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Beryl

Mercy Blackridge - The Sailor's Ruin

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[align=center](mood music!)[/align]

 

[align=center]Mercy Blackridge[/align]

 

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A figure sits hunched in the lifting darkness, illuminated by a waning campfire nearby. A shock of damp and unruly black hair spills over her shoulder, her face and hands stained with the dirt of hard travel as she thumbs through a leather-bound journal. Each page contains a number of drawings, wilted with age and edged with rushed notes and smudges.

 

She pauses on one drawing in particular, a finger tracing the skyline of Aecor Domi that's roughly scrawled across the page. The docks and scaffolding of the Sutton Shipyard splay out into the water, with ships lining the coastline like the edges of a frayed rug. 

 

She closes her eyes a moment, the salt in the air suddenly taking on notes that are achingly familiar. The shifting of her dinghy in the surf becomes the creaking bones of a hundred ships, and a singing voice chases her on the wind.

 

A rustling in the bushes snaps the world back into focus. Without lifting her gaze, she fumbles for a stone and lobs it into the darkness behind her. A tense heartbeat passes before she is rewarded with the startled trill of a Dodo fleeing into the underbrush, and she returns her hand to the book before her.

 

On the next page, the prow of a ship stands out in stark relief; Josephine painted across the bow. Other ships and figures fade into loose forms and smudged shapes. Something hard passes briefly across her features, her blue eyes a shifting darkness like the ink on the page.

 

She exhales sharply through her nose, quickly flipping the rest of the pages along the edge of her thumb until she reaches the back cover, snapping it closed and wrapping it tightly with its leather straps. From the pouch at her hip she draws out a crude playing card and angles it against the light of the campfire. The Jack of Spades; golden-haired face contorted with agony, blood on his lips and hands clawing at his neck. The whole card is washed in blue - a drowning prince.

 

She tucks the card snugly beneath the leather straps, and tests the weight in her hand. One more breath of salt and charcoal before tossing the journal unceremoniously into the fire. She watches it burn a while, flickering eyes following particles of paper carried off by the smoke. After some time she stands, the shape of her dinghy outlined in the morning light. She flips her pouch closed over a notice speaking of Moore Harbour and sets off towards the water. 

 

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I am absolutely in love with this character already! So fucking hyped Beryl x)

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