08-25-2020, 03:48 PM
It was quiet when Demetra stepped into the tavern herself, getting there before her son, the day still fresh enough that there was not much more than crewmates chatting among themselves over tea, coffee, and brunch. And of course there would be the day drinkers regardless, getting a head start, not caring what the weather or time was, simply looking for a temporary buzz. There may be an unspoken worry, every time their captain set foot in the tavern, after her wife's death. But the female had never been known to fall under to the temptation of uncontrollable drinking before, despite her own papa's destructive habits. She'd learned from them, and only looked to do such an act as a celebration. The temporary relief was much more rewarding in her work. And thus, there was nothing to truly worry of, as the woman held a basket of freshly caught fish, hair up in a messy bun.
Her body was still drying slightly, though she had gone through the effort of the towel, it was clear she'd just finished her hunt for the tavern's supply. The fish would make delicious meals to last throughout the day and night. And it was with the chefs she would be, despite the weariness clear in her gaze, she kept at work, helped as much as she could. She appreciated the work they performed at the tavern, feeding the crew and keeping shelter for them. And the same notion was proven in just moments, the sound of a storm brought on quickly - not an incredibly rare occurrence, given they were living on a tropical archipelago. She'd bore witness to the destruction a hurricane can truly bring, and while the noise outside did sound threatening on such a thing, she did not move just yet, finding herself lost in the sound one again. Perhaps there was a kinship between the event and the demigoddess of raging storms.
The captain understood the suffering, the loss, the guilt, better than most. The blood that stained her hands, her arms, legs, feet, splattered across her face, it was an immense amount. It would never truly wash away, scrub all she may, the actions she took, both regretful and intentional, all were her own. And in the end, more often than not, she knew the risk, the consequence. She'd faced death many times, spit in its face, been spat back at. It was a constant struggle, against the war, the enemies, the threats. Life itself was hardly her friend, then much less was Death, spiteful and bitter towards the girl that'd cheated it. But it still took as it desired, all the same. If she would not go down so easily, someone else would.
And the taste was filth, every time. Those who deserved it may shred some freedom, some relief into their execution, but the action was still something she did not enjoy. Karma would not do its job always, so she would fill in. She'd drowned, drowned another, burnt alive, burnt others. Though it would be rare Dee truly used her powers to take the final blow. No, her scimitar much more often took that grace, the useless eyes of those too blind to see their wrongdoings ripped out. Though would that be so fair, even, for her to claim the moral high ground? Others harmed from her fearful secrets, proven by the burns on her back, mother taking her place in fate's grasp, children she'd never wanted, faced consequence of her actions, and even now she fears that her children were harmed from her own grief despite greatest efforts to be there.
And today's experiences would reflect all the same, a child collapsed on the beach, broken and confused, senses taken from under her, everything spilling out, uncontrollably. The only difference was, Dee was an adult now, and it was not her that'd been found upon the shoreline.
The noise of commotion, her son calling out. She leaves the kitchen, approaches the sound. The captain would simply observe for a moment, unnatural for the other so quick to act, so quick to prioritize. But it was still so fresh, and actions were not so natural. And so she observes, taking in the scene, before finally deciding. She walks closer, to the side of her son, taking a better look at Georgia. "She doesn't look hurt," comes her voice calmly, softly. Still, a mother, still trying her hardest to keep everything together. "There's no need for panic. Keep her comfortable." Dee would instruct simply, looking to Paola and offering a nod. "She'll need water." There could be a number of things that'd caused the younger girl to go unconscious, and unfortunately she was not there to witness what any of those may be, and so she goes quiet, waiting for Deniz to answer Paola's question.
Her body was still drying slightly, though she had gone through the effort of the towel, it was clear she'd just finished her hunt for the tavern's supply. The fish would make delicious meals to last throughout the day and night. And it was with the chefs she would be, despite the weariness clear in her gaze, she kept at work, helped as much as she could. She appreciated the work they performed at the tavern, feeding the crew and keeping shelter for them. And the same notion was proven in just moments, the sound of a storm brought on quickly - not an incredibly rare occurrence, given they were living on a tropical archipelago. She'd bore witness to the destruction a hurricane can truly bring, and while the noise outside did sound threatening on such a thing, she did not move just yet, finding herself lost in the sound one again. Perhaps there was a kinship between the event and the demigoddess of raging storms.
The captain understood the suffering, the loss, the guilt, better than most. The blood that stained her hands, her arms, legs, feet, splattered across her face, it was an immense amount. It would never truly wash away, scrub all she may, the actions she took, both regretful and intentional, all were her own. And in the end, more often than not, she knew the risk, the consequence. She'd faced death many times, spit in its face, been spat back at. It was a constant struggle, against the war, the enemies, the threats. Life itself was hardly her friend, then much less was Death, spiteful and bitter towards the girl that'd cheated it. But it still took as it desired, all the same. If she would not go down so easily, someone else would.
And the taste was filth, every time. Those who deserved it may shred some freedom, some relief into their execution, but the action was still something she did not enjoy. Karma would not do its job always, so she would fill in. She'd drowned, drowned another, burnt alive, burnt others. Though it would be rare Dee truly used her powers to take the final blow. No, her scimitar much more often took that grace, the useless eyes of those too blind to see their wrongdoings ripped out. Though would that be so fair, even, for her to claim the moral high ground? Others harmed from her fearful secrets, proven by the burns on her back, mother taking her place in fate's grasp, children she'd never wanted, faced consequence of her actions, and even now she fears that her children were harmed from her own grief despite greatest efforts to be there.
And today's experiences would reflect all the same, a child collapsed on the beach, broken and confused, senses taken from under her, everything spilling out, uncontrollably. The only difference was, Dee was an adult now, and it was not her that'd been found upon the shoreline.
The noise of commotion, her son calling out. She leaves the kitchen, approaches the sound. The captain would simply observe for a moment, unnatural for the other so quick to act, so quick to prioritize. But it was still so fresh, and actions were not so natural. And so she observes, taking in the scene, before finally deciding. She walks closer, to the side of her son, taking a better look at Georgia. "She doesn't look hurt," comes her voice calmly, softly. Still, a mother, still trying her hardest to keep everything together. "There's no need for panic. Keep her comfortable." Dee would instruct simply, looking to Paola and offering a nod. "She'll need water." There could be a number of things that'd caused the younger girl to go unconscious, and unfortunately she was not there to witness what any of those may be, and so she goes quiet, waiting for Deniz to answer Paola's question.
NOTHING'S EVER LOST FOREVER, IT'S JUST HIDING IN THE RECESS OF YOUR MIND AND WHEN YOU NEED IT, IT WILL COME TO YOU AT NIGHT. I MISS THE YELLOW. I MISS THE YELLING AND THE SHAKEDOWN. I'M NOT COMPLAINING, NO, I GOT A BETTER SET OF KNIVES NOW. I MISS MY DRUMMER, MY DEAD STEPBROTHER, AND THE PIT CROWD. AND CHUCK AND MATTY - IF THEY COULD SEE ME THEY'D BE SO PROUD.