polylogs | Carcosa, pt. 2

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Carcosa, pt. 2

✖ Carcosa

Ⅰ. CARCOSA
You Are Still Here.

Another month, and you’re still in the city of Carcosa! Isn’t that just wonderful?

You still have access to the city’s temple and the High Temple.

The side effects you may have suffered from throughout the month of May are now at an end - if you had a pesky mask glued to your face the whole time it will now fall off. You might need a little moisturizer, but otherwise you’ll be just fine.

You could sit around inside the relative safety of the temples, of course, but why not get out there and explore the city some more? Come on, grumpypants!

Ⅱ. SPEAK EASY
CW: Optional alcohol consumption.

What kind of pet shop is filled with rambunctious yahoos and hot jazz music at 1 AM? That's right - the best damn pet shop in town! Sidle up to the back door of Curly's Pet Shop and a panel will open enough to reveal a pair of eyes. "What's the password?" you'll be asked. Whatever word first comes to your mind, well, that apparently is correct because you're let in at once.

The front of the building definitely does indeed house fish and birds and kittens, but the back room is definitely not a good place to find a new animal companion; you find yourself in a crowded little room with low lighting and a small bar crammed into one corner. There's seats and some tables, and most importantly there's a band playing jazz music across from the bar.

Why not take a seat and have a drink? It's probably not paint thinner. Probably. Maybe you'll spot some of your fellow Travelers and you can sit and have a chat. Make a new friend who can hold your hair back if you party too hard.

And you better hope that the place doesn’t get raided!

Notes:
1. The drinks are all era-appropriate - you’re not getting Redbull with vodka here - and even if your character has non-human physiology they will work the same as they would on a baseline human. That’s right, your magic or your healing-factor or your vampire blood is no match for these Gin Rickeys!

2. If Curly’s does get raided while you’re there, you can run and hide or choose to engage with the police, who are armed and not too shy about opening fire if you go on the offensive. As with the rest of the regular residents of Carcosa, the officers are human and can be killed. Killing them may affect the colour grading of your Scrywatch depending on the situation. (Is it beneficial to personal growth to kill in order to save someone else, for example? You tell me!)

3. Did you want a pet from the front of the building? Well, just remember that baby turtles and alligators might SEEM like a good idea, but they grow up! Also any animal you take will not travel with you to the next island. So sorry.

Ⅲ. EXPRESSIONISM YOURSELF
CW: Optional paranoia, hallucinations.
If you wander the streets at night, you may find yourself getting turned around. You'll find that the streets have lost their many lights, and the beautiful and delicate art deco architecture has given way to something much more stark and heavy. The buildings are block-like, but they curve in exaggerated ways that hurt the eye if looked at too long. All are in blacks and whites and greys. Nothing looks quite real, but you can walk along just fine. Probably better not to go off alone, though.

Periodically you will encounter that pesky sign of some sort painted on the walls. If you follow the sigils, you will eventually be led to a long staircase that winds down and down until it finally terminates in a large white room lit by a few electric lanterns. There's black paint there, with brushes. Maybe you're feeling creative?

Notes:
1. You’re pretty sick of this stupid sigil, aren’t you? In fact, you consider yourself QUITE the detective and have been searching after its meaning! Or maybe you played Call of Cthulhu a lot in college, you nerd!

Painting the sigil on the wall will cause you to feel disoriented and paranoid until you leave the white room. From that point on you can discover a copy of a play entitled The King In Yellow anywhere in the city you choose. Reading the first act of the play has no effect on you, however if you choose to read beyond the first line of the second act you will spend the rest of the month suffering from periodic hallucinations, often of a tall man in a pallid mask.

2. While there is no compulsion to paint, choosing to work out any of your character’s issues through art therapy can be reflected in your Scrywatch colour if it is significant enough.

Ⅳ. AS FAR BACK AS I CAN REMEMBER, I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A GANGSTER
CW: Optional gun violence, injury.
Art? Theatre? Music? BAH! Boring!

Maybe your tastes are a little more on the dangerous side? Whatever this island may be, it seems to offer plenty of opportunities to get into the seedy underbelly. Maybe you feel the need to steal a car, rob a bank, transport some illegal hooch for a smiling fellow in a yellow fedora. Grab your tommy guns, kids, it's time to outrun the Feds!

Naturally, you could wind up injured having all of this fun, but surely you could get some help from your fellow Travelers, either directly or by having them haul you to some sort of underground doctor. These doctors do exist, although it might take a while to get referred to one by a local.

You might also find yourself under arrest and stuck in an old-timey jail cell for a month. What fun!

Notes:
1. As was stated in the first prompt, the regular residents of Carcosa are normal humans. Killing them is possible and may affect the colour grading of your Scrywatch depending on the situation. Any weapons you find are era-appropriate.

2. You can break out of jail if you’re resourceful enough.

3. The underground doctors aren’t working in a real hospital for a reason. In fact, some of them might be less doctors and more, well. Vets.

You still jamming to that Carcosa playlist?

Network · Logs · OOC · Memes · Plurk

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i. speakeasy;
[ Finally, Rackham thinks, it's a place he finds intimately familiar. The speakeasy's missing the sand and the snake in the tree and, well, the pirates, but it's the Nassau-like energy he really appreciates. There's a hum in the air, a certain vibe of not a crime but also a crime, something Jack drinks up the moment he speaks the password (he'd said it was calico, he's not entirely sure why) and the door opens.

The place is crowded, cramped, foreign but pleasant music in his ears, and as he's waiting for his drink to be fetched he drums his hands on his thighs, a toothy grin surfacing on his face. ]

Finally. [ It's said with relief as he plonks himself down at a table, elbowing himself between two people, and turns to the one on his left whether they like it or not, chatting like they'd been friends for years. ] Some actual fun, with neither pomp nor circumstance hovering around the room like miasma. If I'd want trouble to cloyingly envelop my surroundings, I'd find my way to the nearest whore house.

[ His whore house, to be more precise. But this comes close. He knocks back a drink eagerly: Jack Rackham, social butterfly and extrovert, at your service. ]

Do you think the owners could be convinced to shuffle a few turtle eggs our way? [ He'd seen one on the shelves in a little tank, after all. It never hurts to ask. ]

ii. impressionism yourself;
[ It's certainly appealing, painting something with the instruments provided, but while Jack has always been a connoisseur of good art, he can't actually paint for shit. He's not about to learn, either, not when there's someone else right next to him. He's not lazy, he's just very good at delegating. Made for a great quartermaster for a reason.

Also, he just doesn't want to. Not when he's staring at that white canvas, thinking about that little yellow symbol. ]

I don't suppose that insignia is familiar to you? Other than from the terrible masquerade. [ He hitches his nose up, wrinkling it, still feeling how tight the mask had been. ]

iii. jailbreak; (closed to anne bonny, nate and sam drake)
[ It was bound to happen. Inevitability likes to glide towards the two of them, drawing them closer and close while they remain in blissful ignorance. He just wishes Invetiability didn't also hit them upside the head with the butt of her rifle and without warning, leaving them bleeding out in the streets.

Something like that.

Strange metaphors aside, it really was a matter of time before Jack and Anne wind up being dragged into cells by rather powerful police. Rackham is keenly aware there's blood on his face from when his head had collided with a table courtesy of an officer that looked suspiciously like a humanized version of a ham hock. Talking, apparently, had gotten him nowhere, and neither had Anne's way of doing things after rhetoric failed to calm things down.

They're two of many, and Jack only starts to truly struggle when he realizes he and Anne are both separated--they're put in different cells, something that sends a shock of panic through him as he's shoved into one, tailbone smarting as much as his head, his lanky, thin frame tossed right on his ass. He doesn't assess the cell, not yet, darting up to grab at the cell doors just as they're slammed shut. ]

Anne-- [ he doesn't finish his sentence, doesn't say 'we'll be alright.' He doesn't think he needs to, though he tries in vain to stick his hand out of the bar as far as he can to grab at hers, dramatic and instinctual. He can't reach. ]

iv. wildcard;
[ If you want to plot or have an idea in mind and want a starter for it, hmu at

whitespire or slied me a pm! ]

Edited 2021-06-03 21:58 (UTC)

[Like some sort of liquor-seeking missile, Saxsice had found her way to the speakeasy, vastly relieved that the vibe was much more her speed -- at least compared to the masquerade from last month. God, it had been a month already. A month of sleeping wherever she dropped, wandering the beach up and down like some sort of rescue ship was going to come.

It wasn't. Of course it wasn't.

Hence her seeking distraction in a glass of something clear and sharp-tasting that made her lips numb. A good third into it, Saxsice is embracing the feeling, and the smile she gives to the stranger dropping into the seat beside her is slow and bemused.]

Turtle eggs? S'that some kinda slang I haven't heard of or are you really into exotic food?

[ It does sound like slang, Rackham will give her that--he's pleased the other girl hasn't given him the stink-eye for daring to get a little closer and talk. He's buzzing with energy, mostly from the sheer excitement that comes from being in a place like this. It's his element, even if too landlocked for his tastes. ]

Hardly exotic where I'm from. Expensive, though. [ His brows quirk upwards, almost comically, lips parted. He raises the drink as a silent cheer, taking a sip, and it's awful but hey, he doesn't wince. Booze is booze. ]

An entire month in this gilded cage with fuck all to show for it and it's only now we seem to be reaping any sort of reward--the fete with the masks hardly counts. One is left to wonder when the other shoe will drop.

Ohhh, a man of expensive tastes, I see. [Saxsice raises her drink as well, tilting it towards the man with a bemused smirk, before taking a sip. It burns bad going down, like drinking paint thinner, but at least it isn't the watered-down shit from the ball.] I'll take your word for it. Never had eggs that weren't from a bird, myself.

[Then she sighs, sitting back in her seat, one leg crossing over the other, foot bobbing up and down in unspoken annoyance.] You're tellin' me. I don't even care anymore if somethin' awful happens, cause at least that's somethin'. I hate waitin' around and not knowin' what's gonna happen.

[ Her posture, her way about things--it might as well be a glass of river water amidst a vast ocean of salt. Refreshing. Relaxing, too--his shoulders drop just a bit before he realizes it, shaking his head, commiserating. ]

The absence of trouble serves only to stir up the masses in places like this. [ It's definite agreement, and Jack watches a card game unfold idly as they talk, fingers drumming idly on the table, nearly matching her bouncing leg without realizing it. He squints. ]

But, for now, I don't suppose living in blissful ignorance is necessarily a bad thing, hmmm? If there's more of whatever this alcohol is. Gin. [ He knocks back his drink. ]

Real cryin' shame, that. [Saxsice murmurs this into her glass, taking another long, languid sip. It mellows her, helps her tense shoulders relax for the first time in a real long while. She tilts her head to one side, watches him for a moment, then thrusts a hand out.]

Saxsice King. And I prefer whiskey, if I get a choice. [She rolls her eyes, flicks her hair out of her face.] And clearly I don't, 'bout anythin'.

Jack Rackham. [ Oh, manners, manners, manners. Jack even extends a hand to make up for it, itching for another drink. He knows Anne is somewhere, lurking comfortably in the shadows, probably in a corner. He leans back to give a quick glance around to confirm it.

Yeah, Anne's fine. ]

Wish it was rum. [ Wish it was a lot more things, but he finds his smile genuine as he looks at the girl. She's got balls, she's confident. It's good. She's great. ]

To be underestimated is truly an incredible gift. [ He'd said that before, proud, to someone he once looked up to. His smile softens, fondness in his gaze before he snaps back. ] The one on the left, playing cards. He's cheating. It's almost admirable, given how bad he is at it. Watch his left wrist.

[ Sure enough, the man Jack's described slips what looks to be a fake card from his sleeve and into his hand. ]

[Saxsice takes the offered hand to shake, her own surprisingly coarse for someone who looks as young as she does. She's also got a grip for her, tipsy or no. She follows his gaze, but doesn't catch who it's directed at -- nor does she much mind. There's a hell of a lot of interesting people to watch, after all.

The comment gets a chuckle, and she swirls the woefully pale gin-and-something she holds.] I'd kill one'a those ocean zombies for a decent rum right about now. Specially mixed with something fruity n' unsuspectin'. The kinda thing that knocks you right on your ass.

[To her credit, Saxsice doesn't quite stare at the cheater, but her eyes are wide and impressed once she sees his trick performed. She turns back to Jack, giving him a much more appreciative once-over.] Remind me never to play cards with you. I dunno how to play without cheatin' and I'm way less subtle than that. How'd you know he was playin' dirty?

[ She may have come in with him, but Anne doesn’t have half of the social instinct that Jack does. When he forces his way between patrons at a table she just hangs back, finds herself a shadowy corner close to the bar, and watches from under the brim of her pageboy cap.

She knows he needs this. She doesn’t resent it and she isn’t going to interrupt, but that hardly makes it any more natural for her. She might recognize the mood of this place but she’d never loved the brothel, either. Too much laughing, too much socializing. Too many occasions to be chatted up by strangers or acquaintances alike, and Anne’s just come out to drink. Rather a lot, which would be easier if they’d give her a damn bottle instead of cocktails she makes shorter work of than anyone else in the place.

Still, when he finally gets up from the table and his eyes find hers in her gloomy corner, he gets a gentle expression from her. A sort of ’well? how did it go? sort of look. She wants him to be happy here. At least one of them should be, and he’s always been far more adaptable. ]

The rum here tastes watered. They as boring as they look?

Edited 2021-06-04 10:45 (UTC)

[ He's keenly aware of Anne in the room, even if he doesn't cast a glance at her--Jack talks and Anne watches, it's always been like this, it's a comfortable rhythm. She's doing a fine job of lurking, skulking about in such a way that Jack has always found profoundly beautiful. On occasion he keeps one eye out for men stupid enough to approach her, the ones that seem like they won't take no for an answer, intercepting for their own sakes. None of that today, not when he's far to preoccupied recharging that part of him that craves attention and bustle. Regardless, he's always keenly aware of his other half, or at the very least her general direction. Two halves of a whole.

So he peacocks about, he tells an absolutely riveting tale about one of the last prizes the Ranger crew took before they were unfairly (or fairly, depending on who you talk to) disbanded, and after a few tries of a card game he doesn't fully understand he winds up grabbing another drink. It's a matter of time before he sidles up to his fellow pirate, their eye contact brief but a full conversation: oh, you know, fine, all things considering. ]

I strongly suspect it is. [ Short, curt. He takes a sip anyway. ] Either that or we're the heaviest drinkers on this Godforsaken island. At this point I almost wish Mr. Singleton were here. At least he'd make a show of it. [ He shrugs about the other people, and then casts the other a curious look, silent, one brow raised. Another conversation: How have you been? How have you really been? ]

[ In all fairness, all the alcohol here tastes watered compared to what they're used to. Everything is more refined here and Anne finds it endlessly fascinating and irritating. It isn't like home at all and Anne, despite the luxury, doesn't like the unfamiliar or unpredictable. It's unsettling and unsettled is a mildly dangerous state for Anne to find herself in at all times. ]

You want to make a show of it?

[ A little bit of a grin and a cocked eyebrow that suggests he's probably not being serious but she wouldn't make a bet on it. They've both been known to overstep their tolerances and she's watched more than once as Jack's peacocking turned to outright rooster ruckus, but even she's been careful here. Best to keep the eyes in the back of your head able to focus.

She returns his look by dropping her eyes and shrugging, draining another of the little glasses in one go and giving the room another long look. ]

People sure seem like they're enjoyin' this place. [ Her tone suggests how unwise she finds that notion. How impossible. ] Are you?

I want someone else to make a show of it. Something to break up the perfect monotony of whatever Godforsaken island this truly is.

[ Maybe Singleton's a bad example, but the fact remains: he misses Nassau, he misses the ruckus, the lawlessness. This comes so very close to it, but there's something missing, and it's not the sandy shores or Max or even the constant dirtiness of The Inn.

He figures it out by the time Anne asks if he's enjoying it, face twisting into a half frown, shaking his head. he wants to enjoy it. He should be enjoying himself. He leans in unconsciously, shoulder bumping hers lightly. ]

It's not real. None of it is.

[That space where he's wedging himself? That wasn't supposed to be an additional seat, it was part of the necessary bubble between Sephiroth and the person now on Jack's right. Sephiroth shoots him a glare and shifts away as best he can, checking to make sure the stranger didn't manage to sit on his hair.

He should just give up on this place and leave, but he's being spoken to, and Sephiroth has just enough propriety to listen until curiosity takes over. It's... certainly not the sort of remark people usually make to him, or the way people typically speak to him. If he thought he could be mistaken for anyone, he might have thought that was what had happened.

It still takes him a second to respond.]

...is that some sort of Earth delicacy? [He doesn't know what turtles are.]

[ The glare is water off a duck's back, really--he's used to glares, used to Looks, capital L, especially when he does things like this. All that matters to Rackham at the moment is the fact that he has a beautiful glass of alcohol in his hand and this whole place has the distinct feeling of illegal to it. Truly and utterly home.

He does glance over when the phrase that includes 'earth' is uttered, really taking him in--long silver hair, despite not looking old at all, is the thing that stands out the most. If the statement that he isn't from Earth wasn't a giveaway, his look certainly is, and Jack takes a half-second to let his eyes rake over him with curiousity before returning right back to his usual candor. He slips into the conversation like they'd always been chatting instead of accosting the gentleman only seconds prior. ]

Quite. Soft, a little musky on the aftertaste. Almost as divine as pineapple. [ His eyes narrow slightly, trying to figure out if the other has that in his world. ]

You certainly look like you're enjoying yourself. [ The sarcasm is palpable. ]

[Sephiroth is, at least, no stranger to being stared at. He's learned to ignore it.

There's a slight furrowing of his brows at the mention of pineapple--confused by the comparison of eggs to fruit, although it may read that he doesn't know what pineapple is either. He's not going to mention it, so it's difficult to say.]

...I didn't really come here to enjoy myself. [It's obvious, so there's not much point in pretending otherwise.] I was hoping to learn something.

[ A single brow quirks up on Jack's face, the barest hint of a smile forming on his features, teeth sticking out slightly. ]

The proper way to play cards? [ His tone is light, conversational, ever the social butterfly. ] How to drink properly?

[ Maybe there's something else to it, sure, and Jack casts a glance to the other's wrist, trying to get a glimpse of the other's bracelet, just to check the colour. ]

I don't play cards, and I know how to drink.

[Does he though? Does he? If there's a trick to it beyond "don't drink too much," he isn't aware of it. He doesn't do this, socializing in bars, but if these locals are actually up to something, he wants to know about it. He fails to clarify that, though.

Sepiroth notices the glance, but he isn't trying to hide it--though as a lefty, it is on his right wrist rather than his left. It's yellow, for what it's worth.]

[ She never hates to lose more than when Jack's safety is in the balance as well as hers. It isn't easy letting him down, but she'd known they were as good as taken as soon as his words failed to let them slide through the confrontation unscathed. There had simply been too many of them.

She fights like a cat when they're pulled apart, even sinks her teeth into a forearm before she's cuffed off the man by another fist she couldn't kick herself away from. Tossed inside like an animal, she lands on her hands and knees but that just gives her leverage to spring from and she makes another wild attempt on the door before it's slammed in her face (and nearly on her fingers, as if she needs any more trouble where her hands are concerned). She spits at them as they retreat but she can't spare attention for them once she sees him reaching. ]

Jack.

[ She doesn't do the same. She sees that he can't reach much himself and if his long arms can't do it, hers don't have a chance. Instead, she stares so hard it's half a surprise that her gaze isn't enough to melt the set of bars holding Jack from her all on its own.

It was only a matter of time, though that hardly makes it any easier to stomach. ]

Don't. Ain't no point.

( they weren't supposed to get caught.

of course, that's what all good thieves and criminals tell themselves, but, really: he and nate have been doing this long enough, they shouldn't have gotten caught. especially not by some dimwit roaring twenties cops, but apparently the whole goddamn police department had nothing better to do than chase down two motorcycle thieves. frankly, they should have had the advantage on a goddamn brough superior ss100, should have been able to easily outrun a fucking ford model T, but on an unfamiliar island with only so far to go, apparently the cops had the advantage of coming at them from all directions and cutting them off.

was the chase worth it for getting thrown into a jail cell again? maybe a little bit. it got nate feeling in better spirits for a while, anyway, but sam's obviously not overly fond of the idea of spending the next month behind bars after spending the last decade and then some in the worst kind of panamanian prison. which means, of course, he's been formulating some kind of plan for the last few days, ruminating on all the ways they could conceivably bust out of this place (security is minimal, they could probably get themselves thrown into the infirmary and take out a couple guards, steal their clothes and walk out) — but it would be easier if the guards hadn't separated him from his brother. hard to talk logistics discreetly when nate is in the cell across the way and they only get a few hours of yard time every day to discuss their next move.

then, as luck would have it, things get a whole lot more interesting when the guards toss him a new cellmate. he sits up on his bunk with a start, assessing the newest additions to the carcosa penitentiary. one of them he recognizes: a shock of long red hair, a voice he's not inclined to forget considering how often she'd threatened violence on his person. which can only mean — )

Well, I'll be go to hell. ( his personal feelings about sullivan aside, that particular catchphrase seems especially apt at the moment. he laughs incredulously at the man still trying unsuccessfully to reach across to his companion. ) Jack Rackham?

[ Nate and Sam have been here for a little while now — long enough for Nate to have gotten comfortable in his corner of the cell, legs out in front of him, elbow resting on one knee, head in the hand of the other. Considering escape routes, weak points in the cell's structure, ways of tricking the guards into opening one of their doors so at least one of the Drake brothers might get an advantage to help the other one out. You know, the usual stuff.

This is hardly their first rodeo, and Nate had sworn not long ago that he was absolutely done with this life, so it's a little bit of a sick joke that he's back here all over again. Just like old times, right?

Only when the heavy metal door screeches open in protest and there's a chaotic scuffle does Nate look up. And then someone is unceremoniously thrown into his cell, practically at his feet, before the door closes shut again. The guard scoffs something about 'goddamned, funny looking troublemakers' under his breath and then he and his buddy are gone, the echo of their footsteps fading with the length of the hall. Nate immediately notes the long ginger hair, is about to say something profound or clever or hilarious, when from across the way his brother comments on —

Holy shit. ]

Jack Rackham?

[ That's what he'd just said, right? Nate, too, straightens with a start, glances across the way to find the familiar lanky pirate fruitlessly stretching an arm out through the bars. It's honestly kind of a relief to see another familiar face, despite the circumstances.

Which means ...

Yeah. He's got a pretty good idea of the identity of his new cellmate. ]

Hey, you okay?

[ There are worse things, worse places they could be, Jack is intimately aware--the cell is clean(ish), he has company that isn't a mouse, and he can at least see Anne. He drops his hand from where he'd been reaching but keeps one hand at the bars, fingers curling around the thick metal as he leans.

'Ain't no point,' she says, and she's right, but he'll be fucked if he can't try. He's used to seeing Anne in dangerous positions--often more than he himself is in--but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

Rackham's reminded that there are other people here that aren't himself and his companion when they both say his name almost simultaneously, and he blinks before looking them over. One he recognizes, across the way with Anne--his brow quirks as a hello--and the other he looks over at, brow nestling back onto his features only to furrow. ]

Pleasure to meet you. [ Pleasure to hear my name said like that, more like. ] Shit circumstances, however--it appears that the speakeasy known as Curly's has effectively been assailed. [ His hand comes up to his hairline, and when he feels the familiar wetness of blood, he winces. Great. Just what he needed. ]

To whom do I owe the pleasure? [ He's looking at Sam expectantly. ]

Quentin too doesn't particularly want to. Which is rare because he's a big fan vandalism. It just doesn't have the same appeal when someone, or something, so clearly wants them to it.

"Ugh. Yes. Not on the network huh? That's ok you look a little old timey for that, I won't hold it against you."

"The Yellow King. It's a symbol from literature. A series of 'horror' stories," he throws up air quotes around the word. "People were just easier to scare back in the day I guess."

Edited 2021-06-20 00:00 (UTC)

There's an awful lot to unpack here. The pink hair doesn't phase Jack too much, not after his second month here, though his eyes blink and narrow as the other speaks. Is it the facial hair that gives him the old timey appearance, or the clothes he's absolutely stolen to look like he belongs here? His gaze dips to the other's wrist automatically, trying to spy a colour on the strange bracelets they've been given.

"Not a fan of the books, I take it?" His voice is dry, gaze relaxing only to give the other a bit of a Look.

I won't hold it against you, immediately followed by 'people are easier to scare back then?' The nerve. It's honestly a little admirable, even if the other's being a bit of a shit.

Nerve is the word for it all right and Quentin has more than his share of it.

He shrugs dramatically. "Some things just don't deserve a cult following you know? There's a reason those stories never broke through the classic literature ceiling and it's not an issue of genre," he says like he fancies himself some kind of critic.

His watch emits an orange glow and when he gets the impression his present company is looking for a glimpse he doesn't hesitate to offer up his wrist. "I'm orange. What flavour did you get?"

Edited 2021-06-24 21:38 (UTC)

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Carcosa, pt. 2

Jack Rackham | Black Sails | OTA

speakeasy

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1 - Speakeasy

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i

i love when dw doesn't give me notifs : ' )

always classy, that

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iii. jailbrecc

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ii. impressionism yourself

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