JACK
Three things.
First, the Castaway Exchange gets very, very dark on a night where the moon is new and the skies are overcast, no matter how many lanterns are lit or how many stalls keep peddling their wares late.
Second, there are some who, whilst knowing well the name of Torchline's smuggling kingpin, believe him to have gone a bit soft over the past few seasons. Love blooms, minds get distracted, items tumble further down the priority list. Items like business agreements, like the right sort of cut for looking the other way, like passing a fraction of stock in exchange for the monopoly on any customers.
Third, but perhaps most important - you do not need to carry a knife with you when you can make one out of ice.
The sound of the scuffle between two floating market stalls is muffled by the slap of water against hulls, and muffled again by the way large hands clamp saltwater-soaked rags into any mouth that tries to open to scream. Jack lets Bassian do his work without interruption, partly because he's good at it but also because he's been on his best behaviour as of late, and the captain waits idly by until the men they've come to see are good and roughed up.
Their ringleader is still alive and conscious, at least, though his associate looks like he might have drowned in the puddle of water he's laying in, courtesy of Jack's boot on the back of his neck. With frost-rimed hands, the captain smooths his fingers across the blade of clear ice he's conjured, heedless of the way the digits are growing numb and wrinkling his nose at the sudden stench of urine in the air from the man in Bassian's grip soiling himself.
Jack takes that as a cue to keep their conversation brief. And it is brief - a whispered, one-sided thing against the man's ear while the stiletto of ice presses wickedly against the hollow of his throat, until he feels as if they have understood each other. He doesn't just think it either - he knows it - and so Jack straightens with a smile.
"Here's hopin' we don't have to fall out like this again," he says, his voice rough and quiet. The man sags in Bassian's grip, nodding furiously, and Jack turns away - but not before plunging the ice knife viciously into his side as a parting gift. Blood flecks up and across his cheek, and the man's screams are gagged behind the fabric balled in his mouth, only to be cut off by a splash as Bassian drops him into the water.
What can he say? Sometimes it's better in business to simply cut one's losses.
First, the Castaway Exchange gets very, very dark on a night where the moon is new and the skies are overcast, no matter how many lanterns are lit or how many stalls keep peddling their wares late.
Second, there are some who, whilst knowing well the name of Torchline's smuggling kingpin, believe him to have gone a bit soft over the past few seasons. Love blooms, minds get distracted, items tumble further down the priority list. Items like business agreements, like the right sort of cut for looking the other way, like passing a fraction of stock in exchange for the monopoly on any customers.
Third, but perhaps most important - you do not need to carry a knife with you when you can make one out of ice.
The sound of the scuffle between two floating market stalls is muffled by the slap of water against hulls, and muffled again by the way large hands clamp saltwater-soaked rags into any mouth that tries to open to scream. Jack lets Bassian do his work without interruption, partly because he's good at it but also because he's been on his best behaviour as of late, and the captain waits idly by until the men they've come to see are good and roughed up.
Their ringleader is still alive and conscious, at least, though his associate looks like he might have drowned in the puddle of water he's laying in, courtesy of Jack's boot on the back of his neck. With frost-rimed hands, the captain smooths his fingers across the blade of clear ice he's conjured, heedless of the way the digits are growing numb and wrinkling his nose at the sudden stench of urine in the air from the man in Bassian's grip soiling himself.
Jack takes that as a cue to keep their conversation brief. And it is brief - a whispered, one-sided thing against the man's ear while the stiletto of ice presses wickedly against the hollow of his throat, until he feels as if they have understood each other. He doesn't just think it either - he knows it - and so Jack straightens with a smile.
"Here's hopin' we don't have to fall out like this again," he says, his voice rough and quiet. The man sags in Bassian's grip, nodding furiously, and Jack turns away - but not before plunging the ice knife viciously into his side as a parting gift. Blood flecks up and across his cheek, and the man's screams are gagged behind the fabric balled in his mouth, only to be cut off by a splash as Bassian drops him into the water.
What can he say? Sometimes it's better in business to simply cut one's losses.
no more than I was or than I want to be
when you fall on me like night, I wanna kill the lights
when you fall on me like night, I wanna kill the lights
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
