Topic: O sea-starved, hungry sea

Sinjin Fai

Date: 2013-06-19 10:34 EST
Sinjin Fai was not a good man. There were qualities about him that were tolerable, maybe even likable. He cared deeply for his friends and his lover. He was mindful of animals and he always tipped well at the bar. But for all the parts of him that were good, the sum did not equal Good. He was innately aware of this and was old enough that it rarely bothered him, but occasionally his work would leave him at an impasse between Good and Not Good which created a nagging-itching feeling that being Sinjin Fai was unfair.

He knew it was unfair when he appeared in Rhy'din two days prior with a piece of cloth tied around his throat. He knew it was unfair when his fingers tugged around the knot and he was imbued with the knowledge of a dozen different things he had not known a minute prior, things he did not care about, but that others cared about very deeply. He knew it was unfair " and cruel " when MacKurn came crawling through the window like plagued air. Even then, it didn't really hurt until he saw Ali al-Amat and embraced him like a brother coming home.

Why was life just so unfair?

But debts were debts, business was business, and Sinjin Fai was not a good man.

So he laid out his pretty plan: a bluebell, a cyclops, a shadow-cat, a thief, a hunter, and a sword-sworn girl with a waterlogged heart.

Waterlogged

Date: 2013-06-24 20:48 EST
"You've paid a debt, Sinjin Fai. And that's all that matters."



The Winged Terror was under attack.

By all technicalities, she was a merchant ship; that hadn't stopped the militia from ironing her belly or installing light artillery, but it wasn't enough. Another burst of white-hot light came from across an otherwise dark ocean and slammed into the ship's hull, the enemy ship still somehow beyond sight. Sea water sprayed over the side as The Winged Terror swayed dangerously again to one side.

"F*** this," spat Dajeer. He was soaked all the way through, silver-red blood seeping from a wound on his jaw that refused to properly stitch itself shut again; his hand snapped out when the ship rocked again, clinging to railing near the helm. "F*** this. I'm not f***ing dying for a f***ing pound of cheap flesh."

His eyes darted down to the Captain's corpse as it flopped from one end of the deck to the other. Useless. Perfect. The look he shot back at the mercenary at the helm wasn't quite pleading — he was too proud for that — but it held an edge of fear that was real enough. "Abandon ship," he tried to coax her. Not that she really counted as a her any more. "We can salvage the pieces and pick up some new slaves in Rhy'din. Who gives a f***, all the slaves are the same—"

The woman would not budge. "That's not our orders, Dajeer." She spoke without fear — without anything but the cold, ugly determination of will that made men die. When the cannon's from the enemy ship flashed, he could see the black, empty pits of her eyes. Yeah. Not a f***ing woman any more. Any other person would be pissing in their pants right now.

Fuck, he already had twice.

This time when the ship was hit, he could truly feel it — metal penetrating wood with a terrifying screech, the sound of water pouring in and slaves pouring out. Money rolling down the drain. It didn't matter. Fight or flight. Live another day, fix the problem tomorrow.

"Fine," he spat. The mist began to gather at his heels. "You can die with the f***ing merchandise for all I care."

He felt her eyes on him as the mist snapped up his body from this reality (cold-dead eyes, like a shark), but it was too late for her to stop him. She would not stop him anyway, and he knew it. Beneath her, the ship began to crack away.

She was the will of Dogal. And by His will, she would live — and she would succeed His task.

Listen to logic

Date: 2013-06-25 21:13 EST
(one year ago)

I don't think I've asked for something different than anyone else has. Different timeline, maybe. Different method. The root of it is all the same, though: I want to die with dignity. I want to die with a sword in my hand and blood on my face and I want the last feeling I experience to be that perfect high when I'm fighting another man. I want to die as Eleanor Greene.

It's funny. He used to talk to me like I didn't know what happiness was. I thought it was silly at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I think he might've been right. The only piece of happiness I know I've truly felt is when I was killing someone. What does that say about you, Ella"

Doesn't matter much now, I guess.

They dislocated my shoulder after the second time I managed to get loose. Only killed two of them that time. They wanted to hack it off, but whoever is at the other end of this wants me in one piece — mostly. A few broken ribs, too many bruises to count, a broken hand — right hand, though. Lucky girl. No one expects a left-handed devil. None of it stopped them from making me dig out the pits to throw the body of the dead in. Puts some real respect in you for gravediggers. But oh, Eleanor — you're gonna sing a sweet little birdsong if they ever put another sword too close to you again.

They've been walking me down this road for three days now. At first I tried to keep track of the land and the direction, but it was no good. They moved in circles. Everything felt random. One morning the sun would come up in the West and then sink back in the same direction. Maybe the pain finally got to me — had to find that threshold someday. Good thing they haven't broken my knees or they'd be dragging my ass to where ever the hell we're going.

It started off as six men, but now there's thirty-two and the odds are against me. I feel like shit. I've felt like I was dying my whole life and now I can't tell the difference between that and living. And so every day when I wake up in this shithole and get shoved further into this country, I ask myself: are you alive"

Guess I never really could tell.

And what does that say about you, Ella" What does it say"

Sinjin Fai

Date: 2013-10-22 21:44 EST
He prodded the corpse with the edge of his boot.

It was the third he'd seen in as many months, which was just about what could be expected without raising alarm with the Rhy'din police. Flirting on the edge of random murders and true serial killing, the body remained little more than another working girl abandoned on the streets. But Sinjin knew better. He understood each little bruise and thrust of the knife below skin; he understood the pattern beneath the chaos. He knew the scent of fear and desperation, of an animal trying to cover its tracks.

It delighted him.

"Dajeer," he crooned, and leaned over the dead girl's body. He touched her face and her hair; he swiped his finger across her congealing blood and brought it to his lips. In another time, another place, Sinjin loved Dajeer. He was a coward, but it served him well. He always got the job done. His magic was arcane and old and no one knew it better than Dajeer himself. In truth, the man was doing his job almost too well.

Sinjin rose to his feet, his long shadow extending past the girl's corpse to the bloody footsteps that lead away from it, a sticky-wet stumbling path. He knew where it lead to, but it didn't matter. Not to him anyway.

But oh, it would matter to her.