved good name. When his dead body was found along with that of his guard on the outskirts of town three days ago, it was as though lightning had struck and set the community ablaze, creating a restlessness that had never been seen before. Two days had passed since the first report had been published, yet The Custas Vegadas, the biggest newspaper in town, had nothing new to lock in the bulletin boards, causing tension to rise in front of the building and people questioning their ability to even write a decent paragraph.

And yet not everyone had this case at the front or the back of their minds. On the main street a group of ladies were walking with a skip to their step, deaf to the world as they talked and laughed on their way, led in the centre by one Maira Mura. She was the young and creative designer of Clear-and-Cute fabric house, whose voice rang like a swallow and yellow dress matched well with her white gloves and short curly bob as she and her coworker friends headed for their workplace.

“There she goes, that Maria.”
“That’s Maira from the Muras, nor Maria. She chortles as if a man wasn’t found dead yesterday.”
In two nextdoor balconies two older women commented on the frivolous fashionista, one hanging her sheets, while the other leaned on the railing and took her coffee cup from the wooden board they had tied between the balconies.
“She’s too airheaded. If the Blue Flamingo was open, she’d be dancing the night away, the audacity.”
“Mmhmm, and her brother would’ve to be refusing her suitors. As if he doesn’t have enough headaches. By the way, did you know? I heard there’s a guard on Freesia street.”
“Really?”
“Heard it from Zulia. Her son Efis had to go there for his watch.”
“Ai! Poor Bubore. He doesn’t have it easy either.”

Freesia street was named as such because of Amore flower shop, one of the oldest businesses still in operation in Tubero, which had grown in popularity after being the first to bring and sell the aforementioned aromatic flowers. However, today another establishment was catching the public’s attention.

“Thank you. You may now go over there and I’ll be with you shortly to take your measurements.”

The tailor on Freesia street, Mr. Bubore Mannu, offered a gentlemanly smile under his moustache at a regular customer who had come in and carried on as usual, even if the other man had evidently been mindful of his words. After it was mentioned in passing that Mr. Ramene had visited this shop on the day of his murder in the article by Custas Vegadas, several journalists, information brokers and even regular folks had come and tried their luck. But no matter how many times they asked what look Ramene had in his eyes, what air he exuded or how broad his shoulders were, Mr. Mannu would always give them the same simple recollection of events. Under the pressure of this unprecedented interest, the elderly tailor seemed to be handling each meeting with ease, yet even so, would glance every so often out the window with caution and scratch his white beard.

On the street not too far away was a man leaning his back on an ornate dark green post clock. Just as he tipped his flat grey cap down, a Guard came from behind him and stood in his way.
“Excuse me, sir, but I’d like you to reconsider your intentions.”
“What?”
“Given a recent pattern on this street, I have reasons to believe you intend to cause a disruption of public peace.”
“Hah! As if! Are you a fortune-teller or something? I’m minding my own business, waiting for a friend.”
“I am a counselor witch, sir. While I can’t say what you intend to do precisely, you’re not the first person with such colourful notes here. Just the first one today.”
The man with the grey cap fell silent, surprise and indignation mingling in his unblinking gaze.
“Either stay put or move along, but don’t disturb other people.” the officer ordered and watched as the man clicked with his tongue behind his teeth and turned around to leave.
“Pesky guards. Why aren’t they all at the beach or snooping around the fringe?” the man muttered after some distance as he entered an alley.

The officer, too, moved on with his work, glancing up at the hands that ticked away the seconds and minutes after seven o’clock, paying little mind to the curious passers-by. Whether the latest headline was about the first bloom of the red poppies or the first big murder of the new century, it was habitual for the locals to want to catch a whiff of anything that smelled enticing. As comically incapable of discretion as they were, however, they had a keen sense of when to keep their nosiness under the brim of their hats and when it could venture just a tiny bit further. But there was another routine that most Sards, not even the Guards, could resist and that was their morning cappuccino.

Away from the bustling boulevards with discussions that bubbled and brewed, there was a smooth cobblestone street where burgundy and cream roses bloomed. Their scent, a gentle caress, floated in the air together with the dull chime of metal against ceramic and the faint bumping of cups as they were put onto their plates. In front of its three-storey home, the green louvered shutters of which stood proudly against a brilliant orange exterior, Cafe Ambrosia was hosting a number of people who were delightfully enjoying the start of their day with a cappuccino and butter cornetto. Among them was a short slender man by the name of Eugeniu D’Amore. He sat alone at one of the few small round tables, his broom resting beside his seat as he read in silence from a notepad in one hand whilst the other pressed against his chin in a fist. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and adjusted his glasses, the hand that had held the notepad flipping it closed and tucking it away in the inside pocket of his coat. A small white cup with a golden line levitated slowly from the table and entered his grasp, the coffee within still just warm enough to soothe his cold fingers. After inhaling the revitalising aroma, a smile appeared on the man’s lips, but as soon as he took a sip he abruptly spit it back and jolted forward, pupils narrowing at the scene before him.

Three students were flying on their brooms to school, guffawing above the buildings as one hung upside down and another was at a 70 degree angle, pretending to be a rider atop a rearing horse. Slamming his cup on the table, Eugeniu grabbed his own broom and shouted:
“Costa, I’ll pay you later!”
With that, he took off into the sky, hollering after the adolescents:
“YOU BRATS! You’re violating broom flight safety protocol! You’re getting points reduced from you beha- DON’T TRY TO LOSE ME! YOU AINT FLYING AWAY FROM THE LAW!”

At ground level, the waiter watched as his customer took off into the distance with an indifferent expression, before resuming with serving two cappuccinos with glasses of water to the elderly couple beside him.
“Those kids. They’re about to get an ass’s ears.” the old gentleman grumbled.
“Come now, didn’t you play chase with the lambs when you were a little shepherd?” the aged madam chuckled.
“Running in the mountains is one thing. I was working, wasn’t I? I wasn’t hanging up in the air being a monkey. Why do they let them ride brooms so young? Good thing a Guard was around to whoop their scrawny-”
“Awwh, enough of that.” the old woman elbowed her husband, then addressed the waiter. “Costa, dear, you’ve been running around the tables since down. Go and have a bite. Us old folks will be fine.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fenu, but I have already had breakfast.”
“Let the boy do his job, Rinna. He’s not like the suit-lovers, who sit around all day in an office. He’s got real work. Back in the day, I didn’t even have time to grab a bowtie like his when I went out to-”

As the curtain of reminiscence lifted before the white-haired gentleman’s eyes, the waiter took his leave, a round wooden serving tray under his arm. He was simply known as Costa, Costa the Italian, and was the only barista of Cafe Ambrosia. His tall figure moved swiftly between the tables, dressed in a clean uniform that followed the typical 3-2-1 rule of his profession. Three blacks - the bowtie, the vest with a low buttoning stance and the trousers. Two whites - the ironed shirt and the long apron tied around his waist under the vest. And one colour, represented by the sleeve garters, which today happened to be the shade of newly unfolded linden tree leaves. Rather than going inside when reaching the door, Costa turned around and scanned first the cafe, then the street, green eyes calm and unblinking whilst two seagulls flew overhead. Judging by their southern direction, maybe they too intended to drop by for breakfast, only a saltier establishment was likely more to their liking, the tune of which could be heard from afar like the distant roar of a beast.

Down at the docks, the cacophony of people and cargo had been in full swing since the crack of dawn. Seafarers rushed up and down ladders, eager to moor and complete the final stage of their journey. The large trained hands of longeshoremen grabbed hold of crates and bags, whilst crane hooks lifted heavier shipments high above their heads. Orders were hollered left and right. Each type of good had to be stacked just right by currents of passing figures whose dusty flat hats stayed on by some sort of miracle.
The counters had it no better. They observed the accumulation of items and, whenever they happened to believe that the total amount was checked and they could move on to the next batch, a forgotten box would get tossed onto the pile, forcing them to tally again, hissing at the carriers to mind their movements.
Inspectors from customs passed through the crowds of workers or flew above them on their brooms, beholding this haphazard work of art in its entirety and scrutinizing its details, looking for signs of misconduct. Some also patrolled around the tall yellow brick warehouses, where all which landed had to be stored, while one or two others, given the time of day, stayed close by the shoreline, taking over the work of their colleagues to watch over the little stream of people who were coming out of the water.

Like little foals eager to gallop on a vast sunny pasture, children of all ages rushed with the waves to the pier. The older ones climbed up the ladders alone, whilst the younger ones were usually accompanied by a parent or who carried their bag and reminded them to first get dry by turning all of the leftover seawater into thread before going anywhere. These were the seafolk, residents of the underwater town of “Tubero” which was located on the seafloor not too far away from shore. With glistening eyes and the ability to have their hair go from soaked to flawlessly styled, one would think that there would always be a sense of mystery floating around their elegant figures. However, reality was almost ironically unlike the myth, as many of the parents struggled to get their children tidy or sit still enough for them to do so. Seafolk had their own language composed of not sounds, but gestures and, alas, you couldn’t get the message across if your first-grader was distracted by a cat or a bell or a cloud or anything that wasn’t their parent. One mother had to resort to grabbing her son by the chin and having him look her straight in the eyes as she cut through the air with her free hand.

~ Now listen here, you little sprat. ~ she gestured in seasign ~ You will be going to school and back. No side-quests. Why? ~
~ … Because a bad lady is at the News Wall. ~
~ Because a bad lady is at the News Wall! ~ her brows were tight at first, yet softened ~Now off you go with “Giacomo”. Have a good day. ~ she kissed her son on the cheek and let him go.
The moment he was free, the boy bolted to join his friend.
~ What was this about “a bad lady”? ~ the mother of “Giacomo” waved from not too far.
~ Just muddy water! ~ the first woman replied ~ That red-eyed current hopper was seen at the News Wall. My “Fabio” is so scatterbrained, he’ll swim right into a ship. ~

Despite not using their voices, which very well existed and were the same as the people from land, their gestures were as loud and clear as the cries of the fishmongers which beckoned the public to come and buy today’s fresh catch.

Such were the little things that made up this seaside Sardinian town. Its inhabitants sailed through its streets with the wind of life, though death mingled in words that escaped their lips. Perhaps the only quiet place in Tubero was the hall of the church, where father Polycarp stood in silence. Long did his gaze remain unblinking before the icon of Saint Nicolas. Then, he closed his eyes and held his right thumb, index and middle finger together so that he may cross from right to left on his chest, sending his prayer up to the heavens.

 

[Silvercurrent]

And below was not much calmer…


The schools of human fish on land joined together in a chorus of chatter, and even before the facilities opened their doors.


Panning down from the bobbing figures who just emerged to the “Upper Tubero”, we go beneath the surface to get a glimpse of the shining patina of roof tops and broad, silvery structures below. Though, the majority of silver would only be seen in the glittering city of Su Corde some ways beyond the turquoise haze. Here in “Lower Tubero”, the buildings were pearly white with various ornate designs carved into both the natural rock protruding from the island, as well as Sea man-made structures lovingly made some distant ages ago. Inviting rounded arcs held doors with ocean decor such as coral and other fun little places for sea life to benefit from, and tiny fishes the size of pinkies all the way to the size of one’s head gathered in the wreaths of the elder sea folk’s home.


Much like on land, everyone from all Currents were waking up to see the little ones off, watching the young seafolk float up towards the rays of sunlight that warmed the mossy blankets across their roofs and yards. Old seafolk smiled waved to them, blowing watery kisses accompanied by bubbles, while mothers and fathers alike watched their partners follow the children up. Some had tearful expressions, hugging themselves for comfort as they worried over their precious children who were– to them– swimming up to a land of danger and potential harm.


Of course, they weren’t going to stay long. When school ended, all Sea children had been given the task of completing school and returning to the sea promptly afterwards. This wasn’t the case a few days ago- but now Upper Tubero was a risk to Sea folk life, and some of the more jaded Elders below were eerily silent and cold.

As a few village residents sat in Coral park in Su Corde, the usual heavenly glow of the city did little to ease anyone’s mind. The Council below the Convocation of seated “Living relics” were in attendance in a large meeting. While the Land folks of Tubero mourned one of thousands of “businessmen”, Su Corde and all of the sea were mourning a much “more important” possession.

An unnamed, venerated Relic had been stolen without any known traces. Its temple had fallen to ruin years ago, but was heavily guarded. So, the stillness of hands and arms of the crowd in Coral park said it all;

‘We’re waiting. Give us answers.’


From a window on a top floor of a building overlooking Coral park, a man with heavy lids and dark hair sat, with tresses swaying slowly in the gentle motion of the water. He listened as the conference took place, where the public was being addressed by Su Corde’s council on a podium sat before a well-loved statue. It depicted one of the followers of the Sea God holding a child up to the sky- the statue itself radiated a sense of calm, as if it were the purpose of the icon.


Ranieri watched its massive form tower and protrude out, being visited by a small grouping of Manta rays. Behind him, a woman in an ivory and modest dress landed on the floor of the room, meeting his gaze as he turned to address her from the open window.


He signed, ~”Chancellor Gavina.”~ The symbol of Gavina’s name was like a gentle closing of a clam, delicately signed by Ranieri’s pianist-like fingers. The woman smiled at him and let her high heel tap the floor gently, though she remained in something of a levitating position before him.


~”I helped birth you. Just Gavina.”~ she told him, and both gave each other fond smirks. Though, Ranieri sighed soon after. ~”Should that not be you? Down there?”~


Gavina’s short curly white hair framed her aging face, being a seafolk of 75. Her wisened years kept her calm in these trying times, and she glided over to Ranieri to view the assembly of confused and frightened seafolk.


~”I’d sooner burn my belly flat on the surface.”~ she signed with a scoff.

~”That was uncalled for.”~ Ranieri had a slight curl of his lip into a half smile, though it mostly stayed restrained within the confines of an official office at the Burau. Gavina turned her dewy eyes on the younger man, and reached out to adjust his vest. ~”Little Rani.”~ she signed, something very near to a precious stone being placed in a hand that cradled it. ~”The walking ones keep testing us. The Convocation has sent several liaisons and we are being turned away.”~ she told him.

Ranieri titled his head, eyes softening. ~”Be gentle. A man is dead. A loved man.”~ he replied.

~”Of course. And we are all sorry that land walkers still murder each other.”~ Gavina furrowed her brow, and Ranieri placed a calming hand on her shoulder.


~”Be still. Now is not the time to cast blame. We must use logic and not sour relations over one Relic. Nigola Mura and I have settled paperwork. You’ve no need to worry.”~ Ranieri signed. Gavina wore a weathered, pained expression.

~”Yes. This is why they send you. So kind.” She gave a bitter sweet smile as she gazed out the window.


Ranieri patted her back, and began turning to leave. His days in Su Corde would be shorter for the coming days and all that was left to do was report to Ottaviu and make his way to Upper Tubero.


He had been informed by his colleague from the Azure Current that a young sea woman had been seen going to the surface as of late– according to word spreading within the Azure Current, she’d been sheltered for most of her life and given little chance to make public appearances. The Azure current were deeply feeling, impulsive people and when they gossiped, it spread like fire over oil.


On his journey to Upper Tubero, he wondered… Why hadn’t she come to Cu Corde? All run-aways or rebellious children flee to the city when their pod doesn’t provide them proper attention, but on occasion some do just go right for the land.

On a runabout boat, Ranieri held his briefcase close as the Jean steering the boat yelled over the breeze clapping them in the face. “I’m sorry!? Looking for a WHAT now?”

“A young girl, looking to be of school age, or perhaps a young adult.” Ranieri tried to raise his tone, speaking to the Land walker who had an actual talent for managing to make a sea person motion sick on his boat.

“Ajò!! Aren’t we all! My wife lost her lustre a decade ago! I joined the guild and didn’t look back!” The leathery jean cackled, clinging to his flask as the runabout skipped, hitting the odd wave. Ranieri gave him a glacial stare, then set his briefcase down to wrap his hair into a tighter pony tail to avoid tangling.

“I am looking for a particular girl. She may go by something else on land, but her current knows her as ‘Elsie”... Elsie.” Ranieri signed her name carefully, but he knew the Jean was too sloshed to really get what he meant, and tried to pronounce it for the man.


“Alas! I don’t know any girl like that- we’ve got all kinds of women in town who go to the potion shops for hair color! I can’t be bothered to know who’s a sea girl and a witch and so on!” The jean steered the boat abruptly, pulling up to the docks and barely missing a few rocks and a beam nearby.


The frail sea man in the boat caught himself as he fell forward, letting out a shocked gasp as the Jean laughed from the depths of his belly, rubbing a calloused hand over the rough, chewed fabric of his red shirt. They soon found themselves being watched by a patrolling boat, picket shaped from the looks of it. “Ahahah! What can I say, you get what you paid for.” the Jean smirked, waving to the patrolling boat as they finally steadied out.


“I will be sure to swim next time.” Ranieri replied, and rather than walk directly on to the land, he took a dip in the shallows of Lower Tubero first.


Ahhh… it was cooler now, and the dryness of his skin was being soothed.

While I don't agree with Gavina about land people being any more dangerous than us, I do agree it isn’t good for anyone to be wandering Tubero alone. That girl has a personal relic that isn’t even registered.


After a few minutes, emerging from a shallow path made of stone that rivaled the pearly clouds, Ranieri’s regal form took shape and repaired itself with freshly fixed hair. His suit that had been dishelveld by the ride here was now perfectly aligned, no creases or wrinkles. His cane flashed in the daylight’s rays as he used it to keep steady on land, and his brief case seemed to be covered in a thin layer of whatever magical threads were now holding his attire across his body. A simple suit of dark blue with a thin jacket and brown leather shoes.

I’ll politely insist she return home, or at the least, let me hide her dangerous relic.

The rest of the day would be spent visiting various contacts Ranieri had in Tubero, after spending much of his pay on gifts. He hit every shoppe he could, gathering the presents and treats in order to touch base with his many acquaintances and give them no reason to think he was there to make their day harder. He’d ask, “Have you seen a girl with long blue hair?” And other questions, mainly playing this trip off as a strictly sea-folk issue. By all means, he wasn’t lying. He was here to ask about the Relic, but before that, he needed to make sure not to upset the town in a way that would be a disservice to his fellow sea people.


~”And have you seen her?”~ Ranieri signed to a young boy who was playing with a ball next to the school, seeming to be taking a “hydration” break, as he had doused himself in water before grabbing the ball.

~”What does Giacomo get if he has?”~ The young sea boy pursed his lips, imitating a little business man he haggled with at the candy shop. Even the way he signed was a silly exaggeration of an old man.

Ranieri lowered his lashes, looking down and slipping a few coins from his pockets that glistened in the sunlight, and the young boy snatched them up.

~”...That’s it? Alright… I saw her a few days ago. Before…”~ The boy cast his bright green eyes down at his feet.

“It’s alright. You don’t need to say his name. I understand.” Ranieri spoke, and the boy simply nodded.

~”She goes to see the Piscadoris… So, she isn’t…”~ The boy wavered in his signing, and his eyes seemed to swell a bit.

“...I see.” Ranieri said softly, and went into his pockets to pluck out a few more coins. “Go straight home, Giacomo. But get something nice from Little sweet shop before you do, hm?”


Giacomo peered up from his tight grip on the ball and offered out a hand to take the coins. “Thank you.” He said quietly, then darted back into the sky-blue building he played beside.

For the Relic guardian “Ranieri”, this entire ordeal was not going to be simple. Even one strand of information like this would be sending him down a winding road, and hopefully, both Land and Sea could rest at the end of it.

Though, there wouldn’t be rest, not evening for the eyes reading this.


At the News wall, a dark figure stood among the many suits and chittering young women as the scent of coffee filled the morning air. Her heels dug into the ground as she stood thoughtfully, like a statue with a hand to her chin. Red jewels clung to any words regarding the Sardo case– but in that way she wasn’t any different from the crowd. Though as the buzzing flock of men and women thinned, she remained there as if each word would produce gold any moment.


Thus Basilia garnered even more gossip over her, not that doing anything else would have resulted in less gossip. Basilia to the Land folk wasn’t much to turn heads over, though maybe on occasion someone unfamiliar with her may be struck by her deep, wavy locks like the dark sea at night catching light from the moon, and her eyes as red and tempting as an apple, to match lips that were subtly painted as if she didn’t spend much time on such a task. To the average Sea folk of Tubero…


She was a mystery and an unwelcome one. Seafolk hated secrets among each other– and Basilia was in the habit of doing something many currents found insulting.

It wasn’t how she stole a position in the Relic guards alongside Ranieri, who was considered a model citizen.

It wasn’t to do with her ability to pry married men’s eyes off of their wives. Any strumpet could do that in Tubero with the right outfit.


No, it was her indifference to her own people and the cold way she regarded them, and all just to Current hop. At this point they aren’t sure what Current she originated from, let alone who her pod is. She’s never been seen with a pod, and she only signs when she absolutely needs to. It’s… just plain disrespectful!

Though she could feel eyes on her, Basilia remained poised before the News wall, but finally after most bodies had cleared out, she turned on her heel and retreated to the shade of a purple and white awning, inhaling the mild breeze which carried coffee beans on it. Her usual chilly expression was, for just today, on edge. Her lashes did not act as curtains for her ruby eyes, but rather were slightly wide and her stare was far, far away. Basilia looked insecure for once. She didn’t stay much longer, and began making her way to Sweetrose.

And as for port nebbia, the docks…

Mauro, another town outcast though perhaps not to the extent Basilia was, brought in his crew boat after an extended excursion out at sea. His boat had been missing for a while, though a few Witches on the guard had confirmed he was not far out, and that his small crew were all accounted for. When he stepped foot back on port Nebbia, his tan had gone dark and his hair looked like it had never seen a brush. He had help from his men, which included a newer addition in the form of Enzo Santini, with pulling a net full of fish off of the boat and into a few crates just before they were chided by one of the dock supervisors who dropped down from his broom in a hurry. The mousy man threatened to have Mauro sent back onto his ship, but Mauro simply ruffled the man’s hair and waved his men along with him. “After lunch, see how you feel. You can have a portion of fish, if you like.” Mauro offered, shoving his hands into his pockets as a few grizzled and rowdy men trailed behind him, lighting up pipes and complaining of wanting an expresso. “Expensive.” Mauro grumbled, chewing on a toothpick as he walked.


“Ajo! Let us have some, captain!” A young man begged, throwing his moth-bitten cap into his crewmate next to him. The small group, all but their new addition, were tired and rough from the trip out to sea. “We collect from the guild first. You know the rules.” Mauro rumbled. “We step one toe over the line, we are fired. Unless you boys forgot; half of you are probation Jeans… Do things in the wrong order, they’ll think you want to be cut off.”


Mauro seemed suspicious, perhaps he was. But he spoke to his crew that hinted at him actually caring about their livelihood. The “Landlocked” crew weren’t average fishers or sailors. They were all men with one foot behind stone walls, or in some cases, men who had one foot in the grave and wanted to begin anew. Mauro didn’t turn them away, no matter who washed up looking worse for wear.

Lastly, we take a look in at Ghisoni Barbiere.

Why? Because it’s just down the road from The Leon, and everyone loves it there. Sadly, the early drinkers would be denied entry as the doors were closed, and a few appointments needed to be kept as a memorial was likely on the horizon. And, well… It was the preferred Barber of a mercurial young man who’s pockets were never silent and his curly locks always in need of tending.

Mateo Carroni, the Grandson of a faceless representative of the Corona de Logu, yanked open the door to the little Barber shop with a subtle smirk on his face, eyes searching for something, or someone in particular.

His aggressive jostling of the door nearly saw it fall off the hinges, such was his strength when he wanted something, and such was the fragility of the old shop in need of renovations.


“Pietro!” Mateo threw open his arms, letting the door slam back shut and rattle the windows, all until the other young man across from him put down a blade to soak in a small, shallow bowl.

Pietro turned his head slowly, peering over his shoulder until his gaze met Meteo’s.

“I got your attention! Good.” Mateo glanced to the side, and around the brunette man across from himself. The shop was only clean because of Pietro, and their relatively new hire, Aurelian. However, Pietro had sent Aurelian out to fetch a few groceries in the market while it was still fresh, leaving the 24 year old alone on this busy day. A few clients had already vacated, but two remained and were glued to their newspapers.


“HELLOOO? Where’s my songbird, Pietro?” Mateo waved, taking a few steps before Pietro and staring down at him with the height advantage. Pietro’s cold stare only became flatter the longer he saw Mateo mock him, then finally jutted a thumb to the back office, small as it was.

“Good boy, Pietro! You understand priorities.” Mateo’s wolfish smile followed the clapping of his hands, which produced an insulting noise that cut through the entire barber shop. Pietro didn’t flinch; he couldn’t hear it. He’d been born Deaf, and no matter what absurd noises Mateo tried on him, he never once flinched. He even let Mateo place his fedora into his hand as if he were a bell boy.

Taking hold of a freshly sanitized razor blade, Pietro watched Mateo’s every step. All until the man disappeared into the back office where he only saw the face of his brother Danilo for a second before the dark green door shut tightly, and wouldn’t open for some time.


In that tiny window of a moment that Danilo’s face was revealed, his older brother gave him a big smile and beamed, even though the swelling around one of his eyes hadn’t gone down yet. An argument with Mateo, he figured, from days ago. The Barber’s blade was used to bloodled and sometimes perform surgeries. Some believed they could remove cancers.


Seeing the way Mateo greeted his brother Danilo, reaching for his already bruised face only to slam the door and shut him out from the world made Pietro wonder.

Can barbers still do that?

Mateo promised Danilo a lot of things, one of which was to help him get in touch with someone very important, very connected in the business sphere. After all, the boy’s last name was not Ghisoni– someone else owned this Barbiere first, and Danilo Lodde was a very outgoing sort. However, only having recently acquired 3 stylists, and having an average of one person available for any given moment was not a good look in Tubero, especially with the fancy new Barbers moving in.

Danilo had asked Mateo to get him in touch with Sardo Remene, the king among socialites.

Of course, for reasons all of the town understood, this would never come to pass now. Such a domino event, the death of one man. And yet, Danilo was relying on that meeting for a better life for himself and Pietro. But now, those big dreams he had were now lesser because of it.

They were just the little things in the face of a larger, more important story.

 

[Printer]

Sybilla De Luce

Sybilla awoke earlier than the rest of Tubero, long before the sun began to crest over the distant mountains. The pre-dawn stillness enveloped her room in the clergy house, where the cool air held a promise of the day’s warmth to come. The gentle rustling of the leaves outside her window and the soft cooing of a lone pigeon were the only sounds accompanying her first moments of wakefulness. Rising from her well-aged cot, she felt the worn, familiar texture of the wooden floor beneath her feet, each creak echoing the house’s history and the countless prayers it had hosted.

Sybilla’s fingers traced the edges of her bedside table, finding her rosary and the small, worn prayer book, its cover textured from years of use. The bedroom, though unseen, was mapped in Sybilla’s mind with a comforting clarity. She donned her simple habit, feeling the coolness of the fabric against her skin, and gracefully made her way to the small altar nestled in the familiar corner of her room. Before beginning her prayers, she reached for her veil, securing it delicately with a headband she had treasured since childhood. Kneeling down, she initiated her morning prayers, her voice a gentle murmur, blending harmoniously with the emerging sounds of dawn.

She began to pray for guidance, for the strength to serve, for the unseen beauty that faith brings to her life. The silence around her seems to listen, to absorb, occasionally broken by the stir of another early riser in the halls of the building. Sybilla’s thoughts turned to the fragility of life, to Sardo Ramene’s unfortunate passing. She prayed for him, for his family, and, above all, for the town of Tubero, that it might remain a haven of peace amidst the shadow of this tragedy. As she finished her prayer, a calm settled over her. She felt a connection, not just to the divine, but to the people of Tubero, bound together in their grief and hope, a connection she would channel to share in this morning’s service.

Her trek to the church was a familiar dance, one that Sybilla had perfected over the years. Though the darkness held no sway over her, its presence was a reminder of the world waking around her. The usual chaos of the day had yet to stir, lacking in their typical midday hustle-and-bustle, making her journey to the church a serene affair. Her white cane tapped rhythmically against the cracked pavement, sensing the vibration of each fissure and bump beneath her fingertips, guiding her through the terrain of Tubero.

Even during hushed hours, the streets were not entirely deserted; a handful of early birds dotted the path, each going to their own destinations. Sybilla's presence was marked not only by the gentle tap of her cane against the cobblestones but also by the soft chiming of her thurible swinging from its perch. It was a familiar sound to those who frequented the streets at this hour, distinctive to her passage. As she made her way, the exchange of morning greetings was a natural occurrence, each passerby acknowledging her with a “Good morning, Sister.” Sybilla would smile in response. It was a strange connection, born out of their shared routine, yet undeniably comforting in its familiarity and predictability.

Upon entering the sacred space of the church, the day's true awakening commenced for Sybilla and countless others. Not long after her arrival, the tolling of the church bells resonated through the morning air, a call to worship that stirred the souls of the faithful. The doors, weathered by years of devotion, swung open to welcome the early worshippers, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of dawn filtering through stained glass windows. It drew in those who sought solace before embarking on their daily rituals of sustenance and labor.

As the pews gradually filled, the religious service commenced for the gathered congregation. Sybilla, with a steady hand, ignited the fragrant incense within the suspended censer, its wispy smoke ascending in tandem with the ritual chants. In her role, she led the congregation through the prayers of gratitude and supplication, while the priest offered blessings and recitations from the holy scriptures.

As the morning service concluded, prayers lingered like soft whispers, eventually giving way to the gradual shuffle of footsteps. It was time for the clergy's breakfast, a moment of respite before the day's tasks unfurl like the pages of a sacred text. Absent-mindedly, Sybilla’s fingers traced the contours of the chapel walls, her thoughts, yet again, turning to the weighty matter of the late Sardo Ramene. The man’s departed soul awaited its final journey, yet the earthly realm held it captive still. How much longer, she pondered, would they delay his rest? Funeral rites awaited completion, but without the tradition of laying the departed to rest, they remained incomplete.

A flurry of activity awaited the clergy, a day or perhaps a week consumed by necessary duties. But it wouldn’t do to starve oneself. With that in mind, she discerned the Father’s solitary aura, a steady beacon amidst the ebb and flow of congregational departure. Sybilla drew near, approaching the priest with steps guided by intangible threads of energy that wove through. With a polite inclination of her head, she joined him in silent communion, her spirit reaching out to merge with his in an exchange of prayers and shared purpose.

"Father Polycarp," her voice, soft yet resolute, broke the stillness, "I shall partake of breakfast and return shortly. Perhaps the Custas Vegadas have gleaned news to share? I shall keep you informed of any developments." A gentle touch to his arm conveyed her farewell, then she turned to depart, guided by a blend of mystical energies with the finely honed senses she had cultivated over the years.

Ensuring to pass by the news wall on her route to Cafe Ambrosia, Sybilla encountered a hubbub emanating from the gathered crowd. With a slight tilt of her head, she strained to capture any fragments of conversation that might offer insight into the latest developments surrounding the murder. Elderly chatter, discontented sighs, and sporadic outbursts filled the air, reflecting the frustration and impatience festering within the assembly. The shuffle of feet, the rustle of newspapers, and the distant cries of circling seagulls inundated her senses.

Determined for clearer answers, Sybilla navigated through the throng, her slender figure cutting through the amalgam of tense and unhappy auras. As she drew closer to the news wall, the voices grew louder, their words swirling around her like an unforgiving storm. Collectively, they clamored for answers, for resolution.

Sensing the proximity of another individual, she extended her hand, lightly tapping the arm of a nearby person. "Pardon me," she spoke softly, her voice carrying a calm tone as she sought assistance from the person beside her, "could you lend me your aid, please?"

She sensed the silhouetted aura about her, a blend of straightforwardness and honesty— that seemed fitting for the current situation. Yet, there was also a hint of reservation about her, a subtle barrier perhaps born from past experiences. The scent of lingering cigarette smoke wafted around her, mingling with the myriad of fragrances permeating the air, creating a cacophony of scents that she struggled to decipher amidst the crowd.

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

 

[Not Char Aznable]

Mauro, another town outcast though perhaps not to the extent Basilia was, brought in his crew boat after an extended excursion out at sea. His boat had been missing for a while, though a few Witches on the guard had confirmed he was not far out, and that his small crew were all accounted for. When he stepped foot back on port Nebbia, his tan had gone dark and his hair looked like it had never seen a brush. He had help from his men, which included a newer addition in the form of Enzo Santini, with pulling a net full of fish off of the boat and into a few crates just before they were chided by one of the dock supervisors who dropped down from his broom in a hurry. The mousy man threatened to have Mauro sent back onto his ship, but Mauro simply ruffled the man’s hair and waved his men along with him. “After lunch, see how you feel. You can have a portion of fish, if you like.” Mauro offered, shoving his hands into his pockets as a few grizzled and rowdy men trailed behind him, lighting up pipes and complaining of wanting an expresso. “Expensive.” Mauro grumbled, chewing on a toothpick as he walked.


“Ajo! Let us have some, captain!” A young man begged, throwing his moth-bitten cap into his crewmate next to him. The small group, all but their new addition, were tired and rough from the trip out to sea. “We collect from the guild first. You know the rules.” Mauro rumbled. “We step one toe over the line, we are fired. Unless you boys forgot; half of you are probation Jeans… Do things in the wrong order, they’ll think you want to be cut off.”


Mauro seemed suspicious, perhaps he was. But he spoke to his crew that hinted at him actually caring about their livelihood. The “Landlocked” crew weren’t average fishers or sailors. They were all men with one foot behind stone walls, or in some cases, men who had one foot in the grave and wanted to begin anew. Mauro didn’t turn them away, no matter who washed up looking worse for wear.

Spelless Human

Enzo Santini

Clerk of the Landlocked

Port of Tubero

“Mr. Santini, are you alright? Mr. Santini?”
“Yes. Is something wrong?”
“I heard a yell, I thought...”
“I adjusted my table. You must’ve heard it scraping against the floor.”
“Okay… Um, we’ve reached Tubero, about to dock – Captain Mauro wanted me to tell you.”
“I see. Thanks.”


Sunlight spilled into Enzo's eyes as he rose onto the Landlocked's main deck. He instinctively shielded his retinas from the harsh onslaught with a swift motion of his hand, blinking away the pain and casting his gaze downwards until the harsh glare subsided to a bearable level.
When the discomfort had faded away, Enzo found the rest of the Landlocked's crew already hauling their latest catch off-boat, whereupon he wasted no time in joining. When it came to moving goods, he ultimately contributed little to the process. His strength paled in comparison to his fellow shipmates, managing decently when assisting another but relatively useless by himself. Still, he tried to do what was possible, and he never excused himself from partaking in the heavy lifting despite his position as the Landlocked's clerk. It was a matter of pride and dignity for the scarred veteran.
Together, the crew packed a few crates full with fish. By the time they finished, a supervisor swooped down, landed, and began pestering Mauro over something. Enzo had double-checked their documents onboard the ship and all was in order; as far as he was concerned, the supervisor's reason to throw a fit was little more than the Landlocked's unsubstantiated reputation and Mauro's arrival at port.
Enzo watched as Mauro tousled the official's hair and waved the crew along.
“After lunch, see how you feel," said Mauro to the supervisor. "You can have a portion of fish, if you like."
Mauro had begun walking away, followed by the other crewmates. As he stepped forward to follow suit, Enzo's hand withdrew into his cloak momentarily, his gaze settled on the dock official before him.
"Mi scusi," Enzo murmured, before procuring a poorly kept fiddler's cap to don. He flashed a thin smile, tipped the brim of his hat, and set off to join his colleague.

"Espresso," the word echoed through the air, a weary sailor's plea.
“Expensive.” Mauro grumbled.
“Ajo!" cried out a younger man, his voice tinged with longing. "Let us have some, captain!” He threw out his hands in a pleading gesture, a moth-bitten cap clenched tightly in one fist.
Enzo felt the cap collide with his face. "Careful, ragazzo," he chided, sending a gentle, corrective smack into the back of the young man's head. "This face is the only good thing I have left."
“We collect from the guild first. You know the rules,” Mauro rumbled in response to the espresso pleas. “We step one toe over the line, we are fired. Unless you boys forgot; half of you are probation Jeans… Do things in the wrong order, they’ll think you want to be cut off.”
Hopefully they'll have their payments correct this time, Enzo thought. There were a few... discrepancies in the past, though nothing had ever slipped past his scrutinizing gaze and all had been resolved in a timely manner. He chalked it up to a terrible attention to details and left it at that, though occasionally wondered whether or not it was truly happenstance.

Code by Serobliss

 

[Frownist]

The apartment was dim. The curtains blocked any of the morning sunlight from piercing through and the place was quite simply a mess, with clothes and empty liquor bottles tossed carelessly within the nooks and crannies, as well as half eaten takeout from the night before. Regardless, the place was homely. There wasn’t much, but there was still furniture, like the old coach with a wooden table in the living room. There were paints and brushes laying along the kitchen counters, an old guitar occupying the coach cushions and an isle, holding an incomplete painting, leaning against the wall nearest to the living room window. Finally, a separate room for where the inhabitant, Vivianna, slept. Upon entering you could tell the person living here had at least tried to make it look like a home, despite the obvious lack of cleanliness.

The peaceful quiet and stillness of dawn was interrupted by the angered banging of the apartment landlord. His knocks were relatively quiet at first, but they quickly became more incessant and uncontrollable as they continued, echoing throughout the entire home. Huddled in a small corner within a makeshift bed, was Vivianna, who had just been awakened from her few hours of rest. She reluctantly lifted her head from her pillow, as she did she was hit with a sudden wave of discomfort and aches. Groaning quietly, she rubbed her fingers against her temples as the blurriness of her vision and the ringing in her ears began to clear up.

The landlord’s words were muffled behind the wood of the front door, but has Vivianna began to realize her surroundings, his words became clearer.

“..I know you’re in there! Don’t make me unlock this damn door myself!” And he continued and continued. Vivianna knew he couldn’t just ignore the man, she lives here and he’s her landlord. As she stood up from the bed, or rather the collection of blankets and pillows, her balance was very uneven and the severity of the woman’s hangover began to hit her.

Vivianna stumbled outside of her room and leaned onto the front door for a brief moment. “Stop banging,” she said rather quietly as her ears continued to ring.

“I knew you were awake! You’ve been avoiding me this whole damn week! I swear, if you don’t open this door I’ll—“

“I got the message. Thanks.” Vivianna quickly cut him off as she opened the door. Although her face didn’t show it, her voice had a thick coat of annoyance.

The old man’s eyes widened as he saw the state of Vivianna. Her eyelids were heavy, her hair looked like a rat’s nest, and as the lingering scent of alcohol hit the man’s nose, he lost it. “Damned drunkard! Look at you, what type of woman are you, huh? Is this why you’re missing rent, aye?! To go waste your life away in some damn casino?!” As the man’s rant continued, his voice echoed throughout the hallways of the apartment building.

“Okay, okay. Roberto, I got it.” Vivianna cut him off in a sharp whisper, his screaming was deafening and the entire complex did not need to know her business.

The man stood in stunned silence. Vivianna watched his face shift through a multitude of expressions as he struggled to find the words to say.

“…Your brother did you a real favor, convincing me to let you stay here. I can’t keep sticking my neck out for you.”

“Yeah.” Vivianna said quietly as she rubbed her forehead once again in an attempt to ease her hangover. Although she didn’t want to show it on her face, she was relieved that the old man’s little spat was finally over. “I’ll go to the bank now.” And just like that, her door had shut in the man’s face. Only the loud and agitated foot steps could be heard from behind it, gradually becoming quieter and quieter.

Silence engulfed the apartment once again.

Well, except for the raging thoughts of Vivianna’s mind. Letting out a rather loud sigh, she stumbled through her apartment and back to the nest she called a bedroom. Vivianna would have to take another loan from the bank and then pick up extra hours at the pub somehow. “Fuck.” the women cursed. Headaches on top of headaches. She swung open her closet and shifted through whatever cleaned clothes remained there.

Vivianna could put it off, but she knew if she didn’t go to the bank now then she wouldn’t go ever. Or at least, she wouldn’t go until Roberto nearly breaks down her door again.

It didn’t take the woman long to get ready that morning, despite everything. That had always been the case for her, a quick shower, a loose white collared shirt and without the tie, and lastly an unbuttoned vest and pants which usually matched in color. On this particular day, it was a darker shade of brown. There was an attempt to brush her wild hair, which she eventually left to flow down her back, and finally, topped it off with a cap. After a quick smoke, the woman grabbed her backpack and was off.

Vivianna blended in the bustling crowds. Despite her reputation and how recently she moved, she had already memorized the best paths to take to avoid people. Especially older women on the more populated streets who always seemed to be the least fond of her. Her small build allowed her to slip past any lingering and chattering townfolk and she’d make sure to be gone before they had the chance to notice her. From her part of the town, there was not much sound to be had so early in the morning. So whenever Vivianna came onto the busier streets, the noise always hit her in an unpleasant way. This day it was particularly bad, given her massive headache.

It wasn’t long before the women had found herself near the Piazza. Usually it was always swarming with people, but today it seemed more so. Perhaps because of the murder of Sardo Ramene which caused people to impatiently wait for more news regarding the murder. Vivianna didn’t exactly like to stand there, whenever she did she could just feel people staring at her. But perhaps today could be an exception? The men and women at the wall aren’t the only one who’s curious.

At the News Wall, Vivianna couldn’t see past the tall heads. After she muttered a quick ‘excuse me’, was when the woman noticed her presence and quickly pulled away. “You airhead! Don’t go near her..” Loud whispers persisted from there. To the sards, Vivianna was always the unwelcome guest. It didn’t bother the women in the way you’d think, she always had a reputation wherever she went. It just that, in any location people would notice someone like her and she didn’t like constantly watched.

And the way Vivianna always presented herself caused people to stare. Quick answers, obvious disinterest, brutal honesty, lack of care for her appearance, dressing like a man, and just the way she looked you up and down. It seemed that If you didn’t have a thing of value say, holding a conversation with her would be impossible. It was simply disgraceful in their eyes, on top of her other very obvious vices.

This was a mistake.

Vivianna thought to herself as she rubbed her forehead once more. She’s already here now, and might as will do what she came here for. Tuning out the whispers and stares, Vivianna stood in front of the wall, a little lost in her own thoughts. She quickly scanned through all of the pointlessness, but as she looked she felt a gentle tap on her arm. It surprised her a bit, but her surprise grew when she turned to see who was tapping her.

A woman from the church?

Her voice was soft, almost a little hard to hear through the chattering of the crowd. She looked to be a kind woman and also a well put together one, but that was only to be expected for someone from the church. Vivianna noticed her hint of distraught. The weight of her thoughts must be taking a toll on her. It’s Sardo Ramene, wasn’t it? It was what everyone in the crowd was concerned about.

Vivianna stopped her staring and moved her gaze away for a brief moment. Finally, she replied. “..Sure.” It was a hesitant and rather monotone response, but she had nothing else to say. Especially not to someone of this women’s caliber, Vivianna wasn’t exactly the person church goers were eager to chat with which puzzled her on why she’d come to her for help. The thing that stuck out to her the most though, was the cane she held so close.

 

[Silvercurrent]

“Mr. Santini, are you alright? Mr. Santini?”
“Yes. Is something wrong?”
“I heard a yell, I thought...”
“I adjusted my table. You must’ve heard it scraping against the floor.”
“Okay… Um, we’ve reached Tubero, about to dock – Captain Mauro wanted me to tell you.”
“I see. Thanks.”

---

Sunlight spilled into Enzo's eyes as he rose onto the Landlocked's main deck. He instinctively shielded his retinas from the harsh onslaught with a swift motion of his hand, blinking away the pain and casting his gaze downwards until the harsh glare subsided to a bearable level.
When the discomfort had faded away, Enzo found the rest of the Landlocked's crew already hauling their latest catch off-boat, whereupon he wasted no time in joining. When it came to moving goods, he ultimately contributed little to the process. His strength paled in comparison to his fellow shipmates, managing decently when assisting another but relatively useless by himself. Still, he tried to do what was possible, and he never excused himself from partaking in the heavy lifting despite his position as the Landlocked's clerk. It was a matter of pride and dignity for the scarred veteran.
Together, the crew packed a few crates full with fish. By the time they finished, a supervisor swooped down, landed, and began pestering Mauro over something. Enzo had double-checked their documents onboard the ship and all was in order; as far as he was concerned, the supervisor's reason to throw a fit was little more than the Landlocked's unsubstantiated reputation and Mauro's arrival at port.
Enzo watched as Mauro tousled the official's hair and waved the crew along.
“After lunch, see how you feel," said Mauro to the supervisor. "You can have a portion of fish, if you like."
Mauro had begun walking away, followed by the other crewmates. As he stepped forward to follow suit, Enzo's hand withdrew into his cloak momentarily, his gaze settled on the dock official before him.
"Mi scusi," Enzo murmured, before procuring a poorly kept fiddler's cap to don. He flashed a thin smile, tipped the brim of his hat, and set off to join his colleague.


"Espresso," the word echoed through the air, a weary sailor's plea.
“Expensive.” Mauro grumbled.
“Ajo!" cried out a younger man, his voice tinged with longing. "Let us have some, captain!” He threw out his hands in a pleading gesture, a moth-bitten cap clenched tightly in one fist.
Enzo felt the cap collide with his face. "Careful, ragazzo," he chided, sending a gentle, corrective smack into the back of the young man's head. "This face is the only good thing I have left."
“We collect from the guild first. You know the rules,” Mauro rumbled in response to the espresso pleas. “We step one toe over the line, we are fired. Unless you boys forgot; half of you are probation Jeans… Do things in the wrong order, they’ll think you want to be cut off.”
Hopefully they'll have their payments correct this time, Enzo thought. There were a few... discrepancies in the past, though nothing had ever slipped past his scrutinizing gaze and all had been resolved in a timely manner. He chalked it up to a terrible attention to details and left it at that, though occasionally wondered whether or not it was truly happenstance.

Mauro moved with his boys the same way a pack of neighborhood dogs did, some who were exhausted still carried a strong stride as smoke bellowed from their little cluster. Smelling of fish and brine and all the lovely scents a sailor earned, the group finally plodded up a few flat stairs of porous stone and turned the corner onto a street, landing on a mosaic decorated platform that pointed to the window of the Jean’s guild.


The building itself was nothing to sniff at. For all its reputation, the entrance to the guild revealed a small pub inside, complete with carved-on wooden tables and lopsided, wobbly stools. Despite the rough appearance of a few furniture pieces, the floors were clean and the walls were decorated in trinkets and trophies gathered by the Guild’s members. Mauro glanced over to the bar counter, where a few brass-colored taps lined up before a stout figure with a sizable dint in his temple. The man nodded to Mauro, then eyed his crew, and of course Enzo.

His flat stare became a long, sharky grin and his single silver loop earring glittered in the day’s light as he motioned his jaw to the detailed tapestry hanging from the doorway nearby.


“Miss Fenu is here?” Mauro asked, stopping long enough to produce a few coins from his drooping pocket.

“She just woke up. Don’t piss her off, hm?” The bartender pushed a cloud of smoke through the gap in his teeth where a tooth had either been pulled or knocked out. He leaned under the bar for a moment, placed a fresh vase of water down and slipped two wood sorrels of golden color into them. A satisfied smile blossomed along with the sunny petals next to him.

Mauro snorted, shuffling along to the doorway. “Santini, with me. The rest of you, stay here and behave. You can have lunch soon. No drinks until after.” Mauro told them, and they all replied with a variety of groans.


The sandy haired captain brushed the tapestry to the side with one hand, letting Enzo through first, as if he knew something others didn’t… With a sharp turquoise eye, he peered into the backroom which had a loft above them. Many potted plants and wind chime decorations hung from the ceiling, accompanied by gentle, filtered rays of light from the punctured roof, overgrown with vines. The room itself seemed like something between a greenhouse and a tarot reading sanctuary. Somewhere, it was unclear where exactly, a muffled and distant melody played. The timeless and haunting tune of a phonograph echoing from above.


Of course this was the den of Catinca fenu, Guild master of the Jeans. She was alone, which was unusual, where she’d normally be accompanied by a posse of some kind. For now, she fanned herself with papers and lounged in a chair, gaze downcast at the two men who entered her domain.

“Oh, Mauro.” She crooned, her voice coming from far above them.

“Guild master.” the blonde replied, not bothering to look up and instead plucking a new toothpick from his satchel.

“And you brought me Mr. Santini.” Catinca leaned forward in her maroon robe, cat-like eyes peeling away from her papers and landing on Enzo.

“He’s not had the pleasure of meeting you yet.” Mauro said, and his tone was tinctured with a bit of sarcasm.

“You’re lucky I like brats.” Catinca grinned, then eased her leaning posture to relax back into her blanket-covered seat. “It’s true. I’d know if someone this good looking and troubled were working for me. I heard you and the boys have been shuffling around, chasing fish.”

“Did I make trouble for you?”

“Maybe.”

Catinca straightened up, turning her chin to glare down at him. Her eyes were far away from them, but they seemed a bit… puffy? Perhaps she was tired.

“Well,” Mauro sniffed, rubbing the corner of his good eye. “You told me to get back to work. And our replacement for Andrea– he should be privy to our true nature sooner rather than later, hm?”

Catinca hummed in response, as if his words amused her, and yet her brows were sharp and firmly scrunched together. “That is what I said. Did you bring Mr. Santini so that I wouldn’t jump down and strangle you?”


After a short pause, the two smirked at each other.

“I can’t afford that kind of treatment. So, perhaps I did.” Mauro chewed on his toothpick, and though his expression was calm, the way he shifted was nothing like what Enzo had seen before. The man didn’t seem to have anything to fear on the open sea, but here in the confines of Catinca’s den, he looked like a bird in a cage.

“It’s a shame about Andrea. Truly. But he did violate an important creed of us Jeans. Remember those?” Catinca asked Enzo, but stuck a slender, taloned finger into the air before he may speak.

“Andrea disobeyed our law. ‘I will not venture to rob a Relic of the Sea people unless I am willing to face due punishment,”

Before that could sink in, Mauro let out a long, heavy sigh. He was getting hungry.

“Andrea did steal, and he is facing punishment. But please don’t look at my new crewmate that way. He is very hard working and much better with documents than Andrea was.” Mauro shrugged, tilting his head in a ‘just saying’ sort of way.


“I’ve seen.” Catinca replied softly, now leaning over the railing of her loft, sending her raven hair in waves over the edge like tree roots. “Mr. Santini. May I call you Enzo? I’ll call you Enzo. You’ve been sharp– my boys are struggling to pull their usual tricks on you. I understand you’re a mainlander, right?” the Guild master rested her jaw into her palm, watching them like a falcon on her perch.

“I placed you in Mauro’s care at his request to take in any man who has life in him yet to work as a Jean, regardless of his…” She eyed Enzo, mainly his hidden arm under the coat. “Physical condition. Or, where he began his life.” she continued.

“But you must understand. Here in Sardinia, Jeans are blamed daily for missing sea Relics. As of May16th, our Guild is going to be watched closely.” Catinca told him, and her eyes slowly closed as if a sudden pain overtook her. The slight bags under her eyes as well spoke of a woman who’d traveled far and saw little rest yet.


“As if it weren’t enough for us to lose such a treasure like Alessi piscadori…” Catinca said, eyes drilled shut in a somber display. “He was one of our best. He made us look quite good to the public eye, even if he no longer worked here full-time.”


After a moment to calm herself and place a lavender tinted cloth across her brow, she heaved out a long sigh and rested back in her seat.

“So, what is it you’re saying?” Mauro asked, giving the woman his full attention now.

“Just as I asked you to bring in Andrea for his transgressions, I’m asking you to make sure every Jean out at the docks cooperates in this investigation.” Catinca replied, holding up the newspaper as if it were a declaration.

“Jeans will always be needed, always used, always scapegoats. But we have a code for a reason. We are not pirates, and if we disobey our creed, we are no better than those we hunt and take from. Alessi was no pirate. I will not have his name spoken in the same breath as ‘killer’.” She narrowed her gaze down at the two, then let the news paper fall to the floor over the railing. The papers floated down like feathers, down to Mauro’s feet.

“He’s aware.” Mauro replied mildly. “But if it puts you at ease, Guild master, I’ll make the rounds myself. We all respected Alessi.” Mauro lowered his gaze, seeming to have a similar expression to Catinca now.

“Good. Get to it after you’ve eaten, hm? You look gaunt. And treat Enzo to a drink for me.” The guild master forced something of a bitter smile back onto her face, closing her robes further to pretend she were modest and professional. Things had changed slightly since she took over for her late husband, but Catinca wasn’t about to let anyone get sloppy. It was worth the chatter of the other jeans regarding her appearance in Tubero, coming in from Cagliari, and perhaps why the Landlocked captain was a bit on edge.

On the way out, Mauro paused by the bar and stood for a moment in deep thought. He seemed to be ruminating on that interaction, like there might have been something bothering him about it, but he didn’t linger in that state long before drumming at the counter top.


“Let’s go get Expresso.”

 

[Cosmos]

NYX ATÉRIS
location: Outside Sweetrose Potionare
interaction: Silvercurrent
----​

"So much for a quiet mornin' I guess." The words trailed from Nyx's mouth as she raised one cuffed-sleeved forearm just above her forehead, preemptively shielding her eyes from the sun's oh-so-gracious rays before taking a step out from the shaded sidestreet she had wandered from into the noticeably louder mainstreet. Blinking her deep maroon eyes briefly to adjust, she glanced haphazardly at the collection of busy strangers going about their days.

She had been here for about four weeks at this stage but still felt as though she stuck out like a sore thumb. Although not completely unusual, her more masculine attire in the form of some looser-fitted black dress pants and a light grey long-sleeved button-up, mixed with her short jet-black hair and most notably, the sprawl of various tattoos that managed to peak up past her collar and onto the back of her neck, regardless of shirt worn (lest she wears a scarf year-long like an absolute madwoman) have garnered their fair share of initial second-glances from the locals on first-meetings, thankfully it seems folks around here could care less for any prior symbolism it could've held if any were even aware.

Her complete ensemble included a thin, layered chain necklace and a pair of earrings resembling that of intricate and ornate miniature swords. The clothes were of good make and kept in clean and moderately crease-free condition, or at least as much as one could, given her current sleeping arrangements being that of whatever was available, not that she was in a major rush to solve the housing situation. After all, she'd worked on boats and docks for the past couple of years, she could probably sleep anywhere short of the ocean at this stage with little issues.

No, the more confronting matter was finding some at least relatively stable employment. Her years of practicing meant her spoken and written language were no hassle, however, she wasn't exactly well equipped for more customer-facing service work, and couldn't mix a drink to save her life. However, give her a job moving heavy boxes or any other on-your-feet labor and she wouldn't break a sweat. Taking a few steps out onto the street properly after collecting herself, she let out a brief exhale in preparation to begin today's round of going to nearby shops and seeing who might need an extra set of hands.

It was upon heading across the path towards Sweetrose Potionarie Nyx found her gaze drawn to a small commotion further down the street, A tall, well-dressed woman with eyes like glowing embers making her way towards the shopfront followed by the less-than-friendly gazes of more than a few people nearby. Furrowing a brow slightly at the sight and noting the particularly aggressive stares of a small group of three jeans she had seen cause trouble more than once at the docks she made the somewhat impulsive decision to change course ever so slightly to an admittedly improvised meet-up with the woman casting an assertive glance their way before throwing up a hand in a wave and putting on her best 'act-like-you-know-me' smile. "Hey there stranger'- long time no see~" She let the words leave her mouth with a hint of truth in the 'stranger' part of her faux-friend meeting more or less. After all, she was fairly sure she knew who this was, there would be a slim chance of anyone else in Sardina matching quite this description.

 

[Printer]

This was a mistake.

Vivianna thought to herself as she rubbed her forehead once more. She’s already here now, and might as will do what she came here for. Tuning out the whispers and stares, Vivianna stood in front of the wall, a little lost in her own thoughts. She quickly scanned through all of the pointlessness, but as she looked she felt a gentle tap on her arm. It surprised her a bit, but her surprise grew when she turned to see who was tapping her.

A woman from the church?

Her voice was soft, almost a little hard to hear through the chattering of the crowd. She looked to be a kind woman and also a well put together one, but that was only to be expected for someone from the church. Vivianna noticed her hint of distraught. The weight of her thoughts must be taking a toll on her. It’s Sardo Ramene, wasn’t it? It was what everyone in the crowd was concerned about.

Vivianna stopped her staring and moved her gaze away for a brief moment. Finally, she replied. “..Sure.” It was a hesitant and rather monotone response, but she had nothing else to say. Especially not to someone of this women’s caliber, Vivianna wasn’t exactly the person church goers were eager to chat with which puzzled her on why she’d come to her for help. The thing that stuck out to her the most though, was the cane she held so close.

Sybilla De Luce

Sybilla inclined her head slightly, attuning to the voice originating just below her shoulder level. Her gaze, though not meeting Vivianna’s directly, hovered slightly to the side or just above the tip of her head, as she endeavored to pinpoint the speaker within the mass. The brunette, standing nearby, could observe a partial view of Sybilla’s face, framed by the gentle drape of her veil. A warm, friendly smile graced Sybilla’s lips, and through the thin fabric, if she squinted hard enough, she could scarcely discern her eyes—soft and muddled.

"Your kindness is truly appreciated," Sybilla nodded graciously, her voice maintaining a serene yet earnest tone as she acknowledged the shorter woman, despite the indifference in her response.

Her curled fingers subconsciously tightened around the cane she held close, serving as a steadfast anchor amidst the shifting sea of sounds and scents enveloping them. "The noise here is quite something, isn't it?" the nun remarked with a lighthearted chuckle, her tone playful despite the surrounding harsh discordance. "It's a wonder I can hear myself think amidst all this commotion."

With a subtle tilt of her head, Sybilla directed Vivianna's attention towards the epicenter of the buzzing hub, where animated discussions and fervent exchanges unfolded alongside the fluttering pages of newspapers. The scene was alive with tension, each individual seeking morsels of truth amidst the headlines and rumors.

She turned towards Vivianna, keeping the calm demeanor about her. "Would you be so kind as to read some of the newspaper for me?" Sybilla inquired, her tone carrying a subtle note of urgency. Then, with a thoughtful glance around at the bustling surroundings, she suggested, "Or perhaps we could find a quieter spot for a moment. Somewhere away from all this noise, where we can talk without the constant interruptions?"

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

 

[Silvercurrent]

View attachment 1162738

NYX ATÉRIS
location: Outside Sweetrose Potionare
interaction: Silvercurrent
----​

"So much for a quiet mornin' I guess." The words trailed from Nyx's mouth as she raised one cuffed-sleeved forearm just above her forehead, preemptively shielding her eyes from the sun's oh-so-gracious rays before taking a step out from the shaded sidestreet she had wandered from into the noticeably louder mainstreet. Blinking her deep maroon eyes briefly to adjust, she glanced haphazardly at the collection of busy strangers going about their days.

She had been here for about four weeks at this stage but still felt as though she stuck out like a sore thumb. Although not completely unusual, her more masculine attire in the form of some looser-fitted black dress pants and a light grey long-sleeved button-up, mixed with her short jet-black hair and most notably, the sprawl of various tattoos that managed to peak up past her collar and onto the back of her neck, regardless of shirt worn (lest she wears a scarf year-long like an absolute madwoman) have garnered their fair share of initial second-glances from the locals on first-meetings, thankfully it seems folks around here could care less for any prior symbolism it could've held if any were even aware.

Her complete ensemble included a thin, layered chain necklace and a pair of earrings resembling that of intricate and ornate miniature swords. The clothes were of good make and kept in clean and moderately crease-free condition, or at least as much as one could, given her current sleeping arrangements being that of whatever was available, not that she was in a major rush to solve the housing situation. After all, she'd worked on boats and docks for the past couple of years, she could probably sleep anywhere short of the ocean at this stage with little issues.

No, the more confronting matter was finding some at least relatively stable employment. Her years of practicing meant her spoken and written language were no hassle, however, she wasn't exactly well equipped for more customer-facing service work, and couldn't mix a drink to save her life. However, give her a job moving heavy boxes or any other on-your-feet labor and she wouldn't break a sweat. Taking a few steps out onto the street properly after collecting herself, she let out a brief exhale in preparation to begin today's round of going to nearby shops and seeing who might need an extra set of hands.

It was upon heading across the path towards Sweetrose Potionarie Nyx found her gaze drawn to a small commotion further down the street, A tall, well-dressed woman with eyes like glowing embers making her way towards the shopfront followed by the less-than-friendly gazes of more than a few people nearby. Furrowing a brow slightly at the sight and noting the particularly aggressive stares of a small group of three jeans she had seen cause trouble more than once at the docks she made the somewhat impulsive decision to change course ever so slightly to an admittedly improvised meet-up with the woman casting an assertive glance their way before throwing up a hand in a wave and putting on her best 'act-like-you-know-me' smile. "Hey there stranger'- long time no see~" She let the words leave her mouth with a hint of truth in the 'stranger' part of her faux-friend meeting more or less. After all, she was fairly sure she knew who this was, there would be a slim chance of anyone else in Sardina matching quite this description.

“It’s been ages. How have you been?”


Basilia replied casually, high heels clacking as she descended the decline of the street. An arm looped around Nyx’s, and just as quickly as the newcomer had initiated the fake meeting, Basilia seamlessly continued it by nearly dragging her along.

Their steps became synced after a moment, leaving the three Jean girls blinking and confused but disappearing behind a corner.

Basilia was tall, but most of her height did come from her lace-up shoes and the way she held herself. She had a floral fragrance, as if she’d bathed in it, though if anyone had been inside Sweetrose potionarie for any length of time- they’d smell just as strongly.

Her hair wasn’t cut into a bob as was in fashion right now, but her thick dark hair was hastily braided down her shoulder and at least an attempt was made. Her lashes were most pronounced, with small stains dotting her eyelids, the hallmark of a woman who either didn’t care about applying mascara, or didn’t know how to. The eyeshadow was just as caked on, smoky black and blues.

Crimson eyes finally looked sideways and up to Nyx, stopping just short of a small fountain attached to an overflowing wall of greenery and blossoming flowers that blanketed the street for a mile or more.

Basilia let go of Nyx’s arm and smiled subtly, taking a few steps to the fountain and rolling up her sleeves. She scooped up a handful of water and splashed her face with it, letting out a relieved huff after. Most seafolk took regular hydration breaks between activities, and a lot of them relied on these kinds of fountains. But Basilia seemed nearly dried out, as her skin had taken on a pallor shade and what brief touch Nyx might have felt from her hand was likely unpleasant and rough.

Her skin eagerly absorbed the water, but what little dripped from her hair and lashes caused the make-up she wore to drizzle down her face as if her skin weren’t made for such products.

“Thank you… Stranger.” Basilia said, taking a cloth to her face. “I’m going to assume by your features and accent that you aren’t familiar with our island.” She offered a half smile. “Does my old friend have a name?”

 

[Frownist]

Sybilla De Luce

Sybilla inclined her head slightly, attuning to the voice originating just below her shoulder level. Her gaze, though not meeting Vivianna’s directly, hovered slightly to the side or just above the tip of her head, as she endeavored to pinpoint the speaker within the mass. The brunette, standing nearby, could observe a partial view of Sybilla’s face, framed by the gentle drape of her veil. A warm, friendly smile graced Sybilla’s lips, and through the thin fabric, if she squinted hard enough, she could scarcely discern her eyes—soft and muddled.

"Your kindness is truly appreciated," Sybilla nodded graciously, her voice maintaining a serene yet earnest tone as she acknowledged the shorter woman, despite the indifference in her response.

Her curled fingers subconsciously tightened around the cane she held close, serving as a steadfast anchor amidst the shifting sea of sounds and scents enveloping them. "The noise here is quite something, isn't it?" the nun remarked with a lighthearted chuckle, her tone playful despite the surrounding harsh discordance. "It's a wonder I can hear myself think amidst all this commotion."

With a subtle tilt of her head, Sybilla directed Vivianna's attention towards the epicenter of the buzzing hub, where animated discussions and fervent exchanges unfolded alongside the fluttering pages of newspapers. The scene was alive with tension, each individual seeking morsels of truth amidst the headlines and rumors.

She turned towards Vivianna, keeping the calm demeanor about her. "Would you be so kind as to read some of the newspaper for me?" Sybilla inquired, her tone carrying a subtle note of urgency. Then, with a thoughtful glance around at the bustling surroundings, she suggested, "Or perhaps we could find a quieter spot for a moment. Somewhere away from all this noise, where we can talk without the constant interruptions?"

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

As she observed the taller women’s facial expression, she could tell that her gaze didn’t rest on Vivianna’s face. Instead of a wandering or curious gaze expected of a nun, her eyes were a pale fogginess. They were distant, as if she views the world through lenses of haze. Even though it was mostly covered by the soft fabric of her veil, Vivianna made out just enough to come to a conclusion. It was likely she couldn’t see, which explained the cane, though the shorter woman knew better than to point and gawk.

She didn’t mention it. Instead Vivianna glanced back towards the News Wall as the woman spoke to her again, which she had guessed was an attempt at small talk. She didn’t make any meaningful replies, choosing to nod and letting out quiet hums in response. Her fickle attention was grabbed once again when Vivianna heard a small sense of urgency in the nun’s voice as she asked her question, which led into her suggestion of leaving the crowd.

“Sure.” While her tone was indifferent, internally Vivianna was a bit relieved that the nun had brought it up the suggestion. The weight of the stares the two were getting were starting taking a toll on her. Not to mention, how odd the two’s interaction must’ve looked to the public. Vivianna would rather spare the nun from any discerning eyes.

Under normal circumstances, she would’ve simply read the news wall and declined the woman’s offer, already on her way. But.. She could tell the murder was both on their minds and she seemed rather insightful. “We can go off to the side.” Vivianna spoke, “Or wherever you were on your way to. It’s your choice.” She suggested, as she wasn’t a fan of standing in busy streets.

 

[Not Char Aznable]

Mauro moved with his boys the same way a pack of neighborhood dogs did, some who were exhausted still carried a strong stride as smoke bellowed from their little cluster. Smelling of fish and brine and all the lovely scents a sailor earned, the group finally plodded up a few flat stairs of porous stone and turned the corner onto a street, landing on a mosaic decorated platform that pointed to the window of the Jean’s guild.


The building itself was nothing to sniff at. For all its reputation, the entrance to the guild revealed a small pub inside, complete with carved-on wooden tables and lopsided, wobbly stools. Despite the rough appearance of a few furniture pieces, the floors were clean and the walls were decorated in trinkets and trophies gathered by the Guild’s members. Mauro glanced over to the bar counter, where a few brass-colored taps lined up before a stout figure with a sizable dint in his temple. The man nodded to Mauro, then eyed his crew, and of course Enzo.

His flat stare became a long, sharky grin and his single silver loop earring glittered in the day’s light as he motioned his jaw to the detailed tapestry hanging from the doorway nearby.


“Miss Fenu is here?” Mauro asked, stopping long enough to produce a few coins from his drooping pocket.

“She just woke up. Don’t piss her off, hm?” The bartender pushed a cloud of smoke through the gap in his teeth where a tooth had either been pulled or knocked out. He leaned under the bar for a moment, placed a fresh vase of water down and slipped two wood sorrels of golden color into them. A satisfied smile blossomed along with the sunny petals next to him.

Mauro snorted, shuffling along to the doorway. “Santini, with me. The rest of you, stay here and behave. You can have lunch soon. No drinks until after.” Mauro told them, and they all replied with a variety of groans.


The sandy haired captain brushed the tapestry to the side with one hand, letting Enzo through first, as if he knew something others didn’t… With a sharp turquoise eye, he peered into the backroom which had a loft above them. Many potted plants and wind chime decorations hung from the ceiling, accompanied by gentle, filtered rays of light from the punctured roof, overgrown with vines. The room itself seemed like something between a greenhouse and a tarot reading sanctuary. Somewhere, it was unclear where exactly, a muffled and distant melody played. The timeless and haunting tune of a phonograph echoing from above.


Of course this was the den of Catinca fenu, Guild master of the Jeans. She was alone, which was unusual, where she’d normally be accompanied by a posse of some kind. For now, she fanned herself with papers and lounged in a chair, gaze downcast at the two men who entered her domain.

“Oh, Mauro.” She crooned, her voice coming from far above them.

“Guild master.” the blonde replied, not bothering to look up and instead plucking a new toothpick from his satchel.

“And you brought me Mr. Santini.” Catinca leaned forward in her maroon robe, cat-like eyes peeling away from her papers and landing on Enzo.

“He’s not had the pleasure of meeting you yet.” Mauro said, and his tone was tinctured with a bit of sarcasm.

“You’re lucky I like brats.” Catinca grinned, then eased her leaning posture to relax back into her blanket-covered seat. “It’s true. I’d know if someone this good looking and troubled were working for me. I heard you and the boys have been shuffling around, chasing fish.”

“Did I make trouble for you?”

“Maybe.”

Catinca straightened up, turning her chin to glare down at him. Her eyes were far away from them, but they seemed a bit… puffy? Perhaps she was tired.

“Well,” Mauro sniffed, rubbing the corner of his good eye. “You told me to get back to work. And our replacement for Andrea– he should be privy to our true nature sooner rather than later, hm?”

Catinca hummed in response, as if his words amused her, and yet her brows were sharp and firmly scrunched together. “That is what I said. Did you bring Mr. Santini so that I wouldn’t jump down and strangle you?”


After a short pause, the two smirked at each other.

“I can’t afford that kind of treatment. So, perhaps I did.” Mauro chewed on his toothpick, and though his expression was calm, the way he shifted was nothing like what Enzo had seen before. The man didn’t seem to have anything to fear on the open sea, but here in the confines of Catinca’s den, he looked like a bird in a cage.

“It’s a shame about Andrea. Truly. But he did violate an important creed of us Jeans. Remember those?” Catinca asked Enzo, but stuck a slender, taloned finger into the air before he may speak.

“Andrea disobeyed our law. ‘I will not venture to rob a Relic of the Sea people unless I am willing to face due punishment,”

Before that could sink in, Mauro let out a long, heavy sigh. He was getting hungry.

“Andrea did steal, and he is facing punishment. But please don’t look at my new crewmate that way. He is very hard working and much better with documents than Andrea was.” Mauro shrugged, tilting his head in a ‘just saying’ sort of way.


“I’ve seen.” Catinca replied softly, now leaning over the railing of her loft, sending her raven hair in waves over the edge like tree roots. “Mr. Santini. May I call you Enzo? I’ll call you Enzo. You’ve been sharp– my boys are struggling to pull their usual tricks on you. I understand you’re a mainlander, right?” the Guild master rested her jaw into her palm, watching them like a falcon on her perch.

“I placed you in Mauro’s care at his request to take in any man who has life in him yet to work as a Jean, regardless of his…” She eyed Enzo, mainly his hidden arm under the coat. “Physical condition. Or, where he began his life.” she continued.

“But you must understand. Here in Sardinia, Jeans are blamed daily for missing sea Relics. As of May16th, our Guild is going to be watched closely.” Catinca told him, and her eyes slowly closed as if a sudden pain overtook her. The slight bags under her eyes as well spoke of a woman who’d traveled far and saw little rest yet.


“As if it weren’t enough for us to lose such a treasure like Alessi piscadori…” Catinca said, eyes drilled shut in a somber display. “He was one of our best. He made us look quite good to the public eye, even if he no longer worked here full-time.”


After a moment to calm herself and place a lavender tinted cloth across her brow, she heaved out a long sigh and rested back in her seat.

“So, what is it you’re saying?” Mauro asked, giving the woman his full attention now.

“Just as I asked you to bring in Andrea for his transgressions, I’m asking you to make sure every Jean out at the docks cooperates in this investigation.” Catinca replied, holding up the newspaper as if it were a declaration.

“Jeans will always be needed, always used, always scapegoats. But we have a code for a reason. We are not pirates, and if we disobey our creed, we are no better than those we hunt and take from. Alessi was no pirate. I will not have his name spoken in the same breath as ‘killer’.” She narrowed her gaze down at the two, then let the news paper fall to the floor over the railing. The papers floated down like feathers, down to Mauro’s feet.

“He’s aware.” Mauro replied mildly. “But if it puts you at ease, Guild master, I’ll make the rounds myself. We all respected Alessi.” Mauro lowered his gaze, seeming to have a similar expression to Catinca now.

“Good. Get to it after you’ve eaten, hm? You look gaunt. And treat Enzo to a drink for me.” The guild master forced something of a bitter smile back onto her face, closing her robes further to pretend she were modest and professional. Things had changed slightly since she took over for her late husband, but Catinca wasn’t about to let anyone get sloppy. It was worth the chatter of the other jeans regarding her appearance in Tubero, coming in from Cagliari, and perhaps why the Landlocked captain was a bit on edge.

On the way out, Mauro paused by the bar and stood for a moment in deep thought. He seemed to be ruminating on that interaction, like there might have been something bothering him about it, but he didn’t linger in that state long before drumming at the counter top.


“Let’s go get Expresso.”

Spelless Human

Enzo Santini

Clerk of the Landlocked

Jeans' Guild Hall

As Enzo passed through the guild hall's entryway, he removed his hat and slipped it beneath his left suspender for safekeeping. He ran his hand through the tangled mess of hair on his head while Mauro spoke with the bartender.
Miss Fenu — Catinca Fenu. Enzo had heard the name before, a seemingly insignificant mention, a brief statement of fact that the name belonged to the woman running the guild. Yet, he had never met her. Not until now.
"Santini, with me," Mauro called. "The rest of you stay here and behave. You can have lunch soon. No drinks until after."
A chorus of dissatisfied groans rose from the crew while Enzo wordlessly acknowledged the order and followed his captain. Mauro brushed aside a piece of tapestry hanging from a doorway, revealing a backroom full of greenery, wind chimes, and the quiet, garbled reverberations of music bouncing down from a loft above.
Enzo was the first to cross the threshold, ushered forward by Mauro. A tingle ran up his neck as his eyes scanned the room. Its appearance promised respite, but the atmosphere spoke of trouble, and he felt an uncomfortable wave of heat wash over him. His gaze soon met that of the guild master herself.
His body snapped to attention, heels quietly clicking together, an ingrained instinct of military subordination so deeply embedded that he wasn’t even aware he had done it. Throughout the ensuing conversation between Cantica Fenu and Captain Mauro, Enzo stood rigid and stoic, resembling a statue more than a living being. He was a third party, little more than an observer; any questions directed his way had already been answered well in advance. His presence in the room served as his sole contribution, a subtle source of reassurance to the Landlocked's otherwise unflinching captain, regardless of any claims to the contrary. At least, that was what Enzo interpreted from Mauro's movements, witnessing his body's subtle betrayal of the collected demeanor he put forth.
For a moment, Mauro looked vulnerable, but Enzo didn't judge. After all, Enzo's legs had been trembling imperceptibly the entire time, threatening to upset his facade of composure cobbled together by the remnants of military discipline. The atmosphere felt charged, akin to a tribunal, but who was on trial? Enzo or Mauro?
“Mr. Santini," Catinca addressed him softly. "May I call you Enzo?"
He opened his mouth to speak but quickly found it unnecessary, as she had already decided.
"I’ll call you Enzo," Catinca continued. "You’ve been sharp — my boys are struggling to pull their usual tricks on you. I understand you’re a mainlander, right?”
Mainlander. The word struck him hard like a sledgehammer, cracking open a hollow pit inside his chest. Another reminder that he didn't belong in Sardinia, thrust forth with a term that severed his identity from his homeland; Enzo didn't belong in Italy either — not anymore.
Enzo nodded firmly, jaw tensed.
“I placed you in Mauro’s care at his request to take in any man who has life in him yet to work as a Jean regardless of his… physical condition. Or, where he began his life," Catinca explained. "But you must understand. Here in Sardinia, Jeans are blamed daily for missing sea Relics. As of May 16th, our Guild is going to be watched closely. As if it weren’t enough for us to lose such a treasure like Alessi Piscadori… He was one of our best. He made us look quite good to the public eye, even if he no longer worked here full-time.”
“So, what is it you’re saying?” Mauro inquired.
“Just as I asked you to bring in Andrea for his transgressions, I’m asking you to make sure every Jean out at the docks cooperates in this investigation," Catinca told Mauro. "Jeans will always be needed, always used, always scapegoats. But we have a code for a reason. We are not pirates, and if we disobey our creed, we are no better than those we hunt and take from. Alessi was no pirate. I will not have his name spoken in the same breath as ‘killer’.”
“He’s aware.” Mauro replied. “But if it puts you at ease, Guild Master, I’ll make the rounds myself. We all respected Alessi.”
“Good. Get to it after you’ve eaten, hm? You look gaunt. And treat Enzo to a drink for me.”
A quiet exhale slipped from Enzo's lips. His mouth felt dry, but at this point, he wasn't sure if he wanted a drink at her behest. The quickened palpitations within his chest and the sweat staining the creases of his shirt made the decision for him.
Mauro and Enzo departed, retracing their steps back through the tapestry and away from the guild master's stifling den. As they left, Mauro paused briefly, standing beside the bar's counter. Enzo remained quiet, watching his captain's face before the latter finally broke his contemplative silence.
"Let's go get Espresso," Mauro said.
What about our payments? Who was Andrea? What was any of that just now about? A slew of questions queued inside Enzo's head, but none escaped his mouth. He simply nodded and, for the time being, allowed another more comforting thought replace the rest.

Espresso sounds good right now.

Code by Serobliss

 

[Printer]

As she observed the taller women’s facial expression, she could tell that her gaze didn’t rest on Vivianna’s face. Instead of a wandering or curious gaze expected of a nun, her eyes were a pale fogginess. They were distant, as if she views the world through lenses of haze. Even though it was mostly covered by the soft fabric of her veil, Vivianna made out just enough to come to a conclusion. It was likely she couldn’t see, which explained the cane, though the shorter woman knew better than to point and gawk.

She didn’t mention it. Instead Vivianna glanced back towards the News Wall as the woman spoke to her again, which she had guessed was an attempt at small talk. She didn’t make any meaningful replies, choosing to nod and letting out quiet hums in response. Her fickle attention was grabbed once again when Vivianna heard a small sense of urgency in the nun’s voice as she asked her question, which led into her suggestion of leaving the crowd.

“Sure.” While her tone was indifferent, internally Vivianna was a bit relieved that the nun had brought it up the suggestion. The weight of the stares the two were getting were starting taking a toll on her. Not to mention, how odd the two’s interaction must’ve looked to the public. Vivianna would rather spare the nun from any discerning eyes.

Under normal circumstances, she would’ve simply read the news wall and declined the woman’s offer, already on her way. But.. She could tell the murder was both on their minds and she seemed rather insightful. “We can go off to the side.” Vivianna spoke, “Or wherever you were on your way to. It’s your choice.” She suggested, as she wasn’t a fan of standing in busy streets.

Sybilla De Luce

The nun hummed tunefully in response, feeling the pressing need to escape to a peaceful space where both women could breathe and converse without the incessant distractions. Despite the curious, often intrusive gazes of the onlookers around them, Sybilla remained unperturbed. The scrutiny held little significance for her, paying them little mind. Her remaining senses did not allow her to fully acknowledge the visual judgment of others, and crowds typically didn’t bother her.

However, today, this particular crowd felt different. The negative energy radiating from the gathering was a heavy, stifling force that even Sybilla, accustomed as she was to her role as a deaconess, found difficult to endure. Typically, she moved through such environments with ease, a calm within the storm. But this time, the collective unease and agitation were too much, a tidal wave of emotion that was simply too overbearing for her to deal with in the moment.

Sybilla eased back, subtly gesturing for Vivianna to lead the way. This allowed her to sense the path forward and follow with some assurance in her own steps. Once they maneuvered away from the mass of people, the agitated voices and emotions began to fade, leaving behind a relative calm. Sybilla exhaled a deep sigh of relief, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady her racing heart.

"Goodness," she remarked, her voice lighter and filled with respite, “It's like trying to breathe underwater." She paused, massaging her temples gently. "I can feel a headache forming from all that negativity…" She let out a light-hearted chuckle, trying to dispel the lingering tension. "I suppose even a nun isn't immune to a good old-fashioned headache from time to time."

Sybilla folded her hands primly over her torso, adopting a poised, ladylike posture. "I was just about to head to Cafe Ambrosia for breakfast.” She began to share her intentions with Vivianna, her words flowing with ease, as if they’ve been friends for a time, “It's been quite a busy week, with all the preparations for ceremonies and consoling the grieving souls at the church." Her expression softened, though still maintained that unwavering smile. "It's a quaint establishment, one I've had the pleasure of visiting on a few rare occasions. I thought a little treat might be in order to rejuvenate the spirit."

A momentary pause, then Sybilla's face seemed to brighten, her smile widening with a sudden inspiration as she extended an offer to her newfound acquaintance. "You know," she began, her tone inviting yet conspiratorial, "it's a charming spot, perfect for a quiet chat over a cup of tea or coffee. And perhaps," she added with a playful lilt to her voice, "we might find it easier to discuss the contents of the newsletter away from all this local morning gossip."

There was an unspoken understanding hanging between them, a silent acknowledgment of the elephant in the room—Sardo Ramene’s untimely demise. Even without explicitly stating her intentions, Sybilla hinted at the underlying current swirling through the town's gossip mill. It's been the talk of the town for the past few days now, and she's no exception to the rule.

"Would you care to join me? A quiet breakfast together sounds like just the thing to start the day off on the right foot." Her invitation, initially prompted by her curiosity about the day's news, held a glimmer of genuine warmth, beckoning Vivianna to share in the simple pleasure of a peaceful morning meal, a brief reprieve from life’s complexities.

Sybilla felt a small tug of gratitude towards the shorter woman for her willingness to assist, a kind gesture she deemed worthy of acknowledgment. With optimism woven into her words, she delicately proposed, "It would be my treat, a small token of thanks for your kindness in assisting me with the newspaper." Her voice was laced with a hint of hope, carrying a well-intentioned coaxing.

To Sybilla, the prospect of a shared breakfast wasn't merely a gesture of appreciation; it was an opportunity to escape the solitude that would linger in her day-to-day life. The notion of being alone sparked a quiet unease within her, a feeling she sought to dispel with the presence of another, even if that person happened to be a stranger.

She had a knack for drawing people in, making connections with those around her. It was a skill honed by years of devout service, yet one that left her oblivious to the potential dangers of her open-hearted nature. In her eyes, everyone was a potential friend, a belief that colored her interactions with an innocent optimism. Thankfully, her esteemed role within the clergy prevented any misfortunes from happening.

With a subtle adjustment in her stance, Sybilla leaned slightly onto her cane, a gesture that betrayed her anticipation, indicating her readiness to listen. She awaited Vivianna's response with a quiet curiosity, eager to know how her unexpected request would be received. Yet, before the conversation could proceed further, she realized a slight oversight—a formality she hadn't observed. With a gentle inclination of her head, she initiated an introduction.

"Pardon my manners," Sybilla chimed in, her words delivered with a grace that bespoke years of refined etiquette. "I'm Sister Sybilla," she stated, her name rolling off her tongue with a quiet dignity, "and, Miss, you are...?" With a sweep of her hand, she turned the conversational spotlight onto her companion, prompting her to share her own name.

Unexpected as it was, the nun welcomed the spontaneity of the moment, even when connecting with someone who, at first glance, appeared to be her polar opposite on the surface. The woman was guided by the simple desire to connect with another soul, even if just for a brief interlude.

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

 

[Frownist]

Sybilla De Luce

The nun hummed tunefully in response, feeling the pressing need to escape to a peaceful space where both women could breathe and converse without the incessant distractions. Despite the curious, often intrusive gazes of the onlookers around them, Sybilla remained unperturbed. The scrutiny held little significance for her, paying them little mind. Her remaining senses did not allow her to fully acknowledge the visual judgment of others, and crowds typically didn’t bother her.

However, today, this particular crowd felt different. The negative energy radiating from the gathering was a heavy, stifling force that even Sybilla, accustomed as she was to her role as a deaconess, found difficult to endure. Typically, she moved through such environments with ease, a calm within the storm. But this time, the collective unease and agitation were too much, a tidal wave of emotion that was simply too overbearing for her to deal with in the moment.

Sybilla eased back, subtly gesturing for Vivianna to lead the way. This allowed her to sense the path forward and follow with some assurance in her own steps. Once they maneuvered away from the mass of people, the agitated voices and emotions began to fade, leaving behind a relative calm. Sybilla exhaled a deep sigh of relief, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady her racing heart.

"Goodness," she remarked, her voice lighter and filled with respite, “It's like trying to breathe underwater." She paused, massaging her temples gently. "I can feel a headache forming from all that negativity…" She let out a light-hearted chuckle, trying to dispel the lingering tension. "I suppose even a nun isn't immune to a good old-fashioned headache from time to time."

Sybilla folded her hands primly over her torso, adopting a poised, ladylike posture. "I was just about to head to Cafe Ambrosia for breakfast.” She began to share her intentions with Vivianna, her words flowing with ease, as if they’ve been friends for a time, “It's been quite a busy week, with all the preparations for ceremonies and consoling the grieving souls at the church." Her expression softened, though still maintained that unwavering smile. "It's a quaint establishment, one I've had the pleasure of visiting on a few rare occasions. I thought a little treat might be in order to rejuvenate the spirit."

A momentary pause, then Sybilla's face seemed to brighten, her smile widening with a sudden inspiration as she extended an offer to her newfound acquaintance. "You know," she began, her tone inviting yet conspiratorial, "it's a charming spot, perfect for a quiet chat over a cup of tea or coffee. And perhaps," she added with a playful lilt to her voice, "we might find it easier to discuss the contents of the newsletter away from all this local morning gossip."

There was an unspoken understanding hanging between them, a silent acknowledgment of the elephant in the room—Sardo Ramene’s untimely demise. Even without explicitly stating her intentions, Sybilla hinted at the underlying current swirling through the town's gossip mill. It's been the talk of the town for the past few days now, and she's no exception to the rule.

"Would you care to join me? A quiet breakfast together sounds like just the thing to start the day off on the right foot." Her invitation, initially prompted by her curiosity about the day's news, held a glimmer of genuine warmth, beckoning Vivianna to share in the simple pleasure of a peaceful morning meal, a brief reprieve from life’s complexities.

Sybilla felt a small tug of gratitude towards the shorter woman for her willingness to assist, a kind gesture she deemed worthy of acknowledgment. With optimism woven into her words, she delicately proposed, "It would be my treat, a small token of thanks for your kindness in assisting me with the newspaper." Her voice was laced with a hint of hope, carrying a well-intentioned coaxing.

To Sybilla, the prospect of a shared breakfast wasn't merely a gesture of appreciation; it was an opportunity to escape the solitude that would linger in her day-to-day life. The notion of being alone sparked a quiet unease within her, a feeling she sought to dispel with the presence of another, even if that person happened to be a stranger.

She had a knack for drawing people in, making connections with those around her. It was a skill honed by years of devout service, yet one that left her oblivious to the potential dangers of her open-hearted nature. In her eyes, everyone was a potential friend, a belief that colored her interactions with an innocent optimism. Thankfully, her esteemed role within the clergy prevented any misfortunes from happening.

With a subtle adjustment in her stance, Sybilla leaned slightly onto her cane, a gesture that betrayed her anticipation, indicating her readiness to listen. She awaited Vivianna's response with a quiet curiosity, eager to know how her unexpected request would be received. Yet, before the conversation could proceed further, she realized a slight oversight—a formality she hadn't observed. With a gentle inclination of her head, she initiated an introduction.

"Pardon my manners," Sybilla chimed in, her words delivered with a grace that bespoke years of refined etiquette. "I'm Sister Sybilla," she stated, her name rolling off her tongue with a quiet dignity, "and, Miss, you are...?" With a sweep of her hand, she turned the conversational spotlight onto her companion, prompting her to share her own name.

Unexpected as it was, the nun welcomed the spontaneity of the moment, even when connecting with someone who, at first glance, appeared to be her polar opposite on the surface. The woman was guided by the simple desire to connect with another soul, even if just for a brief interlude.

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

Vivianna, in relief, did not waste any time and quickly slipped past onlookers after the nun gestured for her to lead them through. Gradually the mass of voices faded away, and the two found themselves in solitude. The woman quietly sighed, she didn’t realize how much the noise was really bothering her until they left. The nun’s voice could be heard afterwards. Even after discussing her discomfort, her words kept coming and coming, all with a smile plastered on her face. Vivianna didn’t understand how she had so many things to say to a complete stranger. Surely she’d have run out eventually, Vivianna certainly did. Not that she was exactly annoyed by it, just a bit taken back.

As the nun explained her duties at the church, the shorter woman did quietly nod along but didn’t bother to say anything in response. She noticed the way the nun’s expression changed when discussing those matters, there of course was that smile, but there was a hint of sadness. Many sards were affected by the sudden murder, walking around lost, without all of the answers. It would make sense for them to turn to the church. Vivianna’s expression softened a bit as she watched the nun go on about her day. It must be hard on her, dealing with the aftermath firsthand.

But that slight feeling of guilt washed away as Vivianna noticed how the nun’s face brightened up suddenly. She had brought up Cafe Ambrosia earlier in the one-sided conversation, though Vivianna didn’t expect to be invited to go with her so suddenly. Vivianna was silent for a moment.. She opened her mouth to speak, but then the nun chimed in with her name.

“I’m Sister Sybilla. And miss, you are..?”

Vivianna surprised herself right then. She had been so in her own head that she didn’t even think to ask for the lady’s name. She shook her head quickly before speaking, “..Vivianna.” Her voice stoic, she added on, “Good to meet you.” There was a long silence, an almost awkward one, as Vivianna did not know how to continue the conversation.

She then cleared her throat. The invite was.. Out there. But perhaps it was for the best. The two didn’t address it in conversation, but Vivianna was sure the newspaper was going to be the topic of conversation. She could tell that a meal with someone was what Sybilla needed, seeing how her duties seemed to be weighing on her.. And also seeing how eagerly she waited for a response.

Roberto could wait, she had all morning. “Yeah, sure.” Vivianna finally nodded, “I’ll go with you to Cafe Ambrosia.” She said, straightening her back as she did. Vivianna realized how she was a bit hungry, and since this was an opportunity for free food she would take it. She’d had enough of crummy seafood takeout and she didn’t want to starve during her next shift at the pub.

 

[Rusting Knight]

Anna woke up to the same sound she did most mornings: the loud wail of an upset baby. After months of living in her childhood home with her sister, niece and mother, it had almost stopped bothering her. That’s what she told Camilla, at least. She stayed staring up at the low ceiling, watching early morning light play on the old plaster. A few minutes passed, and Elia calmed down and stopped her crying. With a small sigh, Anna swung herself out of bed and headed down the hall.

The door to Camilla’s workroom was cracked open, exposing a mess of bottles and ingredients that Anna could not identify. A smell hung about the room and the area outside it, a fresh and sugary like pastries out of the oven. Normally Camilla left her workbench tidy in the evening; she must’ve woken in the night and decided to fill the empty hours with work. Anna shut the door gently, and moved down the kitchen at the back of the house.

Sunlight filled the corridors and rooms, flickering on the unadorned patches of wall and over the thick covering of photos and pictures. Beatrice, her mother, had spent most of her life hanging about artists, and had an obsession about documenting her children’s early years. It left the house with a lot of decoration hung about. Walking past the sitting room, Anna got to see her and her sister grow up: chubby babies to sullen adolescents to tired young woman.

In the kitchen her mother and sister were waiting with cups of coffee, the rich scent of which hung in the area like smoke. They were discussing, in the circular manner of an old argument, if they should sell love potions. Their talking points were frayed and well-loved like a favourite shirt, and Camilla made her arguments in favour with the tightness of a held-back laugh. In her arms she held Elia, calmed down after being fed or soothed. She was, in Anna’s opinion, one of the prettiest babies she had ever seen, with dark eyes like her father and pale hair that would turn red, as her mother’s had.

Anna poured herself a cup of coffee from the mug, heavy on the milk and sugar, and began to make the family breakfast. It was a small pleasure that Anna insisted on, being the one to make toast and lay out the biscotti she prepared the night before. As she sat down at their small wooden kitchen table the conversation turned to the day ahead.

“I think I’ll take Elia out today,” Camilla said, spreading butter on her toast. She had placed the baby in a crib to leave her hands free. “I got a head start on my work last night - I couldn’t sleep.”

Anna opened her mouth to invite herself along, but a quick look from her mother shut it. It was clear, when she looked at the droop to Camilla’s features and the dark circles under her eyes, that she wanted some time alone. It left Anna without much to do; Beatrice would clean the house and package up some the potions that they had made for customers.

“I’ll go down to the cafes then,” Anna said, tearing a corner of her bread, “See if I can hear anything interesting.”

-

Back in Cagliari, where she had worked for years, Anna’s days had been pale and flimsy in comparisons to her nights. She would spend the hours after the sun set seeking every pleasure and thrill she could, or else in the heat and chaos of a commercial kitchen. Now the weight of her days was dictated by family, whether or not her niece or sister or mother needed her. They didn’t today; it left Anna at a loose end.

She tidied herself up in the bathroom first, combing her hair into respectability and washing her face. With care she selected an orange blouse and dark brown skirt, spraying herself lightly with perfume. It had been a gift from a friend back in Cagliari; it made her nostalgic for her time there.

As she closed her front door and stepped into the residential street, quiet sounds began to filter in. Footsteps and conversation of people brushed past her, people heading back and forth from the town’s centre, fresh with gossip and coffee. In the early morning the walk to Cafe Ambrosia made the fog of sleep and boredom clear from her head.

Anna avoided the News Wall, though she felt a twist of grief in her stomach as she passed. All the papers would be talking about the murder of Mr. Ramene. It was a grief that felt distant to Anna, caught up in her family and lack of work, but reminders bought his image back to the front of her mind.

With delicacy, Anna laid the thought aside. Anna followed the scent of coffee to its source, tracing the familiar path to Ambrosia. The murmur of discordant voices chattering ran under the sounds of the footsteps and clinking ceramic. Anna sat down and ordered a cappuccino. In her mind she turned over the idea of how to spend the hours until it was her time to take care of Elia. It was only her night that held a concrete goal - going to the Leon to harass them about hiring her. But it was a long time that stretched out before her until then, dull as costume jewellery.

 

[Silvercurrent]

As Enzo passed through the guild hall's entryway, he removed his hat and slipped it beneath his left suspender for safekeeping. He ran his hand through the tangled mess of hair on his head while Mauro spoke with the bartender.
Miss Fenu — Catinca Fenu. Enzo had heard the name before, a seemingly insignificant mention, a brief statement of fact that the name belonged to the woman running the guild. Yet, he had never met her. Not until now.
"Santini, with me," Mauro called. "The rest of you stay here and behave. You can have lunch soon. No drinks until after."
A chorus of dissatisfied groans rose from the crew while Enzo wordlessly acknowledged the order and followed his captain. Mauro brushed aside a piece of tapestry hanging from a doorway, revealing a backroom full of greenery, wind chimes, and the quiet, garbled reverberations of music bouncing down from a loft above.
Enzo was the first to cross the threshold, ushered forward by Mauro. A tingle ran up his neck as his eyes scanned the room. Its appearance promised respite, but the atmosphere spoke of trouble, and he felt an uncomfortable wave of heat wash over him. His gaze soon met that of the guild master herself.
His body snapped to attention, heels quietly clicking together, an ingrained instinct of military subordination so deeply embedded that he wasn’t even aware he had done it. Throughout the ensuing conversation between Cantica Fenu and Captain Mauro, Enzo stood rigid and stoic, resembling a statue more than a living being. He was a third party, little more than an observer; any questions directed his way had already been answered well in advance. His presence in the room served as his sole contribution, a subtle source of reassurance to the Landlocked's otherwise unflinching captain, regardless of any claims to the contrary. At least, that was what Enzo interpreted from Mauro's movements, witnessing his body's subtle betrayal of the collected demeanor he put forth.
For a moment, Mauro looked vulnerable, but Enzo didn't judge. After all, Enzo's legs had been trembling imperceptibly the entire time, threatening to upset his facade of composure cobbled together by the remnants of military discipline. The atmosphere felt charged, akin to a tribunal, but who was on trial? Enzo or Mauro?
“Mr. Santini," Catinca addressed him softly. "May I call you Enzo?"
He opened his mouth to speak but quickly found it unnecessary, as she had already decided.
"I’ll call you Enzo," Catinca continued. "You’ve been sharp — my boys are struggling to pull their usual tricks on you. I understand you’re a mainlander, right?”
Mainlander. The word struck him hard like a sledgehammer, cracking open a hollow pit inside his chest. Another reminder that he didn't belong in Sardinia, thrust forth with a term that severed his identity from his homeland; Enzo didn't belong in Italy either — not anymore.
Enzo nodded firmly, jaw tensed.
“I placed you in Mauro’s care at his request to take in any man who has life in him yet to work as a Jean regardless of his… physical condition. Or, where he began his life," Catinca explained. "But you must understand. Here in Sardinia, Jeans are blamed daily for missing sea Relics. As of May 16th, our Guild is going to be watched closely. As if it weren’t enough for us to lose such a treasure like Alessi Piscadori… He was one of our best. He made us look quite good to the public eye, even if he no longer worked here full-time.”
“So, what is it you’re saying?” Mauro inquired.
“Just as I asked you to bring in Andrea for his transgressions, I’m asking you to make sure every Jean out at the docks cooperates in this investigation," Catinca told Mauro. "Jeans will always be needed, always used, always scapegoats. But we have a code for a reason. We are not pirates, and if we disobey our creed, we are no better than those we hunt and take from. Alessi was no pirate. I will not have his name spoken in the same breath as ‘killer’.”
“He’s aware.” Mauro replied. “But if it puts you at ease, Guild Master, I’ll make the rounds myself. We all respected Alessi.”
“Good. Get to it after you’ve eaten, hm? You look gaunt. And treat Enzo to a drink for me.”
A quiet exhale slipped from Enzo's lips. His mouth felt dry, but at this point, he wasn't sure if he wanted a drink at her behest. The quickened palpitations within his chest and the sweat staining the creases of his shirt made the decision for him.
Mauro and Enzo departed, retracing their steps back through the tapestry and away from the guild master's stifling den. As they left, Mauro paused briefly, standing beside the bar's counter. Enzo remained quiet, watching his captain's face before the latter finally broke his contemplative silence.
"Let's go get Espresso," Mauro said.
What about our payments? Who was Andrea? What was any of that just now about? A slew of questions queued inside Enzo's head, but none escaped his mouth. He simply nodded and, for the time being, allowed another more comforting thought replace the rest.

Espresso sounds good right now.

“Captain!” One of the young men spun on his heel, facing Mauro and Enzo with several unique looking notes in his hand. It seemed their single paper mark had become a generous bundle of bills. While Enzo’s mind was swimming with complicated thoughts, it appeared that those he had spent the past excursion with were of much simpler mind. The bar tender closed the til and glanced to Enzo, then grunted at the bar stools nearby.


For those in Sardinia, time moved differently- life was slower here, with the passage forcing its residents to count the clouds and take one day at a time. Sure, the Custas Vegadas existed, which even the name seemed to trivialize the lives of those it documented. Crimes happened, drama, tragedy, some lost their lives to gambling and libation, even racketing. Blood feuds saw some family lines wiped from existence. Jeans were the source of tension for many people, especially with the seafolk. And yet, no Sard treated life like a race or a war- it was likely jarring to live with such a people, for which the flowers bloomed for a day and the waters eerily still.


With the Landlocked crew enjoying their morning now with beverages- Mauro took his own seat and finally relaxed, and with the rolling of his bare shoulders he watched as more Jeans came in, either thread worn or full of vigor. Some were sallow to see how little they’d earned, while some were pleasantly surprised. The merit system here was every bit as mysterious as Catinca herself. Mauro’s boys enjoyed their Expresso, though the Captain himself took a sip and curled a lip.


“Costa’s technique is better.” He coughed off to the side and into his hand, scrubbing down his face with the front of his tank top with no grace at all. This was the most personal, or talkative Mauro had been to Enzo thus far, even with just mentioning the drinks they were having.

On the counter they sat at, the walls adorned with nautical items and good memories were clearer now, though nothing Enzo hadn’t seen each time they came in. Though this was the first day Mauro had actually brought Enzo in for a proper visit.

“Rilassarsi,” Mauro began, lighting up a cigar he’d used his paycheck on. He’d demonstrated his Italian before, which wasn’t terrible, but he preferred not to in front of his crew just because they might jab at him. “-Miss Fenu isn’t always hiding back there. In fact, she only visits once every four months or so,” Mauro took a deep draw from the cigar, then after a few seconds he saw less than an inch of ash break apart and roll onto the plate below. He clicked his tongue at that.


“She’s early.” He stated that factually, if not with a hint of bitterness to it. “Alessi’s death’s got her a bit aggrieved. She’s trying enough to human patience but the woman loves the sound of her own voice more than she likes sad men like us.” The smoke seeping from his lips cleared before he placed something like wrapped parchment in front of the man, stuffed like a ripiena- likely filled with his nobili. His cut of payment for their commission; Ratting out Pirates posing as Jeans. And, stealing what was left in their nets.

“You look like a man with questions.” Mauro noted, finally looking Enzo in the eyes for the first time since they met.


“If i’m wrong, you can take the day off and rest. But now is the time to ask before the walls grow ears.” Mauro leaned on the counter, ignoring the loud and animated banter of his crewmen nearby, oblivious to the weight Enzo carried- to them he was simply a “mainlander” who “didn’t like fun”. As Catinca had placed Enzo within a label, so had his own shipmates in some small measure.

Mauro, though, had never called him ‘subordinate’, and now waited on his words.

 

[Printer]

Vivianna, in relief, did not waste any time and quickly slipped past onlookers after the nun gestured for her to lead them through. Gradually the mass of voices faded away, and the two found themselves in solitude. The woman quietly sighed, she didn’t realize how much the noise was really bothering her until they left. The nun’s voice could be heard afterwards. Even after discussing her discomfort, her words kept coming and coming, all with a smile plastered on her face. Vivianna didn’t understand how she had so many things to say to a complete stranger. Surely she’d have run out eventually, Vivianna certainly did. Not that she was exactly annoyed by it, just a bit taken back.

As the nun explained her duties at the church, the shorter woman did quietly nod along but didn’t bother to say anything in response. She noticed the way the nun’s expression changed when discussing those matters, there of course was that smile, but there was a hint of sadness. Many sards were affected by the sudden murder, walking around lost, without all of the answers. It would make sense for them to turn to the church. Vivianna’s expression softened a bit as she watched the nun go on about her day. It must be hard on her, dealing with the aftermath firsthand.

But that slight feeling of guilt washed away as Vivianna noticed how the nun’s face brightened up suddenly. She had brought up Cafe Ambrosia earlier in the one-sided conversation, though Vivianna didn’t expect to be invited to go with her so suddenly. Vivianna was silent for a moment.. She opened her mouth to speak, but then the nun chimed in with her name.

“I’m Sister Sybilla. And miss, you are..?”

Vivianna surprised herself right then. She had been so in her own head that she didn’t even think to ask for the lady’s name. She shook her head quickly before speaking, “..Vivianna.” Her voice stoic, she added on, “Good to meet you.” There was a long silence, an almost awkward one, as Vivianna did not know how to continue the conversation.

She then cleared her throat. The invite was.. Out there. But perhaps it was for the best. The two didn’t address it in conversation, but Vivianna was sure the newspaper was going to be the topic of conversation. She could tell that a meal with someone was what Sybilla needed, seeing how her duties seemed to be weighing on her.. And also seeing how eagerly she waited for a response.

Roberto could wait, she had all morning. “Yeah, sure.” Vivianna finally nodded, “I’ll go with you to Cafe Ambrosia.” She said, straightening her back as she did. Vivianna realized how she was a bit hungry, and since this was an opportunity for free food she would take it. She’d had enough of crummy seafood takeout and she didn’t want to starve during her next shift at the pub.

Sybilla De Luce

♥♡♡♡♡♡♡
~A heart string was pulled by Vivianna~​

“Bless you, Miss Vivianna,” Sister Sybilla acknowledged with a nod. And even though a moment of quiet awkwardness settled between them, she didn’t mind. Sybilla held her breath in anticipation, a silent plea for agreement, growing more eager for a resolution.

Finally, as Vivianna spoke, Sybilla released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, a quiet exhale filled with relief and joy. With a newfound cheerfulness, Sybilla felt a surge of energy, no longer leaning heavily on her cane but instead, adjusting it in anticipation of their forthcoming walk. Together, they would make their way toward the quaint and charming café.

As they meandered through the streets of Tubero, Sister Sybilla maintained a gentle pace, falling into step beside Vivianna’s left. The nun initiated a gentle stream of conversation along their morning stroll, weaving anecdotes and observations into their journey. To Sybilla, small talk wasn't about flaunting knowledge or showcasing wit; it was a means to establish a bond, to create a shared space where both parties could feel at ease. Her chatter served as a prelude to the deeper discussions awaiting them at Cafe Ambrosia. Sybilla understood the value of laying a foundation of trust before delving into more substantial matters.

The nun sensed Vivianna's reserved nature and made a conscious decision not to overwhelm her with probing questions. Instead, she took the lead in conversation, effortlessly narrating snippets of her own life. She spoke of the simple joys she found in everyday experiences, details often overlooked as inconsequential or trivial by many.

Sybilla reminisced fondly about her last visit to Cafe Ambrosia, where she savored the warmth of a buttery croissant, its crisp, flakey layers delicately crumbling to reveal a soft, tender interior. She chuckled softly, recalling how delicious it was, to the point where she couldn't resist bringing a few back for her fellow sisters, along with an extra one for herself, guiltily indulging in the treat.

As they continued, she shared more of her simple pleasures, like her favored fragrance of moonflowers. She likened their scent to a blend of honey and vanilla, stirring nostalgic memories of quiet evenings spent in the church's memorial garden. She'd speak of how the church entrusted her with some of the seeds, allowing her to cultivate them; how she often lingered in the garden long past dusk, enchanted by the moonflowers blooming, since the flowery scent only revealed itself at night. Those late hours spent tending to the garden felt like moments shared in confidence with the flowers, as if they whispered their secrets to her under the moonlight.

The nun gracefully guided the discussion, leaving space for Vivianna's input, which often came in the form of her head wafting up and down in a subtle nod. Her cane lightly tapped against the uneven cobblestones of the main road from earlier this morning, tracing the familiar path she knew so well. It was telling of how she managed to navigate around while simultaneously holding a conversation.

Having resided in Tubero for several years, she possessed an innate familiarity with its every nook and cranny. Her senses were finely attuned to the nuances of her surroundings—the distinct smells, the rhythmic sounds, the comforting auras that enveloped certain locales. She could discern the subtle shifts in the town's topography, how it transformed with each passing hour of the day.

Amidst the flow of conversation, Sybilla found herself pausing, a momentary lapse into self-awareness.
"Forgive me, Miss Vivianna," she interjected, her tone apologetic, "I fear I've been prattling on a bit too much, haven't I? Sometimes, I get carried away with my thoughts, especially when seeking a brief respite from my duties. It's not often I have the pleasure of such delightful company to distract me." She admitted, despite her deep love for her vocation. Her sincere apology hung in the air for a beat before she resumed where she left off, this time with a more measured approach.

Recognizing the potential fatigue the victim might feel from being subjected to her inner musings, Sybilla made a conscious effort to dial back her talking. She would temper her thoughts, allowing space for a more comfortable silence to settle between them, mindful of not overwhelming the airwaves with unnecessary chatter.

Sybilla’s cane tapped against the abrupt resistance of a curb, signaling the transition from uneven cobblestones to a smoother path. Sybilla deftly adjusted her steps, smoothly ascending onto the elevated pavement, where the ground felt more even and stable beneath her feet.

As she transitioned to the smoother surface, a vaguely familiar scent wafted through the air, enticing her senses with its rich aroma of freshly ground beans. The smell drew her closer to the destination. With each step, the distant sounds of chatter and the soft ripple of laughter grew clearer, accompanied by the delicate clinking of cups and saucers. Sybilla smiled, absorbing the welcoming ambiance of Cafe Ambrosia's outdoor patio with a quiet contentment.

Sybilla turned her head toward her right, where she figured Vivianna stood, hopefully keeping pace with her. "Ah, it seems we've arrived," she noted cheerfully, her voice carrying a hint of excitement.

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

 

[Cosmos]

NYX ATÉRIS
location: //unspecified
interaction: Silvercurrent
----

Nyx quickly joined step with her newfound acquaintance. As the lady wrapped an arm around her own tho, Nyx couldn't help but flinch just a tad in startle, luckily nothing anyone watching could notice, letting out a lightly amused chuckle a moment later with a beaming smirk, shoulders relaxing as they walked. "Oh, just the usual, wandering around and keeping an eye out for charming ladies such as yourself~" The words left her mouth with a cheeky wink.

As they continued Nyx couldn't help but pick up the floral scent of the woman, it wasn't something she was used to, but it wasn't overly abrasive either, that or maybe her nose was too messed up to notice its true strength. It was a nice change from fish shipments for sure. 'Comparing it to that out loud would definitely be a bad idea' She couldn't help but ponder for a second with a bit of a blush to the tips of her ears, glancing away awkwardly before regaining her composure. She'd gotten better at holding her tongue in recent months, even when such things were intended as compliments.

As the pair came to a standstill in front of what could only be described as a rather storybook sight, a fountain nestled against an assortment of luscious greenery and flowers that left her eyes widening a tad before re-focusing on the woman before her. She watched as the other splashed her face. Nyx had noted the other did seem slightly 'off' during their initial journey. Though she didn't have much knowledge of seafolks exact needs she was aware that they required regular contact with water whilst on land.

As the water made contact Nyx couldn't help but observe the fact of the liquid's seemingly 'life-restoring' effect. Well- albeit the makeup situation. Such caught her off-guard, she was sure she'd heard there were products more suitable for seafolk? then again, Nyx wasn't exactly accustomed to the stuff herself. She briefly debated whether or not to bring it up before her companion's words drew her attention, the same slightly mischievous smile sitting on her face throughout it all.

"hah. no skin off my back, just can't stand people who whisper bout' others like that behind their backs. If ya got a problem with someone you go up n' say it. ya know?" Nyx gave a small shrug with the statement before raising one hand from her pockets and rubbing gently at the back of her neck, a habit of hers when unsure exactly what she's meant to say in a given situation. "Nothings gonna slip by you, hm?" She jested with a smirk in retort to the following questions, "Name's Nyx. Officially a resident of this lovely lil' place as of four weeks back, gotta say ya'll don't skimp out on the paperwork round' here. I thought I'd get a headache just filling out those forms." Trying to lighten the mood as best she could, however, she had rather obviously dodged any mention of her previous home, hoping the other would get the hint.

"On that note, any chance of a name for you madame? Surely it must be just as lovely as you are" The words left her mouth in a somewhat silky tone, having lost a portion of the prior dock-worker twang they had held in favor of a more honest tone.​

 

[Not Char Aznable]

“Captain!” One of the young men spun on his heel, facing Mauro and Enzo with several unique looking notes in his hand. It seemed their single paper mark had become a generous bundle of euros. While Enzo’s mind was swimming with complicated thoughts, it appeared that those he had spent the past excursion with were of much simpler mind. The bar tender closed the til and glanced to Enzo, then grunted at the bar stools nearby.


For those in Sardinia, time moved differently- life was slower here, with the passage forcing its residents to count the clouds and take one day at a time. Sure, the Custas Vegadas existed, which even the name seemed to trivialize the lives of those it documented. Crimes happened, drama, tragedy, some lost their lives to gambling and libation, even racketing. Blood feuds saw some family lines wiped from existence. Jeans were the source of tension for many people, especially with the seafolk. And yet, no Sard treated life like a race or a war- it was likely jarring to live with such a people, for which the flowers bloomed for a day and the waters eerily still.


With the Landlocked crew enjoying their morning now with beverages- Mauro took his own seat and finally relaxed, and with the rolling of his bare shoulders he watched as more Jeans came in, either thread worn or full of vigor. Some were sallow to see how little they’d earned, while some were pleasantly surprised. The merit system here was every bit as mysterious as Catinca herself. Mauro’s boys enjoyed their Expresso, though the Captain himself took a sip and curled a lip.


“Costa’s technique is better.” He coughed off to the side and into his hand, scrubbing down his face with the front of his tank top with no grace at all. This was the most personal, or talkative Mauro had been to Enzo thus far, even with just mentioning the drinks they were having.

On the counter they sat at, the walls adorned with nautical items and good memories were clearer now, though nothing Enzo hadn’t seen each time they came in. Though this was the first day Mauro had actually brought Enzo in for a proper visit.

“Rilassarsi,” Mauro began, lighting up a cigar he’d used his paycheck on. He’d demonstrated his Italian before, which wasn’t terrible, but he preferred not to in front of his crew just because they might jab at him. “-Miss Fenu isn’t always hiding back there. In fact, she only visits once every four months or so,” Mauro took a deep draw from the cigar, then after a few seconds he saw less than an inch of ash break apart and roll onto the plate below. He clicked his tongue at that.


“She’s early.” He stated that factually, if not with a hint of bitterness to it. “Alessi’s death’s got her a bit aggrieved. She’s trying enough to human patience but the woman loves the sound of her own voice more than she likes sad men like us.” The smoke seeping from his lips cleared before he placed something like wrapped parchment in front of the man, stuffed like a ripiena- likely filled with his euros. His cut of payment for their commission; Ratting out Pirates posing as Jeans. And, stealing what was left in their nets.

“You look like a man with questions.” Mauro noted, finally looking Enzo in the eyes for the first time since they met.


“If i’m wrong, you can take the day off and rest. But now is the time to ask before the walls grow ears.” Mauro leaned on the counter, ignoring the loud and animated banter of his crewmen nearby, oblivious to the weight Enzo carried- to them he was simply a “mainlander” who “didn’t like fun”. As Catinca had placed Enzo within a label, so had his own shipmates in some small measure.

Mauro, though, had never called him ‘subordinate’, and now waited on his words.

Spelless Human

Enzo Santini

Clerk of the Landlocked

Jeans' Guild Hall

Enzo gazed down at the bronze surface of his espresso, its thin layer of foam swirling gently. He lifted the cup up to his nose, inhaled its rich aroma deeply, and took a tentative sip. Wrinkling his nose, he set the cup down. A little sour, he thought, but a splash of rum could go a long way.
His hand disappeared into the folds of his cloak, emerging a moment later with a gray flask. A dash of liquor was added to the espresso, then another sip was taken. Good enough, Enzo concluded, tucking the flask back behind the curtain of wool.
"Rilassarsi," said Mauro, lighting a cigar. "Miss Fenu isn’t always hiding back there. In fact, she only visits once every four months or so." He took a deep draw from the cigar and continued, "She's early. Alessi’s death’s got her a bit aggrieved. She’s trying enough to human patience but the woman loves the sound of her own voice more than she likes sad men like us.”
Enzo cracked a faint smile. "So it seems," he murmured.
A puff of smoke drifted from Mauro's lips, then a small, wrapped package was slid across the bar counter to Enzo: Money.
Enzo rested his hand on top of the payment, the sight of it stirring a deep-seated fatigue festering within him. He glanced away, pocketing his earnings before returning his attention to Mauro.
"You look like a man with questions," Mauro remarked, locking eyes with the veteran. "If I’m wrong, you can take the day off and rest. But now is the time to ask before the walls grow ears."
"What is it she expects from you, or the rest of us?" Enzo asked. "To monitor everyone outside the ship as well? This isn't a daycare. Or are we supposed to play detective around the docks?" He turned his head away and took another sip of his espresso, releasing a sharp breath through his nose after swallowing. "Sorry, I mean no disrespect, Capitano, I just don't understand."
A beat passed as his eyes traced the grains of the wooden bar counter. Finally, he looked back at Mauro. "And Alessi... He is spoken highly of, but I know little other than what is offered in the papers — I never met him personally. Who was he?"

Code by Serobliss

 

[Headphones]

CODE BY SEROBLISS

On one of the streets which linked to the piazza,

a person had walked with a long tall stride. From afar, they had looked to be a thin young man at about 175 cm in height, with ruffled short black hair and no cap in sight, yet as one got closer from the front or from behind, they would have begun noticing that this had not been the case. That seemingly lanky youth had been, in truth, a young woman. By the judge of her greyed shirt and larger-a-size black trousers, whatever else she could have worn had not been in better condition, and the distinct smell of staleness, mixed with a sprinkle of brine, told that her occupation had likely not allowed for more in the first place.

Various thoughts had sparked and dimmed in the minds of those who had gone past her. Had she been a poor girl, with neither friend, nor family? Had she lost her husband, as had poor Mrs. Ramene, and, unlike the latter, had been forced to take up menial labour in order to support herself? The few who had caught a glimpse of her neck as they had to walk behind and overtake her had also noticed peculiar black artwork on her skin, which had provoked an initial startle, followed by curious lingering of their gazes. How much had such tatouage hurt? How much had it cost? Had this woman travelled the world or had she endured suffering in the little time she had been on this earth?

To many in Tubero and the majority of the coastal cities in the Judgedom, tattoos could ofttimes be seen adorning the sleeves, legs and other exposed parts of Jeans and regular sailors, the more exotic ones silently singing of distant voyages and turbulent adventures. The older generation could also remember how, several decades ago, the international paper's first page had detailed the wonderous trip of the British king's two teenage sons and the tattoos they had gotten in Japan. Such pieces of artwork always evoked fascination and, while some found them unpleasant and others - an interesting peculiarity, they were acceptable by law, so long as they were not derogatory.

Vaguely aware of the benign essence of the attention she had gathered, the woman had continued blissfully on her way, until a group of three had caught her eye. They had been Jeans, girls whom she had crossed paths with at the port, whose low brows hung above pairs of stilled dark eyes and narrowed frowns. Having read their hostility as they approached, the woman had grabbed another woman, presumably her friend by the former's cheerful greeting, and had run in the opposite direction.

"Huh, that nobody's got a lot of nerve." one of the girls spat once the two women were far.
"Right! I can't believe her." another agreed. "First she thinks she's all-important, with the way she glared and judged us at the docks. Helloooo? We're all in this work togetheeeer. Least you can do is pretend you want to be a part of the group and say something."
"I'm telling you, she's not even working for a Jean. Who knows which rat's nest she crawled out of. I can't stand girls who think they're above everyone else."
"Huhuhu." the third Jean chuckled. "Girls, you should know, I think someone would love to know about this."
"About what?"
"O, well, a weird full-of-herself tall foreigner just ran off with a certain red-eyed lady of sea importance."
"That one? I've seen the seafolk at the docks avoiding her like the plague. What about her?"
"Most people don't care, but isn't there a certain someone at the port right now? A certain someone who also likes red?"
"Aaa, that's right! Lets go!"
"I still don't get it."
"You will, you will! Come on."
With that, the three Jean girls hurried down the road to the port, giggling and discussing as they went.

CODE BY SEROBLISS

In the shade in front of the News Wall the crowd

had continuously flown throughout the morning, a sporadic ring rising above the cloud of voices whenever the tram passed by. Among the multitude of people there had, at one point in time, stood a woman, whose short stature could easily cut through the masses. Though her black hair, long and thick as the mane of a mare, had made it evident that soap and water were familiar objects, everything else, from the dusty tip of her cap to the cracked leather of her shoes, had spoken loudly as she'd stayed silent. Her white shirt and unbuttoned dark brown vest had emanated an odorous concoction of cigarette smoke, spoiled beer and filth, likely as a result of being hung or worn in places where such aromas lingered and multiplied. It had not been as strong as to elicit a choke, yet enough to make another woman pull her companion away the moment she asked to be given free passage.

This was Vivianna Amato, a known face and nuisance to a number of Sards who had been present at the piazza. Ladies in particular found her deplorable not because she was a fox that could scatter their nest, but quite the opposite. In their eyes, she was a little mouse, a quiet unpleasant pest who found drinking and gambling to be the most purposeful pastimes in her life. Just this morning, this poor excuse of a woman had refused to open the door for her landlord, whose booming threats had rattled the building, making babies wake up and cry and dogs jump up and bark. The people of the Judgedom were know for their hospitality and accepting nature, but everyone had a line and this mainlander was threading dangerously near it with the vices and habits she'd been writing on her tab.

And yet, on this fine day, this wayward soul from across the sea had found itself walking side-by-side with a young nun.
"Good morning, sister Sybilla." the townsfolk would greet as they passed them.
Just seeing her, whose veil and robes fluttered gently like a butterfly's wings and whose words were like daisies dripping down her smiling lips, could ease one's heart to a peaceful warm beat. Men nodded respectfully in her direction, women smiled with closed eyes and, whenever one or the other were accompanied by their children, they'd quietly tell them to wish a wonderful day to the good sister before they neared.

As if to welcome their arrival, the soothing sweet scent of roses and the prickly invigorating smell of coffee embraced their senses as they came closer and closer to Cafe Ambrosia. Several round metal tables were placed around in a half-circle space in front of the orange building, their floral inlaid surfaces shining under the gentle rays of the sun and dark green chairs matching the louvered shutters on the outer side of the windows. Since it was located some distance away from the main street, the cafe was not densely seated, but those who had chosen it as their first harbour of the day breathed slowly and savoured every minute like seasoned connoisseurs at a winery. Their sommelier, the waiter Costa the Italian, paid close attention to their needs and the cleanliness of the establishment, wiping each table after it had been vacated and whenever patrons first took their seats. At present, he had just served a madam with curly shoulder-length ginger hair her cappuccino and was standing close by in case she needed anything, such as sugar or more milk. Word had already spread in their neighbourhood and the man had happened to eavesdrop, something no one could prevent at their cafe, on the information that her name was Anna Ricci and that she had come back from Cagliari to help her sister, who had a little girl and elderly mother at home. It was a noble deed and he had felt inclined to help her get seated at the quieter end of their patio. However, that corner would not remain less occupied for long.

From not too far away Costa could see the two women who were approaching, the youthful nun with a cane immediately bringing him to attention. His background and tendencies aside, it was difficult to forget a blind nun who had once bought a basket of croissants and, from the slight curve in which they walked, he guessed that today she may have brought a friend to sit down with. Unlike Italians, who could either take their time or drink quickly whilst standing and leave, every Sardinian he had met had to take some time at the table, even if their only companion was the cup itself. To them, drinking coffee was akin to a small ritual with plenty of subtle social rites.

Without a word, Costa went inside to grab a clean damp cloth and returned outside. Once the nun and her friend had chosen their spot, he swiftly went over the table's surface, after which he stood upright and spoke:
"What would the two ladies like? A cappuccino, tea or honey milk, perhaps? We currently have cornetto for breakfast, either pure butter or with custard."

 

[Frownist]

Headphones Printer
The walk to the cafe was a surprisingly pleasant one, Sybilla endless stream of words filled any silence and always left Vivianna with something to listen to, even if her mind did occasionally trail away among the silent nods and hums. It seemed to her that the nun did really enjoy being within the company of others, even if they didn’t have many things to share with her. And seeing how her face brightened when Vivianna accepted her request, the shorter woman felt a little happy herself. Though she wouldn’t dare show it during the stroll.

Sister Sybilla certainly had a knack for the prettier things in life. Growing flowers, freshly baked pastries, and other simple joys. Because of her lack of sight, the way she described feelings and memories was different, the good kind of different. It was kind of intriguing, even if her descriptions and choice of words were much too flowery for Vivianna’s tastes. Even though the dark haired woman didn’t find those things particularly interesting, she was still content to listen along.

Though, Vivianna looked over at Sybilla when she apologized to her. Her mouth hung open for a bit, words forming for just a moment before she replied. “I don’t mind.” She said, clarifying her thoughts. “Also, just call me Vivianna. No need for the fancy talk.” If anything, she should be the one addressing Sybilla in such a manner. It’s a little embarrassing hearing ‘Miss Vivianna’ from a nun knowing the things the woman did on her free time.

Still, Sybilla had made the obvious decision to dial back her chatter. As the two approached Cafe Ambrosia, the scent of baked goods and coffee hit her nose. She hadn’t been to this cafe in a long time. Which made sense, if it didn’t sell alcohol then it wasn’t appealing. Still, she had completely forgotten the smell, which reminded her of the food. It was good, despite the fact that Vivianna didn’t really enjoy baked pastries like everybody else in town did.

Once the two found a spot to sit, a waiter had already wiped down their table and began asking for their order. Vivianna looked up at him as he spoke, his voice was deep... And also familiar. That was Costa, wasn’t it? The man who Antoni would occasionally bring up in conversation at the pub.

Let’s hope that loud mouth doesn’t talk about me with other strangers.

Her eyebrows lowered as she had that thought.

Shaking her head, Vivianna moved her gaze away and back towards the table as she thought about what she wanted to order. “A coffee, nothing in it.” She said, her voice trailing off for a bit before finishing, “And.. I’ll just have whatever food she’s having.” Vivianna gestured towards Sybilla.

 

[NiftyNat]

Zarina Corsentino

Medic of The Guard

location

In the Air

attire

This outfit but with a navy blue ribbon that pulls her hair back.

tags

Eugeniu Headphones

With a solemn smile, her chocolate-coloured hair bouncing with little excitement as it used to, a woman made her way down the marble stairs. If it were any other day, her steps would have their usual chip and skip while her voluminous hair would’ve bounced like metal springs. The unusual dullness she radiated was all because of the horrific topic that got the little town buzzing with gossip. Despite the news reaching her ears two days ago, the woman still couldn’t fathom the devilish and devious rumours that sprung up from the tragedy, each one more twisted or extravagant than the last.

Her teeth were brushed, her hair was combed, her wrist smelled like roses, and her ribbon danced along her hair. Zarina, with a steely resolve in her eyes, was ready to face the day head-on, undeterred by the tragic news that had cast a shadow over the town.

When the young lady made her way down to the kitchen, her lips tugged upwards at the sight of her father humming a melodic tune from the radio as he flipped the pancake with incredible elegance and accuracy.

Well, in a little town like Tubero, I suppose any tales, horrific or not, would send an intriguing fizz around everyone—well, everyone except my papà, apparently.

“Buongiorno, papà.” Zarina greeted her father and stepped towards the man who had taken care of her all her life to offer him a kiss on the cheek. Her father smiled, wrinkling his face even more as the kiss landed on his cheek.

“Good morning to you as well, my darling,” Battista said while expertly scooping the final pancake and tossing it on top of the others. The man stopped for a moment and looked behind with a quirked eyebrow. “Maple? Right?” Zarina nodded as she settled the utensils down their table.

After her father settled the plate before her, Zarina gave him a quick thank you. She drenched her pancakes with maple syrup, indulging her childish tendencies and sweet tooth. As the two ate, their conversation would be filled with playful teasing and quick rundowns of their yesterdays. The two seemed to be avoiding one topic altogether; perhaps they were already aware of the amount of gossip that would fill their ears once they stepped outside the door. And Zarina, for one, is highly thankful for the peace and privacy her home welcomed.

“Oh!” Zarina looked up at her father's sudden exclamation. “And before I could forget, I’ve taken up some evening shifts, so don’t wait up for me.”

Zarina smiled and nodded. “I must be going now, papà. Before you leave, please wash the dishes this time. Now that the morning is free for you, you can't have any excuse for not doing them.” With a cheeky smile, she finished her plate and placed it on the sink.

Once again, the young lady kissed her father on the cheek and walked towards the door. On her way, she grabbed her satchel and gave Mocha a pet, a smooch and a promise to play with her later. As for the final item she needed, she grabbed her trusty broom right next to the door and stepped out, ready to tackle the day that lay in front of her.

She was immediately greeted by the warmth of the sun, and the lovely neighbours were already on their morning errands. Some leisurely read today’s newspapers on their porch while others mow their lawns and trim their hedges. A perfectly quaint neighbourhood filled with charming people. Zarina greeted her neighbours with a smile and a wave before hopping onto her broom.

Dressed for broom riding, Zarina wore less flowy and ruffled skirts to ensure a strict level of decorum. It has become such a second habit to her ever since her overly protective father ensured Zarina’s safety, which included some prying eyes. And especially with the gossip mongers that littered this little town, a scandalous incident is something Zarina doesn’t invite. And through threading her time and place carefully and politely, Zarina could proudly say that no scandal has tainted her reputation. Not yet, at least.

Once Zarina safely tucked her skirts, she gently launched herself into the air. Emerging from the shadows her house created and towards her workplace. While the gentle sea breeze brushed her cheeks delicately, Zarina reminded herself of the proper posture to maintain while riding her broom. Accidents are always unexpected, and it would be safer than sorry.

As she found some peace in the air, a playful howl from the distance swiftly caught her attention. Her head turned toward them, and there she saw three students on their brooms. A familiar cry of authority soon followed, and the students almost froze, but once the realisation of the impending trouble dawned on them, they scurried away.

Zarina wasn’t one for pursuits, but since the students happened to be heading towards her direction and she could help by cutting their route, Zarina sprang into action. The hair on her face whipped ferociously as her broom zips forward, screeching to a halt once she successfully cut in front of the troublesome children. While the emerald-eyed lady lacked her regular Guard uniform, she’s just as capable of channelling some sort of authority she absorbed from her father.

Zarina cleared her throat, her authoritative eyebrow raised at the mischievous students. “I believe my colleague is looking for you, kids,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of warning.

Once a certain witch caught up to the students, Zarina greeted him with a nod. “A rather exciting morning for you, huh, Eugeniu?”

code by @Nano

 

[Printer]

From not too far away Costa could see the two women who were approaching, the youthful nun with a cane immediately bringing him to attention. His background and tendencies aside, it was difficult to forget a blind nun who had once bought a basket of croissants and, from the slight curve in which they walked, he guessed that today she may have brought a friend to sit down with. Unlike Italians, who could either take their time or drink quickly whilst standing and leave, every Sardinian he had met had to take some time at the table, even if their only companion was the cup itself. To them, drinking coffee was akin to a small ritual with plenty of subtle social rites.

Without a word, Costa went inside to grab a clean damp cloth and returned outside. Once the nun and her friend had chosen their spot, he swiftly went over the table's surface, after which he stood upright and spoke:
"What would the two ladies like? A cappuccino, tea or honey milk, perhaps? We currently have cornetto for breakfast, either pure butter or with custard."

Once the two found a spot to sit, a waiter had already wiped down their table and began asking for order. Vivianna looked up at him as he spoke, his voice was deep... And also familiar. That was Costa, wasn’t it? The man who Antoni would occasionally bring up in conversation at the pub.

Let’s hope that loud mouth doesn’t talk about me with other strangers.

Her eyebrows lowered as she had that thought.

Shaking her head, Vivianna moved her gaze away and back towards the table as she thought about what she wanted to order. “A coffee, nothing in it.” She said, her voice trailing off for a bit before finishing, “And.. I’ll just have whatever food she’s having.” Vivianna gestured towards Sybilla.

Sybilla De Luce

As they approached Cafe Ambrosia, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries enveloped the Sister's senses, transporting her momentarily back to the nostalgic comfort of her childhood monastery. The aroma stirred memories of lazy mornings spent gathered around the kitchen table, the air thick with the fragrance of Sister Irene’s homemade treats and the rich, earthy smell of coffee brewing.

With a gentle gesture, Sybilla let Vivianna take the lead, allowing her to choose the perfect spot for their morning rendezvous amidst the café's outdoor patio. Vivianna selected a table, and Sybilla followed suit, her white cane lightly tapping against the ground as she navigated her way to the chair.

As she settled into her own seat, Sybilla positioned herself with precision, her back erect with good posture. Her ankles crossed delicately beneath the table, while her white cane rested against the back of the chair. Promptly, she rested her wrists on the edge of the table, her fingers lightly grazing the smooth surface as she prepared to indulge in the simple pleasures of the morning.

Barely getting a word in, a subtle shift in the atmosphere heralded Costa's approach. The rhythmic shuffling of his feet against the paved patio mingled with the gentle swish of the cloth gliding across the table's surface. Despite her sightless gaze, Sister Sybilla remained attentive, her head tilting slightly in his direction as if attuned to the faintest whispers of his arrival, until his greeting broke the stillness of the morning air. With a nod of acknowledgment, she reciprocated with a soft-spoken "Good morning, sir," her lips curving into a tranquil smile mirroring the morning sun filtering through the café's verdant foliage.

There was a hint of recognition buried within the depths of her memory, suggesting that the gentleman might have served her during her sporadic visits to the café in the past. Although, she couldn't quite place it with a confident certainty.

As Costa stood poised to take their order, Vivianna initiated, her voice clear as she requested a black coffee. Sybilla turned her head slightly towards her friend, acknowledging the modest choice, making a mental note of it.

"I would like an Earl Grey tea, if you don't mind, with a touch of honey, if it happens to be available," Sybilla added afterwards, her preference for a hint of sweetness evident in her request. She figured tea would serve her well, something to soothe her in times of distress.

A brief pause ensued as Sybilla considered the café's limited breakfast options. The thought of indulging in a custard-filled cornetto danced tantalizingly in her mind, revealing her secret fondness for sweets—a guilty pleasure she rarely confessed. However, a consideration for Vivianna's more straightforward palate prompted her to seek a compromise, since she was ordering for the two; something to balance both of their preferences.

Turning her attention back to the patient waiter, she addressed him with a polite inquiry, "If it's not too much trouble, could I possibly ask if you have any slices of focaccia? I thought it might complement our beverages nicely. If not, we’ll be happy to take the buttered cornetto." The woman concluded with some thoughtfulness, holding a hopeful expectation that the choice would resonate favorably with Vivianna’s tastes.

Through genuine curiosity, she decided to engage the server in conversation, seeking to bridge that gap between familiarity and anonymity that had been nagging at her mind.

"May I ask for your name?" She began with a warm and inquisitive inflection in her voice, "It's occurred to me that despite your consistent helpfulness during my visits, I've yet to learn it." Leaning slightly forward with a small smile, she conveyed both her gratitude for his service and her genuine interest in establishing a more personal rapport. "And while we're on the subject," she continued, her curiosity extending beyond mere pleasantries, "how have you been faring lately? Has the café experienced a surge in activity?"

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

 

[Laraes]

Matia

mood.

disheartened

location.

Via Cavour

coded by.

uxie!

Tubero was just beginning to awake. The gentle murmur of the Mediterranean in the background competed with the distant ringing of the monastery bells, that echoed through the narrow streets. One after the other, the first awnings of cafés and bakeries were folded up with a squeak, and store doors clicked open. From some open windows trickled the distant strains of a radio playing a beloved jazz song or the day’s news.

And among the early risers who exchanged melodic morning greetings and softly singing drunkards that scarcely populated the streets at this time of day, a well-coiffed figure trudged up the slightly ascending Via Cavour with a determined stride; the click of her heels on the cobbled path producing a sharp sound that cut through the otherwise peaceful morning.

The first rays of sunshine that bravely squeezed through the cracks between the colorful terraced houses did their best to wash off the drab, nocturnal tones that were stuck to the scene like morning dew — yet failed at Matia's face which stubbornly refused to lighten.
Her pout suggested that her night's detective work, as it did the night before, had failed to yield results. The kind of swift and satiating result a woman of her nature aspired to achieve, anyway.

When she reached the sunflower-yellow painted, three-story terraced house whose top apartment she had the pleasure to call home, the dark green shutters on the tiny windows it was dotted with were all still closed. Only the small sign on the door of the Farmacia Garibaldi had been turned on its side to reveal elegantly slanted letters that spelled “Open," inviting customers to admire the carefully selected tobaccos and tinctures that could be found inside.

Matia was just about to steal through the small side entrance into her apartment, in which not only her two cats but also her bed awaited her, when the door of the tobacco shop swung open with a soft tinkling of bells.
Giuseppe, Matia's landlord and owner of the small Farmacia, stepped out, his back slightly stooped and broom in hand. When he spotted Matia she reluctantly turned to him with a sigh and gave him a small wave.

"Mornin', Giuseppe. You're opening early today."

The old, stout man gave her a small nod.

"Y'know, he who sleeps doesn't catch any fish and all that," he grumbled through his thick beard. “You're up early yourself, Matia.”

“Let's just say, us women know that the best catches won't wait for the sun to be up.” Matia decided to omit the fact that she was just now about to turn in, in fear of a lecture.

His mustache twirled at the retort, and the old man beckoned to the door.

“You've come at a good time, my dear. Hold the door for me for a moment?”

She swallowed another sigh as the prospect of slipping under her comforter to get a few hours of well-earned sleep seemed less and less tangible, and gripped the doorknob of the creaking door. Giuseppe began to sweep the remnants of the previous day out of the entrance with spirited sweeps of his broom.

“Well, surely you've got your nose deeper into the matter of the Ramene boy than most. Any news?”

The old geezer had always been a curious sort. Matia usually appreciated this otherwise frowned-upon quality in people, but in this case, it was clear from her face that she didn't want to talk about it. Perhaps it was because she knew that her story would likely disappoint.

Her landlord chuckled. “You look like you've bitten into a lemon. So our neighborhood snoop got no idea who done it either, who killed poor Ramene? No wonder rent has been coming in a day later than usual as of late.”

The smiling remark bounced off the proud woman like drops on an umbrella. She thrust her hand into her side and snorted.

“Ramene, Ramene, Ramene. You almost sound like those bunglers from the Custas Vegadas. After all, not one, but two men have died! And good men, though not equally rich or famous.”

Giuseppe made a few finishing strokes with the broom, then tapped it on the floor with a hollow sound. Finally, he looked at the entrance, now free of tobacco leaves and dust, and contentedly patted his hands on his corduroy pants and Matia let the store door fall back into the lock at his instruction and continued venting.

“I regret Ramene's death as much as the next person, but I'm becoming more and more convinced that the solving of the case doesn't lie in the hunt for Ramene's killer, no! But that of Piscadori! He's the more interesting unknown in the equation if you ask me.”

Giuseppe, meanwhile, had pulled out a small stool from behind the counter and began to puff on a cigar next to the entrance door, which he had also kept behind the counter. He listened to his favorite tenant, who seemed to have worked herself up and continued with wild gestures, with a downcast gaze.

"Oh, and not to forget the missing relic! Don't for a second think that the two are unrelated. But you know the folks undersea. Secrets must be passed on by whispers in the air, at least they move far more clumsily in the water. I've managed to get a bit of information out of one of the jeans that bring in merfolk regularly, though!" Matia shook herself briefly and continued with a soured face. "A pretty sleazy contemporary. One with a very loose tongue, though. I had to listen to him griping about his poor wife a lot. But then... Ah! Wait a second."

She looked like she remembered something suddenly and gave her fashionable, green handbag a gentle pat.

"Write this down for me, will you?"

The bag started to wiggle and squirm, before it promptly flipped open and a strangely eager-looking fountain pen with an engraved nib appeared out of it. It was followed shortly by a notebook the same shade of green as her coat, dog-eared with hasty, ink-smeared notes and circled headlines that magically flipped open to the first empty page. Both enchanted items began to float beside the monologuing woman who hardly took notice of it and started to scribble away.

"Where was I? Oh, yes. He mentioned something interesting. Made me think the merfolk might have a suspect. What they're doing feels like a..., well, at least a bit like a manhunt. He said he brought an official-looking fella with very long hair to shore this morning. Could've been Ranieri, but I'm not sure. He said that the guy was looking for a woman. That boozer couldn't remember her name, though. Couldn't remember much of anything, really, besides that she apparently is quite young."

Half-jokingly, Matia decided to try her luck with her landlord.

"You wouldn't happen to have noticed anyone out of the ordinary who would fit this admittedly very vague description, would ya?" She playfully raised her shoulders and eyebrows, as if seriously expecting a positive answer, when Giuseppe turned and looked at her with wide eyes.

"Aio! But of course! I forgot to mention it, but someone really was there for you yesterday; to deliver a letter. A small little lady, very polite. Couldn't have been a day older than twenty or somethin'."

Matia whirled around and looked at him for a second, with her mouth open. The magic pen, which had been diligently scribbling away until just now, also froze, as if it was taken aback.

"No way! What'd she want?"

Matia's previously exhausted eyes rejuvenated, sparkling as she leaned expectantly in the direction of the old man. It seemed as if her blonde hair was gaining volume with every second of anticipation as the old man stood up with creaking joints, resting his smoldering cigar on an ashtray on a windowsill.

"Just a moment. She left a letter for you. I was meant to give it to you yesterday, but I forgot."

Matia secretly cursed his old age as he made his way to the office in the back, at a pace one would expect from an old man, but that still made her tap her foot on the floor impatiently.
When Giuseppe emerged after what felt like half an eternity, he was holding a letter in his hand. Impatient as she was, Matia couldn't stop herself from meeting him halfway, and she snatched the neatly folded, lemon-yellow envelope out of his hands eagerly. Despite the dwindling probability that the girl from the jean's story and the girl who had brought the letter were the same person, her heart raced. It had to be it! The lead she had been waiting days for! The sign from fate that she hadn't backed the wrong career horse after all!

"You're a lifesaver, Giuseppino!" She resisted the urge to kiss his wrinkly cheeks and gave a little wave with the letter instead, as she turned to the side entrance once again. "I've gotta go now! You're the first one to know, if I find something!"

The old man called after her, still puzzled. "But what does the girl have to do with Ramene, anyway?"

Matia paused, then declared over her shoulder with shining eyes: "It's the little things, Giuseppe! They lead to the answer, they always do!"

And with that, she left the tobacco seller standing on the sidewalk, impatiently unlocked the front door and, with a slamming door, disappeared into the stairwell, almost crushing her note-taking companions in the process.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Silvercurrent]

Enzo gazed down at the bronze surface of his espresso, its thin layer of foam swirling gently. He lifted the cup up to his nose, inhaled its rich aroma deeply, and took a tentative sip. Wrinkling his nose, he set the cup down. A little sour, he thought, but a splash of rum could go a long way.
His hand disappeared into the folds of his cloak, emerging a moment later with a gray flask. A dash of liquor was added to the espresso, then another sip was taken. Good enough, Enzo concluded, tucking the flask back behind the curtain of wool.
"Rilassarsi," said Mauro, lighting a cigar. "Miss Fenu isn’t always hiding back there. In fact, she only visits once every four months or so." He took a deep draw from the cigar and continued, "She's early. Alessi’s death’s got her a bit aggrieved. She’s trying enough to human patience but the woman loves the sound of her own voice more than she likes sad men like us.”
Enzo cracked a faint smile. "So it seems," he murmured.
A puff of smoke drifted from Mauro's lips, then a small, wrapped package was slid across the bar counter to Enzo: Money.
Enzo rested his hand on top of the payment, the sight of it stirring a deep-seated fatigue festering within him. He glanced away, pocketing his earnings before returning his attention to Mauro.
"You look like a man with questions," Mauro remarked, locking eyes with the veteran. "If I’m wrong, you can take the day off and rest. But now is the time to ask before the walls grow ears."
"What is it she expects from you, or the rest of us?" Enzo asked. "To monitor everyone outside the ship as well? This isn't a daycare. Or are we supposed to play detective around the docks?" He turned his head away and took another sip of his espresso, releasing a sharp breath through his nose after swallowing. "Sorry, I mean no disrespect, Capitano, I just don't understand."
A beat passed as his eyes traced the grains of the wooden bar counter. Finally, he looked back at Mauro. "And Alessi... He is spoken highly of, but I know little other than what is offered in the papers — I never met him personally. Who was he?"

Mauro listened to Enzo, leaning one elbow on the counter and listening to the seagulls in the far distance. “Babysit the other jeans? No.” he said simply. “She made a big show of that newspaper. Makes me think she doesn’t want us focusing too hard on other people. Or things.” Mauro lowered his tone, then downed the remaining expresso.


“Alessi began as a Jean like us. As he got more work elsewhere, he only became part-time. His success put us in a good light here, gave the guild more legitimacy. When the old Guild master died, Catinca began applying her own style to this place, and how we run things. She wants us to operate like privateers now–” Mauro scoffed, combing back his wind-tossed locks.

“Alessi wasn’t a celebrity. He was just one Jean that made a good life for himself. None of us are fancy types; we aren’t heroes or even proper sailors. We’re people who want a life where we can eat well and have a moment to relax. Not be asked questions. For her to make a declaration like this…” Mauro shrugged, eye staring far off and beyond the wall he was facing. “Alessi’s death the other day, followed by his name in the paper and all the rumors going around with him and Remene… Anyone affiliated with our guild will be given a hard time. They may act rashly and break the rules, and a lot of chaos would come of it. I think she only asked us because she knows what kind of past we have.” His jaw clenched a bit, but his eye remained focused on the blurry nothing before him. “Thinks the other Jeans will respect us for it. Thinks they’ll be too afraid to break the rules if the Landlocked enforces it.”

He had the stare of a man desperately trying not to backslide into a memory.

“As for Andrea, he was in your position before you got here. He’d been with the guild for years, planting seeds into the minds of other young jeans that stealing Relics from the old temples under sea would be remunerative-” Mauro paused, as if he’d smelled something bad. The curl of his lip, the way his body shifted; clearly the usual frosty veneer he had was flaking off a bit, but not so much that he couldn’t recover. He wasn’t enjoying retelling this story, but he felt it was important.

“By the time I caught him in the act, the damage was too great.” Mauro inhaled deeply, cracking his knuckles to shake off some of the tension and ease his muscles.


“He broke at least 5 rules within the creed. He was handed over, along with the rest of my crew. The ones you don’t see here.” Mauro took one more draw from his cigar, letting it rest between his lips. “Dead weight, the lot of them. I’m better off with less men, than I am with lesser men.” he plucked a slice of cheese off the wooden tray laying near them, as well as a piece of shredded lamb. He squinted, thinking about how he was going to do as Catinca asked. Though Mauro still seemed reticent about pinning her motives.

A woman like Catinca would only learn the names of people she spoke to minutes before speaking to them, and the only way to build rapport with her was to actually get an audience. Alessi was an odd reason to call a meeting.

He thought, chewing. He wasn’t a hero amongst jeans, he was replaceable, even. After being hired by Mr. Remene, he practically disappeared from the guild. Catinca liked keeping a reputation of honor about the guild, but making a show of it to Mauro, and not Tamara the Witch-jean or an even bigger Captain… Was she afraid of the jeans becoming disorganized and doing something stupid, or was she directing the focus away from herself, or… someone else?


“Don’t worry much about it.” He finally told Enzo, stretching a bit. “Jeans will do whatever they want in the end. We’ll keep an eye out, like we’re told. But once this place is flooded with guards… We won’t have control over anything. Catinca’s on her own.” Mauro chuckled a little smugly at that, slipping from his bar stool. “I’m hungry. I’m going for lunch– go where you please and take the day off.”


Mauro didn’t rush off, in fact his movement was quite lazy and sluggish. A man happier on a ship making clumsy strides on land, passing by the other large Tapestry hanging from the wall by the entrance to the guild. It had the crest of a serpent with its body coiling around a treasure chest, and a hawk-like creature swooping down to claw its body- at least that’s what the depiction symbolized in embroidered thread. Down the fabric, the Jean’s creed hung, keeping a silent vigil on the wall.

Any brawls or arguments shall be settled on shore.
I shall take good care of my ship.
I shall not wake my crew mates in the middle of the night unless it is of urgency.
I will not kill any innocents.
I will never, under any circumstance, rob a person of their virtue by forcing them to do something vile they would never do of their free will.
I will follow the code, and encourage my crew mates to do so also.
I will not venture to rob a Relic of the Sea people unless I am willing to face due punishment.
I will aid Sea people if they ask.
I shall offer atonement for any transgressions to Sea people.
I shall be loyal to my Crew.
I Cross a Line, I accept to pay the tithe.
If I am hexed, cursed or damned by a Witch, I will serve them for life.
I shall defend children of ill upbringing and poverty.
I will provide service to those who can pay.
I shall preserve myself by any means but those that conflict with the oaths above.
I shall do nothing to provoke ill relations with the Land-sea treaty.

If I dishonor this code, I am nothing but a Pirate. So Cross my heart! I am a Jean of code, of freedom, of the sun in the sky!​

 

[Silvercurrent]

NYX ATÉRISView attachment 1162988
location: //unspecified
interaction: Silvercurrent
----

Nyx quickly joined step with her newfound acquaintance. As the lady wrapped an arm around her own tho, Nyx couldn't help but flinch just a tad in startle, luckily nothing anyone watching could notice, letting out a lightly amused chuckle a moment later with a beaming smirk, shoulders relaxing as they walked. "Oh, just the usual, wandering around and keeping an eye out for charming ladies such as yourself~" The words left her mouth with a cheeky wink.

As they continued Nyx couldn't help but pick up the floral scent of the woman, it wasn't something she was used to, but it wasn't overly abrasive either, that or maybe her nose was too messed up to notice its true strength. It was a nice change from fish shipments for sure. 'Comparing it to that out loud would definitely be a bad idea' She couldn't help but ponder for a second with a bit of a blush to the tips of her ears, glancing away awkwardly before regaining her composure. She'd gotten better at holding her tongue in recent months, even when such things were intended as compliments.

As the pair came to a standstill in front of what could only be described as a rather storybook sight, a fountain nestled against an assortment of luscious greenery and flowers that left her eyes widening a tad before re-focusing on the woman before her. She watched as the other splashed her face. Nyx had noted the other did seem slightly 'off' during their initial journey. Though she didn't have much knowledge of seafolks exact needs she was aware that they required regular contact with water whilst on land.

As the water made contact Nyx couldn't help but observe the fact of the liquid's seemingly 'life-restoring' effect. Well- albeit the makeup situation. Such caught her off-guard, she was sure she'd heard there were products more suitable for seafolk? then again, Nyx wasn't exactly accustomed to the stuff herself. She briefly debated whether or not to bring it up before her companion's words drew her attention, the same slightly mischievous smile sitting on her face throughout it all.

"hah. no skin off my back, just can't stand people who whisper bout' others like that behind their backs. If ya got a problem with someone you go up n' say it. ya know?" Nyx gave a small shrug with the statement before raising one hand from her pockets and rubbing gently at the back of her neck, a habit of hers when unsure exactly what she's meant to say in a given situation. "Nothings gonna slip by you, hm?" She jested with a smirk in retort to the following questions, "Name's Nyx. Officially a resident of this lovely lil' place as of four weeks back, gotta say ya'll don't skimp out on the paperwork round' here. I thought I'd get a headache just filling out those forms." Trying to lighten the mood as best she could, however, she had rather obviously dodged any mention of her previous home, hoping the other would get the hint.

"On that note, any chance of a name for you madame? Surely it must be just as lovely as you are" The words left her mouth in a somewhat silky tone, having lost a portion of the prior dock-worker twang they had held in favor of a more honest tone.​

“Nyx.”



Basilia repeated, the words leaving her lips like the parting of clouds in the sky with no haste or care. She didn’t seem to mind this interaction, in fact, she had changed her tune pretty quickly from a marble statue to a conversing social butterfly. Yet, just saying the name of someone who had such a unique title made her pause and smile subtly.


“I applaud you for serving the process,” she said in regards to the paperwork Nyx mentioned. “If you think it’s bad up here, you should see the protocol below.” She mused, then finished cleaning up her features. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I like your skin.. Paintings.” she gestured, taking a step closer to peel Nyx’s collar away to better see them.

“Land people can withstand a lot of pain. It’s amazing what you can do.” She chuckled, then went back to holding her purse at her side. “Thank you for collaborating with me there. It’s true; residents of Tubero tend to find any crack in the sidewalk and… judge it.” Basilia smirked, shifting her stance to look down the road they were on. The pale stone stretched on, weeping with different kinds of flowers and drooping leaves. She took her dark, messy hair and went about pinning it up into a bun as she spoke.


“But they’re mostly talk. Get to know them and they have redeeming qualities.” She told Nyx, glancing back to her through thick, veiling lashes. “Provided they aren’t bored.” she joked, mostly. Then finally, she sighed and leaned back on the wall, letting a few petals shade her from the harsh sun rays. “I’m Basilia,” she signed as well, and the hand movement was that of four fingernails clawing down her palm, and her thumb curling around the other. It was quick to the unfamiliar, but it resembled the sign for “Lobster” closely in the ocean language. “Us strange anomalies must look out for each other. Let me thank you for making my walk less stressful, hm? Perhaps you’d like something from Sweetrose, or Farmacia Garibaldi. I've a few errands to run, and if you'd like to join me I will buy you something." Basilia wasn't shy with her offer.

It wasn't as though Nyx would have a peaceful day following her, but this woman looked as though she could afford a good meal for two and access to medical items. She donned a dark dress, though it was clear in the sunlight that it was actually dark green. The layer beneath was sheer and light weight, made of materials likely used with "threads of the sea"-- spelless could tell this as well, though Witches were more likely to sense the element of water seeping from it, or maybe catch the distinct glint coming from the fabric. And with expensive jewelry inlaid with glossy stones and shells within delicate silver, she certainly wasn't going to hurt from sharing her wealth.

"Perhaps I can learn where you've come from. I always like a good story from someone who's traveled from far away." Basilia smiled, tilting her head back the way they came.