Anchor

Blue skies stretched on over the horizon, the sun set high at its peak. It was just transitioning to the afternoon, where warmth replaced the cool morning air and colored the world in bright and saturated hues. The salt-filled breeze brushed over tanned skin, gently disrupting short, coarse hairs against his scalp. The grass was soft and moist beneath, cradling his head and tired body. His breaths drew in and out with ease, even and relaxed. It was perfect. He could lay here forever and never tire of it. If only time would stand still. “Jude--!” Musical and playful, her voice was, albeit distant. The footfalls approaching were light like a dancer’s, coming closer still until he could feel the presence of another’s foot near either side of him. His eyelids parted open into warm slits of crimson. There, above him, was her silhouette, the light behind her blinding him from making out her features. But he hardly needed to see her to know who it was. The shape of her wisping locks of raven hair were enough, her ears alert, fluttering slightly each time the wind caressed one. “Jude,” more audible, it came, the tone almost chiding, though full of humor and warmth. “Wake up now. We have to go back.” He felt her bare fingers touch his face, the pads of her digits running over the scarring over his features. There was blood on her touch as she drew back, but for some reason this didn’t alarm him. “Wake up…,” she repeated softly, a little more pleading. He didn’t understand; he was far from asleep by now, being able to watch her contently as he was, regardless if she was veiled in the blinding sun. But, for some reason, he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t find the strength or will to move... “Wake up!” An order now. Almost desperate. Her hands were on his chest, shaking him slightly. He couldn’t reach out to her. She started beating on his torso with balled fists. His breaths were growing anxious, the situation slowly sinking in, filling him with anxiety. “Wake up!” Why couldn’t she see he was awake? Why couldn’t he reassure her he was alright? And most of all, why couldn’t he move?! “w A k E u P - - - !” Her words screeched against the sudden gale that tore through, piercing his ears, ringing in an echo as she screamed. It seemed to tear the very foundation from their feet, the light behind her engulfing their surroundings like a blast. He wanted to press his hands to his ears and squeeze his eyes shut, but all he could do was stare in horror as her form was revealed in the flash. Some gray creature, with nothing but whites in her traumatized gaze, jaw stretching off her face until it was peeling off the weathered, bloated corpse that she was... - - - - Anchor jarred awake against the floor in a cold sweat, eyes wide and reflecting the same horror at what he had just witnessed. His irises were brighter than usual, but slowly dimmed as he drew in ragged, shuddering inhales. A whispered curse passed his lips as he reached up shakily, chains dragging from the restraints against his wrists. His quaking fingers raked through his coarse, black hair before sliding back down his flushed and contorted features. A dry swallow then, pressing a palm to the cold earth to push himself up. It was an effort; he was still incredibly weak after the second fight. The poison wielder had been more of a challenge than the pirate had hoped and left him terribly dehydrated after his body had expelled much fluid trying to rid itself of the toxins his knife-like nails had produced. Though… he supposed he himself was to blame for half of it; using his own poisonous body to end the bastard’s life. It earned him his victory, but the cost was great. In this condition, he wasn’t sure if he’d have the strength to contend. Not like this. [“He’s had a good run so far… but may I suggest enhancements at this point?”] Nagakane’s words floated into his memory like an echo. Anchor’s fingers curled into weak, trembling fists. His body was already ailing from the years in the mines from years past. What would something like this do to him? He felt... nervous. And he hated it. He hated feeling that familiar sensation of uncertainty when it came to him and his own. It was his life. It was his body. It was his. [“... You will understand one thing.”] It was Elam’s voice now that came to surface. Anchor could still feel the throbbing pain against his throat as the other’s fingers dug in against it from under the metal circlet, squeezing along the fresh gashes from his recent fight. He could still smell Grave’s breath hissing against his skin, [Your life is mine. The moment you betrayed me, then walked right back into my den trying to protect some helpless doe that was mine for the taking. You just haven’t realized it yet. You will kill for me. Someday soon,] [“Even that doe.”] Anchor’s fists slammed into the cavern floor. It hurt. He didn’t care. Even though the words had passed, he still felt the same anger that had nearly taken him all over again. His breaths shook from his nostrils, growing in intensity until he growled in frustration. His temper threw him into a fit. He raked his heels along the ground away from from the cavern wall his ankles and wrists were chained to. The metal dug into his already raw skin as he thrashed and yanked, as if he’d somehow break from the very earth it was embedded in. Grunts and seethes of frustration poured from his lips and between his gritted teeth. His pale, sick flesh went flush for his effort. His body contorted this way and that, twisting legs and shoulders in a mad lash like some wild animal. At some point, Anchor released some violent outcry while he jerked repeatedly against his restraints. His legs gave out. Anchor’s knees collided into the ground, his rasping roar weathering into pained and exhausted gasps. He still pulled desperately, though with less ferocity, with what strength he had left in his torso and arms. The rattling of the chains went on for a few more minutes, before gradually stilling, replaced with the sound of his harsh and labored breaths. He stared out towards the cell bars in front of him, eyes wide with the recent, blind madness as his visible breaths panted out and dispersed into the cold air around him. But Anchor’s disposition twisted slowly; brows creasing over the anguished lines against his forehead. He felt it suddenly… That dreadful feeling he never wanted to feel again. The feeling that kept him submissive for years in That Place. The feeling of control being ripped from his fingertips. Helpless. And SLAM went his head. He had dipped it suddenly, letting his forehead collide into the ground punishingly. That awful feeling passed. Because to hell with it. He was not a child. And he was most definitely not a slave. Not to his past, and certainly not now. To Hells with Shael. To Hells with Elam Grave. He couldn’t trust either of them and he certainly couldn’t count on another to pull him through the gutter that was this world. He didn’t get this far riding on coattails or having his hand held through the darkness. Anchor dragged himself tooth and nail; through blood, piss, and shit. Anchor was still breathing laboriously as he lifted his bruising head off from the stone below. There was still a madness to his countenance as he lifted a palm to his mouth, wiping away the slaver and sweat there from his recent fit. His hand lingered over his lips, eyes darting about searchingly. If Elam Grave could not stand on equal ground with him... If they could not work together... Then he would have to die. Just as all others that got in his way. He would godsdamn crush him and whatever he was trying to build here. He would tear everything from his fucking greedy fingers… ...But how…? There was a flicker in his peripheral, beckoning for his attention like the dull light of a firefly. His jaw set slowly as his gaze panned over, breaths easing from his nose as his palm slowly lowered from his features and back to the cavern floor. It slid over with a light rake of chains following behind, his fingers outstretching to the small little crystal embedded into the earth there. The tip of his calloused, grimy digit made contact tentatively, like testing the temperature of a stagnant pool of water. He traced the shape down, following the veins that had become a familiar sight in this mountain. It was gentle, the way his finger drew over the patterns, going from one crystal to the next, towards his side and behind him and back to the wall where they seemed all the more abundant. Anchor’s form rotated in place to follow, palms sliding up the walls and over, eyes flickering over the different portions of the cavern wall like it were a canvas and he was the hungry artist trying to decide where to start. All of these… they all went through these caverns. They might stretch through the entirety and beyond. An odd smile quirked up Anchor’s lips on one end. More intently, he pressed his palms against the wall, brows drawing together. Sweat beaded from his temple and slid down the dark and purple bruises marring half his features. His breathing picked up again and an unearthly static sparked between his knuckles and contact along the crystals and stone. [“...Another use of such ability will kill him.”] Anchor paused, that energy in the air fizzling out as more of Nagakane’s words seeped into his thoughts. He pulled his touch away slowly, looking down at his trembling hands. They weren’t shaking from fear or rage. It was simply strain and the pain wracking his abused form. That’s right. He was far too weak. He didn’t have enough within him. Yet. A soft exhale puffed out of his nostrils and, after a moment of reluctance, Anchor turned from the wall and let his scarred back lean against it instead. Not yet. But soon. He supposed he would get whatever enhancements Elam Grave and the Curator spoke of. And then… Then he would show them what the monster they created could do.

Anchor’s awakening was proceeded by the following: first, pain. A debilitating amount of it. Its origin seemed to pulse greatly from around his leg, where an immense pressure was constricting around the fresh stitches along his thigh. His wounded back and shoulder were next to follow, from bolting upright in his shock, then his lungs in the strained gasp. Confusion followed, immediately giving in to alarm and anger. He felt that familiar heat rise inside, but before it boiled over and clouded his mind, a firm slap snapped his head over an ilm. The hyur blinked, blurry gaze readjusting and looking over towards the perpetrator, Brick, his quartermaster. Or tried, rather, since a set of clothes were smacking into his features, blinding him again. “Bastard,” he managed out in a wheeze while he shakily reached to remove the fresh attire from his head. Hells, he felt weak. Aggravating. His voice was also grating and he noted then how much his chest ached when he spoke. “Prepare to disembark, Saltborn. In the meantime. Girl. Get out.” Girl…? Oh right. That wench, Nabi. She had been here with him, hadn’t she? Anchor vaguely recalled having woken up prior since their departure from Isari, but he could scarcely remember the details of it. His teeth clenched as he reached up with his better arm, holding his head while looking around through hazy vision. He still had that sleep draught in his blood. Frustrating. There was a shuffling noise of loose paper, as if was being exchanged. “He isn't fully recovered yet, and these would help.” Nabi’s voice, but Anchor hardly paid mind, trying to regain his bearings. He was below deck, in the crew’s quarters. It was its usually murky darkness, the only lightsource currently a dim lantern by the entrance to the cramped space. It had been rearranged; Anchor was on one of the corner cots, it having been dragged to the center of the room. There were a couple more that had been shifted around closer to his own for reasons he couldn’t discern yet. The hammocks remained untouched, hanging around the corners. His lacerated and bruised body was quite naked, save for the blanket covering him for decency. By the time he attempted to focus his attention on the two au ra in the room, the female was disappearing behind the cabin door--And by door, he meant raggedy curtain. Piece of shit. So, he turned his crimson gaze to the towering male in the room instead, immediately glowering. “Fuckin’ hells be your problem??” All the pain had Anchor’s rasping voice rising in aggravation. “My first is being you have yet to put clothes on,” Brick offered mildly, eyeing the set in Anchor’s blanketed lap. “And it’s quite the eyesore.” The wounded pirate scoffed, impatiently tossed aside the blankets and, much to the protest of his body, shifted his legs around to begin amending the whole bare situation. Anchor’s breaths came out hard and strained. It didn’t go unnoticed by the stoic au ra, but he continued nonetheless. “My second being you may have cost us future business. And, quite possibly, rewarded us future problems.” Another incredulous huff resounded as Anchor let his feet settle to the floor with a wince, pulling loose pants up over his hips and tying them off. “Good riddance to it then, damn bastard nearly sent us off to a deathtrap if’n I remember rightly the last or so time.” Though, he only half-meant it. Dangerous or potentially dangerous work wasn’t unknown or uncommon to the Ironsong crew. “It was quick work, for the most part, and regardless of the trouble, it paid well.” There was little comment on that. “Do you even remember what happened?” Huh. That question sounded familiar. Probably because Nabi had asked him the same thing. “More or less,” Anchor grumbled. It was an odd remembrance. Fragmented, in a way; blurry between more specific acts. It was not unlike points along a string, places more distinct when either his blade had cut through flesh or the times his own had been. There was no recollection of satisfaction or victory though, no matter how many bodies dropped that day. Brick nodded, “Well, while you were showering in the blood of our associate’s business partners, I was having a friendly chat with one of Grave’s men.” Anchor narrowed his gaze over at Brick as he carefully situated a loose hanten jacket over his shoulders. So he had missed one. That part, he hadn’t been aware of. The Ironsong’s quartermaster began to give the details of the discussion Anchor hadn’t been present to. Not that there were many details to cover. At least not as many as the quartermaster would have liked at this point. Brick parroted Torrad, the surviving foreman’s words: the men Anchor had killed had been in the works to start brothel rings and drug trade throughout Doma. The girl--who’s name Brick couldn’t recall if it had ever even been mentioned to him, nor did he really care--had been part of the deal for unknown reasons. And then that, unsurprisingly, with this line of work, Grave and the now deceased Doman Lord, had competing enemies out there. The auri quartermaster moved on to speak of the current situation with Nabi’s family. How they were left with a burning body in a burning clinic, and that the girl knew none of this, only having the threat of her family’s well being hanging over her head for compliance. It would make it easier on them, Brick explained. There was hope it meant no one would come looking for the assumed dead, and it meant the female’s bleeding heart would keep her from doing anything drastic. She seemed the naive sort, at least. Pieces of past jobs and experiences were clicking into place in Anchor’s muddled mind all the while; the crate they delivered to Kugane that had smelled of embalming fluid, the body inside, and then, more recently, the smoke and commotion he had been privy to before setting sail to deliver new cargo; to deliver that wench, Nabi. The quartermaster quieted when he saw Anchor shaking, brows furrowed, holding his palm over his temple. The young pirate’s breath was quivering out through his nose in a controlled fashion, the dark circles under his eyes making the rage glistening in their red, unfocused gaze seem accentuated through his sickly paleness. Brick exhaled wearily, “Aye… an awful lot of trouble to be had for one girl.” He reached into his clothing to fish out a cigar, placing it between his lips. “As it is, for now she is to stay out of Kugane and out of sight.” The au ra pointedly looked down to the last garb Anchor had yet to put on. Which was fine, as it was not meant for him. Said pirate followed his gaze with a raised brow. The fabric was thick and dark. “In that time, you can mind her here as you recover.” He puffed to life his smoke as he lit up with a matchbox. “...” There was a very long pause. At that moment, Anchor’s features blanked, the pain, irritation, and anger being replaced with incredulous confusion. Then, realization followed and all the aggravation returned in full swing, “You be sayin’ bloody what now?” “You will mind the girl, here, in Shirogane.” Brick repeated with a dull stare, “We anchored a bell ago and as I said, you best prepare to disembark.” He took a puff from the large blunt hanging out of his mouth. “It was your decision, after all, regardless of lack of mind or presence in that time. And since you are useless as you are, it seems the most appropriate.” Anchor felt his hackles rise at the insult, true though it may be. His mouth fell open to retort, but Brick continued, cutting off the start of his baffled rage. “In the meantime, we will place a few men here after you and then set to Kugane to do the same. Keep an eye out, make preparations to move if need be.” Brick nodded with finality as if the conversation was over, turning on his heel and started out of the room. The younger pirate was not through with this, however. It was only through the rising blood pressure that he could push himself through the pain and start stumbling after his quartermaster, grabbing the folded dark-colored garb nearby by reflex. Anchor’s pace was inconsistent and somewhat unstable, grasping desperately to nearby walls or door frames and anything else to keep up with the other’s brisk pace. “You be waitin’, ya shite-eatin’ sod! You be sayin’ it yerself--I be useless, aye?” Apparently he could agree with the jab if it worked in his favor, “Ya can’t be havin’ me watch ‘er--she--she’ll run off or some shite! Not that I be carin’ if she did!” “A possibility, but doubtful, given her and her own family’s believed situation. One you can always kindly remind her of.” Anchor’s chest heaved with labored breaths. He was getting light-headed again thanks to the movement in his futile chase; the pain, the anger, the anxiety--it was all so heavy, “I. That.” He cursed when he failed to find the right words, instead just blurting out dubiously, “Where in Hells do I bring ‘er?!” “You are a foolish, infuriating bastard, Saltborn, but hardly an idiot.” Brick didn’t slow his pace, exiting out from below into the blinding, morning light on deck. “Somewhere safe, i imagine, and out of the way.” "--And where the Hells would that be??" Anchor’s attempt to follow was brought to a halt as soon as the walls below deck ended and the shining rays hit his eyes, making him squint so hard they nearly closed. He let out another string of expletives. He knew where to take her. And Brick knew that Anchor knew. And somewhere inside, Anchor knew Brick knew that he knew! Bastard.

Welp. If you're ever around the East, I've got a serious grump that's probably gonna be comin' regularly with bumps and bruises from fights (that he probably started). Would definitely need someone that doesn't stand down to his verbal assaults and abrasive/stubborn behavior. He might need some assistance Eorzea side too(?) if by chance he ever has work/trade that way out.

Top one. Though the lighting is fantastic, so that just may be making my eyes incredibly biased. Since dark hair + light eyes is super beautiful imo, but, I dunno, something about the color choices on the top one just make those blue eyes pop.

[align=center][/align] IGN: Anchor Saltborn Server: Balmung Personality: Short-tempered, foul mouthed, adheres to authority, poor sense of humor. Looking for IC: The Far East contacts. Now that housing is a thing, I’m hoping to get involved with events and such that are Eastern-based, as that is where Anchor is mostly save for a few trips and trades across the sea. Confederate comrades! Would love to have some IC contacts of other confederate groups or individuals, as Anchor is involved with them and pirating in general. Merc groups or individuals. Again for contacts or what have you. Any individual companies really that may hire for extra help in certain security work, bodyguard jobs, general leves and/or acquisition, and what have you. People that don't mind being verbally insulted and punched in the face. J-just kidding. COUGH. Looking for OOC (tumblr): FFXIV RP blogs in general. His dash is pretty empty on here and I’d love to have some people to watch and fill up his dashboard with FFXIV related stuff, aesthetic blogs, whatever. And I certainly don’t care, in this case, if it’s Balmung-based characters or not! Though forewarning if anyone watches this blog in return, it is going to carry dark themes and probably violent gifs and/or just things that connect to Anchor. Who is, in fact, kind of terrible and tortured. I will try regardless to keep things tagged with simple nsfw and such. [align=center]-----[/align] Best way to contact would be via tumblr. Or in game: Anchor Saltborn