“Keys,” Birdie says, tugging on his sleeve. “I want you to throw me in!” “It’s too cold for that, duckling,” he says, prying her off his sleeve. She clings to his leg instead and he sighs. “You’ll catch something.” “No I won’t,” she says with a pout. “Yes, you will,” he laughs. “You’ll freeze your braids off.” He tugs on them affectionately as he speaks and Maura smirks at him from her seat on the bench. “And after Maura put in so much hard work doing them for you.”

Arthur laughs, the tension in him draining out. He picks up his spoon and examines the food Meja brought out. It’s some kind of fish stew over rice, but he’s only ever smelled the spices in the market. Steam is still rising off it, the smell wafting up with and making Arthur’s mouth water. He takes a bite and closes his eyes. The savory flavor is perfectly balanced by salt and and earthy spices, all in a creamy sauce that seems to soothe his whole throat on the way down. He opens his eyes and sees Meja watching him, her brow furrowed a bit. He quickly smiles at her. “It’s delicious,” he says. She smiles back at him, patting his cheek again, and goes back to shelling nuts into a bowl.

The sun's reflection on the water gives his eyes a soft green glow, and with him surrounded by the flowers and leaves, she can almost forget all the blood on his hands. He gives her a soft, sad smile. She curls her fingers against the smooth stone of the statue.

“We’re all worried about Birdie,” Jack says, grim-faced. “You can’t go running off and putting her in danger—” “She’s already in danger!” Fabin shouts, feathers falling from his hair. “How do you know?” Jack shouts back. “Because I can feel her!” Fabin screams, his eyes glowing green. Jack pulls up short and Fabin clutches his chest, his claws digging into his shirt. “Alright? I can feel her, I know she’s in danger—just—get the fuck out of my way!”

Quintus closes his eyes. In the sunlight, everything behind his lids is buttery warm.

Perhaps because they are moving towards a clear goal, or because the breaking dawn casts a soothing light, Quintus speaks for the first time. “It’s not your fault.” [Miriam's] gaze latches on to his, and her large, dark eyes fill with tears. “Or Andromeda’s. Or Camille’s.” Quintus doesn’t know what to do with her tears, so he ignores them. “It’s not even Nikolaos’s fault.”

“What do the others use?” “Honey, sometimes oil,” Quintus listed off, on one hand. “Quills to cover the tips. Tongs of some sort to grasp the arrowhead. Knives to carve away the skin around it.” Nikolaos turns away and retches. “Stop,” he says. “Stop. I’ll find you some quills then, shall I?”

“Do you know most people have twelve ribs on each side?” [Quintus] blusters. “Yet, inexplicably, some don’t. I’ve come across bodies with less, and bodies with more.”

"Take off your pants," Nikolaos says, just for fun. "I ought to kill you," Quintus replies.

Thana was right. She didn’t know how to defend herself. She couldn’t fight. She wasn’t very strong, or fast, or have any type of training that would serve her in a battle. But she could help. She could do something. Something that wasn’t hiding and praying to gods who weren’t listening. Tess ducked under Thana’s arm and shot out the door of the surgery.

Jakub had a sword in one hand, and was tracing patterns in the air with the other. Glittering green trails formed as his fingers danced. He made a pushing motion, and the pattern seemed to catch fire and shoot towards The Glory. It collided with one of her sails and combusted. “Jakub’s a sorcerer?” Tess demanded. Sorcerers were innate magic users who required no training and were exceedingly rare. “Did no one mention that?” Thana asked. Tess didn’t answer. Jakub hurled another glowing pattern at a member of Barros’ crew, this one crackling like lightning, and the slaver collapsed mid-stride.

Rules: find three images to summarize an OC.

Quintus wakes up crying. Around him, their makeshift camp is still, the embers of the fire still smoldering beneath a blanket of ash. The sky is lightening at the horizon, but the remainder of the world is dark, empty of birdsong, of any signs of life. Quintus has one foot still in the dream, floundering. He glances around hurriedly, spotting Miriam curled up in a ball to his left, and then the lump that is Nikolaos’s body, on the right. Everything is fine, he tries to tell himself, lying back down, though the effort that takes is monumental. The night is still, quiet. He doesn’t know how many minutes pass. Each inhale is agonizing. Finally, he throws back his blankets, barely feeling the cold, and crawls across the packed dirt. Nikolaos is on his stomach, facedown, buried in blankets. Just like – just like – Quintus grabs at him, choking a little as he tries to tip Nikolaos’s bulky body over. He’s made heavier still with sleep, and the task isn’t easy, but Quintus is animated by something unholy and works frantically nonetheless. Nikolaos stirs, smacking halfheartedly at him. Quintus can’t believe it, can’t be sure it’s real, so he fusses, trying to get a hand on Nikolaos’s neck, to feel for his pulse – “What the devil is wrong with you?” Nikolaos hisses, propping himself up on one arm, glaring with one eye squinted open. Quintus finds the right spot, presses two fingers there and waits, trying to calm his own jittery nerves. He squeezes his eyes shut, listening, listening, and feels it; one two, one two, a rhythmic, constant beat. Relief streams through him, and he sits back on his heels. When he opens his eyes, Nikolaos is watching him anxiously, wide awake now.