[The pillar of green light flashes just off the horizon, signaling yet another returned from the dead. Just half a blink later, a young woman stands in the forest near you. Already dressed like she belongs here and only looking half like Hell, she cocks a hand on her hip and takes a gander at the scenery.
She seems equal parts confused and amused, like there's a dark joke she won't let you in on. You might get the impression she's always some level of amused.]
An' here I thought my work was done. [Her accent is vaguely English with strong, swinging Caribbean tones.] No rest for the wicked, eh?
[She'd just like to tell God or whatever being was daft enough to bring her back that she does not have any unfinished business, thank you very much, can she go back to sleep now?
No?
Well, alright. Finally done ignoring you, she notes your existence.]
Who're you, then? My spirit guide?
II. Drinks on You
[For anyone keeping one sober lid open, they might notice a woman of indeterminate age sashaying about town like she owns the city next door. Once, she did. It's like slipping into old shoes, taking the same downtrodden paths from home to home, base and back. Although Mary spent most of her time in Nassau and Great Inagua when she was alive, in the end, the reek of piss and rum complimented by rowdy music is the same at every pirate capital.
Only the most well-trained eagle eye would notice that, below her still waters, there's some disgust for the sloth of this place. Allow men to lurk in stagnant, murky waters long enough, gathering flies and algea, and they become stale pond scum themselves. Sloth. It makes men useless, and it reminds her of the fall of Nassau, once her pirate kingdom.
Her sequel has started here, however, and she must make it work. Confidence will get you to the ends of the earth and back, but it's nothing without information. She has no idea how long she's been dead, and Tortuga's unchanging nature doesn't lend itself well to any clues on the year. It's best to get reacquainted with the dregs of the human race.
And so, it's with a heavy boot and a devil-may-care attitude that she slides into the counter at one of the many taverns in town. There isn't a question about her, seemingly only there for the gin.
She orders a drink and holds it to her lips, listening to everything around her.]
III. Magic Sits Heavy in the Gut
[It takes a full month before Mary more than touches her mirror. She's not a superstitious type, but she's seen what the supernatural can do to someone, and the evils for which they can be used. Besides, who really cares about what a bunch of strangers are saying across the world if it's nothing useful?
But it's been a slow day of mucking about on some uncharted little sandbar, and so she drifts to the mirror. Behind her is the sea, the drop of sand, and the blinding Sun. She's since shed her frock coat, which is lying in the sand somewhere beside her, carelessly cast aside.]
Right. We're well past introductions, so let's dive righ' in. How safe d'ye think speakin' on these trinkets are?
[She leans forward, arm across her knee, as if she's about to divulge a great secret. A corner of her lips cutting upwards, whispering dangers, she lowers her voice.]
Who's listenin' in, I wonder?
((still in the process of making actual Mary icons, forgive, I have like...3))
Mary Read | Asscreed: Black Flag
[The pillar of green light flashes just off the horizon, signaling yet another returned from the dead. Just half a blink later, a young woman stands in the forest near you. Already dressed like she belongs here and only looking half like Hell, she cocks a hand on her hip and takes a gander at the scenery.
She seems equal parts confused and amused, like there's a dark joke she won't let you in on. You might get the impression she's always some level of amused.]
An' here I thought my work was done. [Her accent is vaguely English with strong, swinging Caribbean tones.] No rest for the wicked, eh?
[She'd just like to tell God or whatever being was daft enough to bring her back that she does not have any unfinished business, thank you very much, can she go back to sleep now?
No?
Well, alright. Finally done ignoring you, she notes your existence.]
Who're you, then? My spirit guide?
II. Drinks on You
[For anyone keeping one sober lid open, they might notice a woman of indeterminate age sashaying about town like she owns the city next door. Once, she did. It's like slipping into old shoes, taking the same downtrodden paths from home to home, base and back. Although Mary spent most of her time in Nassau and Great Inagua when she was alive, in the end, the reek of piss and rum complimented by rowdy music is the same at every pirate capital.
Only the most well-trained eagle eye would notice that, below her still waters, there's some disgust for the sloth of this place. Allow men to lurk in stagnant, murky waters long enough, gathering flies and algea, and they become stale pond scum themselves. Sloth. It makes men useless, and it reminds her of the fall of Nassau, once her pirate kingdom.
Her sequel has started here, however, and she must make it work. Confidence will get you to the ends of the earth and back, but it's nothing without information. She has no idea how long she's been dead, and Tortuga's unchanging nature doesn't lend itself well to any clues on the year. It's best to get reacquainted with the dregs of the human race.
And so, it's with a heavy boot and a devil-may-care attitude that she slides into the counter at one of the many taverns in town. There isn't a question about her, seemingly only there for the gin.
She orders a drink and holds it to her lips, listening to everything around her.]
III. Magic Sits Heavy in the Gut
[It takes a full month before Mary more than touches her mirror. She's not a superstitious type, but she's seen what the supernatural can do to someone, and the evils for which they can be used. Besides, who really cares about what a bunch of strangers are saying across the world if it's nothing useful?
But it's been a slow day of mucking about on some uncharted little sandbar, and so she drifts to the mirror. Behind her is the sea, the drop of sand, and the blinding Sun. She's since shed her frock coat, which is lying in the sand somewhere beside her, carelessly cast aside.]
Right. We're well past introductions, so let's dive righ' in. How safe d'ye think speakin' on these trinkets are?
[She leans forward, arm across her knee, as if she's about to divulge a great secret. A corner of her lips cutting upwards, whispering dangers, she lowers her voice.]
Who's listenin' in, I wonder?
((still in the process of making actual Mary icons, forgive, I have like...3))