- Posts
- 358
((14 Firstfall, 35 Dragon; Night; @Nicolette O'Hara ))
The night was clear, with only a few wispy clouds drifting across the face of the waxing moon and stars glittering like diamonds overhead. It would have been a perfect night to be at sea.
But that would require a ship with – you know – sails.
Celeste sat on the quarterdeck facing the Wicked Grace's wheel, her back against the aft rail and her head tipped back so that she was looking at the sky, instead of the mastless deck of her ship. One knee was drawn up to her chest with an arm looped around it, the other stretched out before her. The bottle sitting open on the deck beside her was not wine, but twelve-year-old oak-aged Nevarran single-malt whiskey; she always kept at least one bottle in stock, though she only broke into it two nights a year.
She lifted the bottle to her lips, let the smoky flavor of the amber liquid roll over her tongue and down her throat, feeling the smoke flare into a gentle flame in her gut. Even sipping, she'd made a good dent in the level in the bottle, though she was well shy of her limits.
She wasn't brooding … not really. The crew knew what night this was, knew to give Celeste her space. Gideon was the only one that would have attempted to draw her out and had any real chance of succeeding … but he was in Antiva, and it would be another fucking month before they could ditch Kirkwall and get back to business – and play – as usual.
One month.
Celeste huffed a sigh and took another sip of the whiskey.
The night was clear, with only a few wispy clouds drifting across the face of the waxing moon and stars glittering like diamonds overhead. It would have been a perfect night to be at sea.
But that would require a ship with – you know – sails.
Celeste sat on the quarterdeck facing the Wicked Grace's wheel, her back against the aft rail and her head tipped back so that she was looking at the sky, instead of the mastless deck of her ship. One knee was drawn up to her chest with an arm looped around it, the other stretched out before her. The bottle sitting open on the deck beside her was not wine, but twelve-year-old oak-aged Nevarran single-malt whiskey; she always kept at least one bottle in stock, though she only broke into it two nights a year.
She lifted the bottle to her lips, let the smoky flavor of the amber liquid roll over her tongue and down her throat, feeling the smoke flare into a gentle flame in her gut. Even sipping, she'd made a good dent in the level in the bottle, though she was well shy of her limits.
She wasn't brooding … not really. The crew knew what night this was, knew to give Celeste her space. Gideon was the only one that would have attempted to draw her out and had any real chance of succeeding … but he was in Antiva, and it would be another fucking month before they could ditch Kirkwall and get back to business – and play – as usual.
One month.
Celeste huffed a sigh and took another sip of the whiskey.
Last edited: