Damien
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones
try to forget all them enemies and debts
try to forget all them enemies and debts
The Lucky Rum Fountain bubbled nearby, spilling like liquid light into the chipped basin, the sweet-burn smell of it mixing with salt air and tarred rope. Damien held a glass of the white rum loosely in one hand. It was good stuff, went down smooth, and it was doing its work; loosening the edges without sanding down the vigilance that had kept him breathing this long.
He’d ditched his heavier gear for the night, wearing a plain linen shirt with the sleeves rolled past his forearms and trousers tucked into scuffed boots. The fabric was damp from the sea air, clinging a little at the shoulders. His dark hair was tousled, and there was the faintest curl to his mouth. Not quite a smile.
His crew had wanted to celebrate after the job, “a chance to let loose,” and the place had looked harmless enough from the outside. Hell, he’d even thought he might try a few of the coast’s more… tropical indulgences. But somewhere between the first drink and the second, the crowd had changed shape. Now it looked less like a party and more like a den — smugglers and pirates laughing too loud, performers and merchants flashing smiles with all the warmth of a drawn knife.
The port itself was a living thing tonight. Laughter rolled in with the waves. Lanterns swung on the rigging, tossing gold light across wet planks. The fiddle’s sharp cry tangled with the clatter of tankards, and the tang of grilled fish cut through the sweeter rum scent. Somewhere behind it all came the steady slap of water against the hulls, a reminder that every ship in port could be gone by morning.
Damien kept to the outskirts, where the light thinned toward shadow. It was a lot of noise, but it had a certain pull. Raw life, reckless laughter, and the thousand stories hiding in every salt-stained grin..
Somewhere in all that, he’d lost track of the crew. Or they’d vanished the second he turned his back. Either way, he was on his own. He leaned a half-step out of the crowd’s reach, eyes scanning the shifting press of bodies. Too-smooth smiles, hands that wandered just close enough to make him itch.
Every now and then, though, his gaze snagged on a face that almost looked familiar, or a voice half-heard through the din pulled him a step forward before he realized it wasn’t who he thought.
He felt like a greenhorn fresh off the boat, ripe for the plucking if somebody decided to try their luck… but some part of him, against better judgment, kept looking.
He’d ditched his heavier gear for the night, wearing a plain linen shirt with the sleeves rolled past his forearms and trousers tucked into scuffed boots. The fabric was damp from the sea air, clinging a little at the shoulders. His dark hair was tousled, and there was the faintest curl to his mouth. Not quite a smile.
His crew had wanted to celebrate after the job, “a chance to let loose,” and the place had looked harmless enough from the outside. Hell, he’d even thought he might try a few of the coast’s more… tropical indulgences. But somewhere between the first drink and the second, the crowd had changed shape. Now it looked less like a party and more like a den — smugglers and pirates laughing too loud, performers and merchants flashing smiles with all the warmth of a drawn knife.
The port itself was a living thing tonight. Laughter rolled in with the waves. Lanterns swung on the rigging, tossing gold light across wet planks. The fiddle’s sharp cry tangled with the clatter of tankards, and the tang of grilled fish cut through the sweeter rum scent. Somewhere behind it all came the steady slap of water against the hulls, a reminder that every ship in port could be gone by morning.
Damien kept to the outskirts, where the light thinned toward shadow. It was a lot of noise, but it had a certain pull. Raw life, reckless laughter, and the thousand stories hiding in every salt-stained grin..
Somewhere in all that, he’d lost track of the crew. Or they’d vanished the second he turned his back. Either way, he was on his own. He leaned a half-step out of the crowd’s reach, eyes scanning the shifting press of bodies. Too-smooth smiles, hands that wandered just close enough to make him itch.
Every now and then, though, his gaze snagged on a face that almost looked familiar, or a voice half-heard through the din pulled him a step forward before he realized it wasn’t who he thought.
He felt like a greenhorn fresh off the boat, ripe for the plucking if somebody decided to try their luck… but some part of him, against better judgment, kept looking.
