Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fridgetothefire) wrote2013-05-05 05:19 pm
fridgetothefire) wrote2013-05-05 05:19 pm
012 ☣ Open Spam for the island breach
On the Rage:
[It hasn't been so bad, her brief stint on the Rage, the third ship in quick succession that she's grabbed a berth on, this time as a scullery maid instead of a stowaway. Better the open sea and sky than her father's treasure-packed harbor stronghold, bristling with ruffians and strung up with old skeletons. A few people have even been kind to her. But it's still a pirate ship, still part and parcel of his world, and a life she wants nothing to do with. While most of the crew are busy with repairs, scouting the island, or trying to decide what to do about their apparent company on the other side of the Island, Anya prepares to seize her chance and slip away. She packs light, pilfering just enough from the kitchen to get her across the island, a sturdy carving knife, her spare shift and a single book wrapped carefully in oilskin. She walks calmly, unobtrusively, fighting not to blink in the sunlight after the hold, as though she's on some entirely innocuous errand.]
Throughout the island:
[She tries to strike a balance between staying a bit inland from the shore - where she suspects she'll run into more people - and going straight through the unknown and no doubt treacherous terrain through the heart of the island. She is only occasionally successful. She tries to avoid bothering the wildlife as much as she can, but she will not turn back, even when her heart hammers in her chest at every startled caw and rustle in the sweltering underbrush.]
Approaching the Redeemer:
[By now she's a bit of a mess, muddy and scraped, hair tangled, her already-patched clothes a bit worse for the wear. She hasn't got any white cloth, but she holds up her hands when spotted, smiles hopeful and harmless, then, abruptly, starts to cry. She's so close.]
I was, I was captured by pirates, and. Please, I beg your aid.
[It hasn't been so bad, her brief stint on the Rage, the third ship in quick succession that she's grabbed a berth on, this time as a scullery maid instead of a stowaway. Better the open sea and sky than her father's treasure-packed harbor stronghold, bristling with ruffians and strung up with old skeletons. A few people have even been kind to her. But it's still a pirate ship, still part and parcel of his world, and a life she wants nothing to do with. While most of the crew are busy with repairs, scouting the island, or trying to decide what to do about their apparent company on the other side of the Island, Anya prepares to seize her chance and slip away. She packs light, pilfering just enough from the kitchen to get her across the island, a sturdy carving knife, her spare shift and a single book wrapped carefully in oilskin. She walks calmly, unobtrusively, fighting not to blink in the sunlight after the hold, as though she's on some entirely innocuous errand.]
Throughout the island:
[She tries to strike a balance between staying a bit inland from the shore - where she suspects she'll run into more people - and going straight through the unknown and no doubt treacherous terrain through the heart of the island. She is only occasionally successful. She tries to avoid bothering the wildlife as much as she can, but she will not turn back, even when her heart hammers in her chest at every startled caw and rustle in the sweltering underbrush.]
Approaching the Redeemer:
[By now she's a bit of a mess, muddy and scraped, hair tangled, her already-patched clothes a bit worse for the wear. She hasn't got any white cloth, but she holds up her hands when spotted, smiles hopeful and harmless, then, abruptly, starts to cry. She's so close.]
I was, I was captured by pirates, and. Please, I beg your aid.