[m] when its dark out, illuminate

POSTED: Sat Jun 15, 2019 1:36 am

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count → ??? :: backdated to before the formation of the Troupe - Portland, East Docks

Their stipend was running out.

Cal spent their last good trinket on an oil-paper wrapped packet of dried meat strips. It would last them a while. Pragmatism was still relatively new to the young brothers, who had spent their childhood in humble abundance, wanting for no necessities and comfortable in life. Semini had been a good mother, and had taught them many important things about the world.

But some lessons could only be learned by experience. That first week, holding tight to the hunger pains in his stomach each night, taught Malik a lesson he would never forget.


The next morning Calrian found the brothers their first dockside job, offloading cargo from a Barbadian spice-merchant's sloop by the East Docks. It was hard work, unforgiving but honest beneath the blistering light of day. Salt air scoured Malik's nose and eyes, leaving them dry and painful. The pads on his soft hands split open in some places, and a seaman from the crew told him to wash them in the ocean and then bound them up with stained linen scraps.

By day's end his arms felt like lead. It took a great effort even to hold his palms out to the foreman and accept the barter - a pithy payment, two buttons and salt mackerel. Cal traded his buttons with a friendly acquaintance he had charmed through midshift, and became one apple richer.

That night in the straw beside Mondo's stall they had a feast for kings. Three fruit slice apiece, fish and some little dry flourcakes that Mal had saved at midday from the workers' lunch stipend that crunched like stone grit between their teeth.

Then they slept like the dead, and did not feel hungry again until the sun rose.


A season passed in this way. By the next new moon the Amaranthe brothers were not so soft anymore. Calrian had grown broad in the shoulders and handsome, and the dock hands treated him like one of their own. He was a natural leader of men, charming and convivial and always an optimist. They accepted Malik too, as a favor to their new comrade, even though he was quiet and sad-looking and didn't tell the rowdy belly-shaking kind of jokes they liked.

Malik changed too. He was sturdy beneath the leanness of his build and the oversized old work clothes they wore. His beautiful soft hands grew strong. And his hair kept growing, long enough that he had to braid it during the day or else the foreman threatened to chop it off. Long and white, foaming at the ends. It was like their mother's had been.

Every night before he fell asleep, Mal took out Semini's locket and held it to his cheek.


The dock workers liked to spend their spare stipend at Mullen's. It was a shit-dive that boasted the most motley assortment of patrons the tide could wash in. Anyone was welcome at Mullen's - the rich, who sat at wooden tables near a rickety old stage and were served by ambitious nightgirls in low-cut dresses; The poor, who slumped shoulder to shoulder in stinky throngs so thick a man had to squeeze forcibly to get through them.

Dragged along by his brother on the pretense of forming connections, Malik hated the place at first. It was too loud, too crowded. The booze tasted like horse piss, vinegar and vile. The inhabitants of the East Docks were rowdy and obnoxious when sober. When drunk, they were almost intolerable.

Sitting uncomfortably between two big wolfdogs who were telling (shouting) a droll story about their home in the hinterlands, he tried to take each rib-jab in good humor. But the truth was that Mal didn't have Calrian's golden tongue. He didn't know how to lie to these honest men, how to convince them (and himself) that time was better spent when they were in his company.

Watching his brother work this magic - the kind that made rough men smoother somehow - felt like watching an alchemist turn water into wine.


The first time it changed was inauspicious, a night like any other night.

The dockhands were in good cheer. The foreman had tipped them for working in the rain, so everyone had a little extra in their threadbare pockets to spend. Cal was in the middle of a rousing story when he stopped, inspired by a memory, and looked across at his brother. There was a sailor's song their mother had known that fit the bill just right, and when prompted, Mal reluctantly cleared his throat and began to sing.

He didn't realize the bar had gone quiet until the final stanza faded on his tongue. There was a pregnant hush. Unsettled, he looked for his brother in the crowd, and spotted him by the size of his grin - the kind of grin he got when he saw a real good deal.

The patrons began to holler and cheer.

From there it was a simple thing. Cal was friends with Mullen's son, a meat-fisted barkeep with a soft head. He negotiated easily, talking quick with his hands and his expressions to move things along his chosen path. Mal watched wordlessly as his rate was brokered, his schedule finessed, and just like that the Amaranthe brothers became something new.

For Malik, Portland would never be the same again.

Giddy with luck, the young bard did not notice the merchant who was watching him intently from across the bar, twisting the heavy rings on his fingers; One ruby, one emerald, and one sapphire.

The Troupe
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POSTED: Mon Aug 26, 2019 7:06 am

Word Count → ??? :: cont.

Brego was a man of many talents. Today he was de Bruin, and he wore fine handmade cloth-of-gold thread brocaded into his calfskin tunic. For the third night in a row he sat in the third table from the hearth and was served by the same red-haired nightgirl as each evening prior. She'd long since given up on showing him the low cut of her lapel, but for a welcome and generous tip he was rewarded with a clean glass and a smile. The ale was sour, lukewarm and frothy, but de Bruin was a drinker and liked something to do with his hands.

As he lapped from the rim the firelight made his three rings sparkle in succession. There was a balance to the number that satisfied him; Made him feel lucky.

And lucky he was. The day had been a prosperous one, spent with his crew by the stone terrace, writing crow letters sealed with rouge wax and taking stock of big wooden crates as they were loaded into the cavernous belly of The Vos. The dogs worked hard at it, stripped down to pants and fur, their strong arms and broad shoulders straining under the weight of the cargo. For his part, de Bruin had enjoyed the spectacle.

But he enjoyed the sight of the white-haired youth even more.


Folk who live by the sea have an innate appreciation for song. He figured it was integral to their natures; A way of telling stories to pass time best kept by tide and waves alone. That first night, listening to the bard's tremulous little chorus, had speared Brego through with a nostalgia so rare and potent that he was taken aback. He fleetingly remembered being a boy in the village too small to have a name, the fat silver moonfish jumping on the deck of his father's little runabout. The memory, come and gone from one refrain to the next, was as powerful as a slap in the face.

De Bruin liked it. It warmed him through, more than the crush of onlookers or the weight of copper in his pockets ever could. He liked the look of the young performer, too, though this was a slow-growing and refined appreciation; For a retriever he was unusually patient, never wanting to leap in headfirst.

So it took three whole nights to take a proper measure of things. The bard had a routine now, and de Bruin was just setting down his third drink when the lad's voice quieted. He'd finished his act with a sorrowful song - a sailor lost at sea with only the waterdogs for company, their alien yet familiar voices crooning in the deep - It hadn't gone down as well as the more rowdy or robust shanties, but de Bruin had savored it nonetheless. Everything was sweeter for the touch of a little sorrow.

He almost didn't do it. Pretty white-haired boys were rare to come by, and rare things could be awful pricey. But Portland had done well by Brego, and he liked his odds. There was nothing wrong with enjoying the sweeter things in life after a job well done.

Rising, he made his choice.

The Troupe
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