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+---- Thread: one more sweet boy to be butchered by men (/showthread.php?tid=12894)
one more sweet boy to be butchered by men - Jack - 06-08-2026
The distance between Torchline and King's End isn't a terribly large one - enough for any skyship to make the trip within a day, certainly - but the drop in temperature is stark and immediately noticeable. Colour leaches out of the sky mere hours after leaving the islands, filming it with a cataract of snowfall and fog, and the air grows teeth that nip at any exposed flesh without prejudice. Down in the Castaway Exchange, the morning is slow moving; stalls are open, their merchants stiff-limbed and hopeful, but there are precious few window shoppers today, and only those who have to be outside appear to be braving the ice-slick docks.
The Ark is anchored in her berth like a seabird at rest, rust-red sails down, the dark lacquer of her hull speckled white with snowfall, and a large brazier burns bright upon her deck to keep the ice from getting too friendly with her boards. She might not be sailing for a few days yet, but the galleon is never empty; some crew move up and down her gangplank to load shipments into her belly, the crates branded by businesses that are almost certainly fronts for more nefarious operations. The ship's mate - a small, olive-skinned man named Murphy - oversees the operations, and will most certainly take note of any skinny thieves named Finch who might come calling to deliver a certain ledger lifted from Rae's Fingers.
Jack, for his part, is in his map room beneath the quarterdeck towards the stern of the ship, a large chart rolled out before him that shows a course he's plotted dozens of times between Torchline and a few small, hidden islands out in the Arclight. He's never plotted it from King's End, though, and so to say he's got work to do is an understatement. It's already been close to an hour of staring and course correcting, though, so it's with a grunt of acceptance - that all men, even Jack Barclay, require a break - that he slumps back into one of the chairs around the table.
His hands move automatically for the cigarettes tucked into the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and as he sets one between his lips, it's already smoking and alight. Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Jack draws the smoke deep into his lungs and waits, willing the imprint of the map now burned into the backs of his eyelids to fade.
RE: one more sweet boy to be butchered by men - Finch - 06-08-2026
The journey from Torchline to King's End was not a long one, but Finch's colorful imaginings of the various ways Jack may splay and dissect his innards certainly elongated the trip. He had stayed on the deck throughout the entire voyage, watching as the sky turned from a vibrant, cloud-speckled blue into the color of an old bruise, the angry bite of the cold snapping eagerly at his skin. He had breathed the thin air in and out, pulling it into his lungs like water rushing aboard a sinking ship and held it there, trying to memorize the feeling of it, trying to capture the blood pumping under his skin. His hands are empty, lithe thief's fingers that had coaxed and wheedled so many treasures from such precarious maws nothing but cuts and calluses. He hopes Jack will let him keep all of his fingers. He's rather fond of them.
The ground of King's End is half-frozen beneath his feet and Finch doesn't think he will ever get used to the sensation of moving silently through streets that fight back against the inertia of a moving body. The cold pulls against the scar on his face as he grimaces against the biting wind; though he's completed this journey more than a few times in his indenture to Jack, he can't help but feel like the wind takes pleasure in slashing into him each and every time. It's almost a relief to get to the Ark, and below the decks, Finch is practically frog-marched towards wherever Jack is presumably stationed in this maze of wood. The air cloys heavily with the smell of cedar and salt, the scent of the sea clinging to the ship's weathered planks and it encloses Finch in its heaviness, a casket closing its lid amongst damp, packed earth. As always, he flirts with Murphy, his smooth, honeyed words insinuating how else he could manhandle Finch, and, as always, his advances go absolutely nowhere. It's part of the routine, the waltz of compliance and loyalty while still straining at his leash just enough to nip at the hands just out of reach. It's a rather compelling distraction, too, from the news of his imminent death.
Jack's maproom is stuffed to the brim with papers and the man himself lounges, a cigarette in hand, and Finch is once again taken aback by the easy confidence of the man that holds his life in his hands. It's to be expected from Jack Barclay, but the sheer command he holds in a room, even one as empty and cluttered as this one, is nearly enough to force Finch to his knees in fear and admiration. Almost. He prepares himself as he walks into the room, forcing his body into an image of easy confidence and competence. His hands hand loose at his side, carefully in-sight so no one accuses him of sticking his fingers where they don't belong. Under his skin, fear and adrenaline thrum, threaded together in an inexorable waltz; today is not the day to push his boundaries with the man, and he hopes his tongue has the common sense to behave itself. As if proving to himself he isn't an utter disrespectful, suicidal moron that bites the hand that feed for fun, he waits for Jack to acknowledge him before speaking. The emptiness of his hands weigh heavy on them, nearly buzzing from the pressure of the lack.
RE: one more sweet boy to be butchered by men - Jack - 06-08-2026
[say]"Finch."[/say] Jack speaks without opening his eyes, without so much as moving, the cigarette hanging between the fingers of his free hand to leave whorls of smoke twisting through the air around his head. The young thief doesn't need to know how he plucked his arrival out of the ether, and Jack is content to let him imagine that his impressively silent footfalls are nevertheless branded in a rhythm against the Captain's consciousness.
The reality is a rhythm of a different sort. A half-familiar beat of nerves wrestling with frustration alerts him first, each thought setting his web of telepathy to vibrating, until Jack can track the shape of the man approaching his map room with startling clarity. Opening his eyes and dropping his hand from his face at last, one steel-capped boot propped against the table, Jack regards the scarred face and warbling restlessness beneath the surface with a blank expression at first.
His eyes, blue as shards of a Longheat sky, hold Finch hostage for a second or three, then finally move back to the course he'd been charting. Jack drops his boot back to the boards and rolls to his feet, setting the cigarette between his lips. [say]"About time,"[/say] he says, holding out a hand - calloused and bedecked with rings - in silent expectation as he regards the maps and charts.
He knows. Of course he knows; the absence has been a scream in Finch's thoughts from the moment he stepped over the threshold and into Jack's magic. But there's knowing, and there's hearing it paint the air in word and cadence. And the Captain would like the latter now.
RE: one more sweet boy to be butchered by men - Finch - 06-08-2026
Finch tries his best to enjoy his last few moments of being alive as Jack rolls to his feet, limber and lithe as a threat hanging in the air. He doesn’t question his uncanny ability to have known exactly where he was in the room, the exact moment he entered, without needing to open his eyes to see; some magic tricks are best undiscovered, and someone who can spy Finch’s silent shadow in the dark is not someone to be questioned. The way his blue eyes pin Finch in their cold and intense gaze reminds him all too presently of Vesper’s, and the more he studies the angles of Jack’s face, the more he can see the family resemblance between the two. For all the flirting he did with the man’s son, though, he wouldn’t dare to apply to Jack, no matter how similar their handsome features.
The man’s hand is a blade in front of him, outward and expecting, rings glinting like a dagger in the low light of the map room. The theatrics of it seem obvious, yet dangerous in the way it’s poised, a dagger in a sheath with a hand rested on it. Finch’s hands are, quite obviously, empty as a waiting grave. None of his pockets hood a bulge large enough to conceal a ledger or anything but a few scattered coins and the tools of his trade. The words must be spoken, nonetheless, as Jack appears to wait, patient as a snake in the grass, for admission of failure.
“The cache was empty,” he says simply, releasing it into the open placing his head onto the executioner’s block. “The lock was old and rusted, like it had been closed for years, but whatever was meant to be inside it was gone.” He refuses to let his dark gaze falter, refuses to bluster and hide behind excuses or reasonings or pleadings of mercy. He did what he was bid and he failed; he would not give Jack the satisfaction of seeing him snivel. His heart picks up a beat, the blood pounding in his ears, but his face stays steeled and impassive. He refuses to die on his knees.
RE: one more sweet boy to be butchered by men - Serendipity - 06-08-2026
The water nearby ripples as several Echo Sharks glide just beneath the surface, their fins cutting smooth, deliberate paths. As they circle, voices begin to rise from the water, distorted but unmistakably intentional.
“Come closer,” one calls, followed by a warped laugh. Another voice repeats a familiar phrase, tone twisted and coaxing, the words echoing unnaturally across the shore.
The sharks keep their distance, continuing their slow patrol as the voices persist, testing for a response. Whether the sounds are invitation or warning is unclear, but they do not stop watching.
Echo SharksAreas Found: Hollowed Grounds, King's End, Torchline, Maria Mundi, Greatwood — Common A dwarf species of shark known for hunting in packs, the Echo Shark can live in both freshwater and saltwater. They are able to mimic any sound they've heard and band together to increase their range of vocals. The sharks use the words and sounds they've learned to lure unsuspecting prey into the water, where the sharks will then leap up and drag them into the waves.
Challenge Rating: Easy HP: 161 | To Hit: +26 | Dmg: 13 Movement: Swim 50 ft.; Surge 70 ft. (short burst); Leap 10 ft. from water SPECIAL SKILLS Coordinated Chorus: when several echo sharks band together, their combined calls carry much farther, drawing targets from great distances; Shoreline Snatch: times leaps with incoming waves to seize prey on docks, rocks, or shallows and drag them seaward; Call-and-Answer Trap: mimics familiar voices or distress signals to coax victims closer to the water’s edge |
TRAITS Dual-Water Adaptation: thrives in both freshwater and saltwater; Pack Hunter: coordinated schooling tactics for surround-and-seize strikes; Vocal Mimicry: can reproduce any sound they've heard with startling accuracy; Surf Concealment: uses foam and breaking waves to mask approach; Lateral-Line Sense: detects movement and vibration even in murky water ACTIONS Mimic Call: emits a perfect copy of voices, whistles, or alarms to lure targets; Riptide Rush: a high-speed burst that rams or slashes past, knocking prey off balance; Leap and Drag: erupts from the water to clamp on and haul a victim beneath the waves; Frenzy Swarm: the pack converges, worrying and pulling until the target is subdued |
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RE: one more sweet boy to be butchered by men - Jack - 06-08-2026
That's the thing with a gift (curse?) like telepathy. Despite having known from the moment Finch stepped into the map room that the ledger he'd been counting on for - yep, you got it - the very course he'd been plotting on the chart between them, is missing, Jack hasn't reacted. Hearing it spoken aloud, though, is like permission to light the fuse of his temper, and a muscle feathers in his jaw. His hand, when it closes into a fist, empty, is rimed with ice from the other elements that live in his veins, and he takes a slow, measured breath in through his nose.
[say]"And?"[/say] he says quietly, already painfully aware that there's no more to the story, but feeling the need to brand the lesson in place regardless. [say]"What happened when you put out feelers to find out who can reach through locks to steal shit? How'd it go in Torchline's rumour mill when you planted a few seeds 'bout the ledger to see what turned up?"[/say]
Jack takes a long drag off his cigarette, his frosty hand dropping back to his side. [say]"You don't know, 'cause you didn't fuckin' do any of that."[/say] Hissing out a smoky breath and considering, briefly, giving Finch what he's all but begging for, instead the Captain stalks to the windows of the map room, pinning the echo sharks below with the blue fire of his gaze.
[say]"Vesper can vouch for it?"[/say] he asks, clipped now, his back to the thief.
RE: one more sweet boy to be butchered by men - Finch - 06-08-2026
Through the thick wood of the ship, Finch can hear the luring calls of the Echo Sharks trying to persuade him to give his body to the sea. He thinks, for a moment, that the feeling of the rushing waves swallowing him and the comparatively gentle teeth of the sharks at the rip him apart would be preferable to this. He barely avoids winching as Jack’s quiet words ripping into him, his jaw ticking slightly from how tightly he’s clenching his teeth.
Jack’s anger is a slow simmer, alighting just under FInch’s skin and ticking the temperature of the room up by a few small degrees as a time. Finch knows, from close experience, that an anger that roils under cool eyes and flenched fists is more dangerous than one that explodes an in all-encompassing flame; the quiet has time to subsume, to plot and scheme and nurse itself into something deadly. Jack’s quiet does not make him any less dangerous, and when he moves his back to Finch, the slender thief knows it doesn’t mean his anger has passed. A man as powerful as Jack doesn’t mean surrender when his back is turned — it just means he knows his power is so absolute, so iron and gripping on his prey, that there is no such thing as exposed. Finch can feel the leash tighten on his jugular.
He doesn’t respond to Jack’s questions, knows they weren’t poised for genuine answers and that trying to fill the void they created would only dig him further into his grave. In truth, he hadn’t even thought to do those things, focused more on reporting back to Jack. He was a thief, not a spy, and Vesper’s shadows and uncanny grave spooked him as much as they enticed him. If word got back to him that Finch was sniffing around about who took the haul, more likely than not, it would look like the slippery thief was looking to take the score home rather than find a way to deliver it.
“I can’t speak for him, but he saw the same thing I did,” He dares to say. “I passed his… interrogation. Any other information you’ll have to settle with him.” He said them smooth and quiet, not testy, not an accusation, just a simple explanation of fact. He would not dare speak for Vesper, wouldn’t dare to put words in the mouth of Jack’s son knowing to do so and presume wrong would be worse than lying. “The cache was empty.”
He hoped it wouldn’t be interpreted as backtalk. The all-ten of his fingers-ness was delightful to have.
RE: one more sweet boy to be butchered by men - Jack - 06-08-2026
Jack rolls his shoulders as if to convince the tension in them to release its grip. It works, sort of, and he's left simmering at the window of the map room while Finch stands, cowering and thoroughly useless at his back. No further leads, no initiative, no point to him other than to deliver bad news and to stroke his ego with his thoughts. (And he's not complaining about that, but it'd be nice to have something of substance to go with it).
[say]"Fuck,"[/say] he hisses at last, turning back to the table to flick the ash from his smoke into a glass tray. [say]"This can all wait, then."[/say] Reaching out, he pushes a paperweight off the corners of the chart to let it roll itself back up, a scroll as useless as the missing ledger. [say]"Fuck are you still standin' around looking stupid for?"[/say] he asks Finch then, snapping his fingers towards the shelves of other scrolls and maps, most of them neatly labelled in the Captain's own hand.
[say]"Grab the one for the Fingers,"[/say] he says curtly, tightening the old scroll from the table and fastening it with a frayed leather cord, before thrusting it into Finch's hands. [say]"Then get out. No, wait."[/say]
While the thief presumably does as he's bade, Jack finds a scrap of parchment and scratches a quick note on it, folding it neatly. [say]"Give that to Murph on your way."[/say]