Chapter Text
“The Skies cried out. The Clouds burned. The Earth trembled. The Seas rose. It sang, and in it’s song it delighted. In the tongue of mortals, it is Aralagath, the Bearer of the Spheres, the Herald of The Reckoning.” - The Book of Nothing.
Although both Humanity and Trollkind were once in the throes of vicious hostilities, and at times in all out war, when the Reckoning came, everything changed. The Great Alternian Empire sank beneath the waves (a mere inconvenience to the Empress and the Nautical Aristocracy were it not for the fact that everything was also crumbling down), and the Federation went with it. Skaia itself split apart and cracked, and the Sky rained fire. But what truly nailed the coffin for civilisations was the Flood.
The seas rose up, swallowing everything. Billions drowned, unable to get to ground high enough. Those who survived were fortunate enough to live close enough to mountain peaks high enough that most considered it sheer insanity to live there, or fled to the two ancient cities - Derse and Prospit.
They were relics of the Carapacean Empire, who were once the rulers and sole denizens of Skaia, long before both Humanity or Trollkind were even capable of conscious thought. They mysteriously disappeared, and no amount of Archaeological research discovered why - the most prominent ruins they left behind being the aforementioned two great cities.
Prospit, the City of the Sky, was a marvel of Carapacean Technology. It was originally set within stone, on a relatively large plateau, and during the events of the Reckoning, man and troll alike fled to it in the hopes that it would save them from the Flood. It did. When the plateau split apart, the City came to life, rising up above the rising ocean and taking to the skies.
Derse was once part of the mainland, albeit somewhat raised. Those who fled to Derse originally did so quite early in the Reckoning, but their choice of refuge was vindicated when the ground cracked apart and the seas rose sufficiently - Derse, now free of it’s earthy anchors, revealed itself to be perfectly designed for floating across the now-gargantuan seas.
But those who lived in Prospit and Derse were not the only ones to survive. A large plateau, high in the sky became a refuge for hundreds, and those who managed to flee to mountainsides high enough to escape the Flood (and most opted for the highest mountains they could find) began to settle back into a semblance of Civilisation.
Scattered and scared, the hostilities that once burned furiously were forgotten, and old ways of life and knowledge rendered mere tales and stories. Trollkind narrowly avoided extinction due to the diligence of a Jadeblood now known as the Mother of All, who hatched a Matriorb in a large, relatively hollow mountain. At first, navigation was primarily naval, but the plentiful fog that clung to the ocean surface that now encompassed nearly all of Skaia made even the brightest Lighthouse’s a faint glow, a barely-there will’o’wisp.
The solution came from studying the technology that allowed Prospit to fly, and before long, Airships became the mainstream method of travel, capable of rising above the thick fog and clouds, and easily travelling between the high peaks and the cities.
This is the Age of the Sky, where those who seek wings are the ones who make the world turn.
Gamzee Makara was relaxing outside of his Hive, at the base of a small spire. Life for him was solitary, devoid of any real bonds or communication with any other life forms except those of the fish he occasionally hunted, and the voices that sang in his thinkpan. He didn’t like the voices very much, and he found that in the absence of a moirail or even his lusus, consuming sopor slime dulled their shrieking songs and calmed his mind. This wasn’t all to say that he was completely cut off from society - every sweep or so he’d go to the nearest seaport, to sell some fish, get some news, and maybe buy something nice for Goatdad. Not that he ever appeared.
His pleasant, idyllic little slice of life had come crumbling down rather abruptly when his little hive had been attacked.
Corsairs. Buccaneers. Pillagers and Plunderers, Slavers and Smugglers. Pirates. They were after one thing and one thing alone; Purpleblooded Trolls, a niche market in the Slave Trade. Capturing Purple’s was not easy. Resilient psychically and physically, an Purple at it’s peak could easily fight off a small army, and even an adolescent was enough to fight off the average crew of an Airship.
They were not the average crew of an Airship.
They were, above and beyond, experienced at what they did. Many would-be Slavers assumed that Purples, with their proclivity to solitary, desolate Hive locations and general lack of anyone around to help, were easy prey. Those Slavers did not have long or fulfilling careers. But those who could claim to make a living from capturing Purples were more than just a cut above the rest. They burst into his Hive, carefully carried down with psionics, to confront him. Give a Purple warning you were coming, and half of them will dive into the ocean. The other half will meet you at the door. They were a team of five - two trolls (one rustblood, and a blueblood) and three humans, splattered with purpleblood - the blood of his Lusus. The rustblood crackled with psychic energy, and attempted to hold him in place whilst the other four lassoed him with ropes and electrowhips. Bursts of electricity designed not to kill but stun flashed through the whip, held by what was apparently the leader of small group, a tall human with a scarred face. They killed his father, his caretaker and came to take him away and bind him, sell him into service or worse, and a part of him was hurt, so painfully hurt. Goatdad was dead.
So he called on the Rage.
They were not expecting him to - how could they? Chucklevoodoo’s they were prepared for, but raw Rage? It screamed in his thinkpan, it’s horrible wailing echoed by his own screech. He let it splay out between his fingers and spark between his horns. He let it sing down the whips and chains and ropes, burning fingers and hands, flashing dangerously in his eyes. Unbound and unbroken, but most of all, unforgiving, he counter-attacked. He can’t reach his clubs but fists and claws will work just fine to break bones and rend flesh. A burst of Rage has the Psionic reeling, and a straight punch cracks the troll’s ribs. The electrowhip lashes at his back, discharging with enough voltage to put down a trunkbeast, but Gamzee is angry and the Rage sings in his blood, and he wraps the long thin whip around his arm and pulls harshly, the startled and mildly surprised human finding himself careening towards a very angry Purple. A backhand sends him back towards the wall of Hive with a crunch.
He turns to face the remaining three, but something crackles in his pan and he can’t think, stumbling back slightly, static in his ears and hissing in his eyes, and the world goes unfocused. He can’t see the Blueblood glowing softly with a faint aura of Mind, scrambling the taller troll’s senses just enough that the Rustblood can regain his psionic hold as an electrowhip curls around the sensitive horns. A burst of electricity, stronger again, causes Gamzee to scream as he slips into blissful unconsciousness.
When he wakes again, he is already in bound in a cage, and the Leader, who Gamzee is somewhat proud to see is on crutches, is talking with a Goldblood with Spring-like horns. Still groggy, the only things he can catch are ‘high price’ and ‘pit fighter’. He spends an entire sweep in the cage, being fed once a day by the Goldblood quite literally shoving legs of meat into his face. The chains are loosened only when the Goldblood forcefully injects him with sopor, and tightened before he awakens from his forced slumber.
There are few prospective buyers. Purples are a niche market, and those who seek to buy them as slaves are either incredibly discerning or completely naive about their purchase. Those few who come to inspect him are the former, and can recognise the traces of Rage that linger around him. A Purple capable of manipulating Rage energy, be it learned or simply natural talent, was too dangerous for many. Keeping a Purple slave was a lesson in precautions as it was, no need to add magically apt to the list of things you had to protect from and watch out for. It’s mild surprise that reaches his eyes and tempers his undying fury when a stocky human, with jet black hair and the sun-kissed tan of a Prospitian, comes to view him.
He’s being dragged along by his ‘owner’, the Goldblood with spring horns, and it doesn’t look like he’s after a slave of any kind, but when their eyes meet, there’s a spark of something and now he’s interested. Gamzee, for his part, can smell the Breath on the human, so thick and strong as it was, a powerful but not unpleasant aroma that reminded him vaguely of autumn sea breezes. The human, a captain of an airship from his coat and bandana, is a wielder of the Breath and a damn powerful one. Electric blue eyes gaze calmly into his roiling purple irises from behind a pair of rectangular glasses, and they study each other in mutual interest. The human, he notes, could hardly be called weak or spindly based on the size of his arms. It’s hard to see any real definition of his body under the coat, but he looked thickset and relatively stocky, and most of it would have to be muscle to haul around the large hammer slung across his back. The hair is very much wildly messy, seemingly holding a large conference of short cowlicks going every which way. ‘Green’ seemed to be his favourite colour, based on the abundance of it in his clothing - a green shirt, green pants, and a green bandana. The coat was a soft blue. a shade closer to the sky than his eyes but otherwise caught in between them, and the blunt teeth that he always found so odd in what he had seen of humans were pronounced in the incisors - a condition he would later learn was colloquially known as ‘buckteeth’.
The human seems to come to some sort of conclusion, because he just suddenly declares “I’ll take him.”
The hustle and bustle of Port Tyras was as familiar to John Egbert as the back of his hand. As Captain of his airship, the imaginatively named (if he did say so himself), 'The Windy Thing', he had docked in the biggest port this side of the Veil to resupply. He wasn't doing the resupplying himself, per se, that was the job of Karkat Vantas, his Quartermaster and Cook. The nubby-horned troll insisted on performing all supply runs himself, so as not to be 'INFLUENCED BY YOUR STUPID FUCKING SHITPANNED IDEAS'; by which he was probably referencing the last time they had let him do the supplying. It wasn't his fault there was a simply irresistible special on cakes, now was it? Of course not.
But that didn't mean he couldn't go shopping, only that he couldn't go shopping for everyone. And everyone went shopping. It was Port Tyras! The only place where you could sell your grandmother to buy a cage full of fluffy rodents and then enter that cage full of rodents into a brutal gladiator contest where the winner won the grand prize of a bucket full of mind altering substances. Okay, so maybe he was exaggerating a little – you could get a lot more than a cage full of fluffy rodents for a grandmother, but that really depended on your grandmother. Not that he was advocating that people sell their grandmothers for fluffy rodents (no matter how fluffy) mind! Only that Port Tyras was a place where you could buy or sell anything you could conceive of.
If you couldn't at least buy knowledge of whatever you were after, you either didn't have enough money or it just didn't exist. And even then, in the latter case, people still might sell you blatant lies.
But he wasn't actually sure what he was after. He wasn't particularly hungry, and he didn't really have an interest in the darker side of Port Tyras. He supposed he might like to pick up some bric-a-brac for his cabin. Or a pet! What kind of pet could he get? Cats were out of the question. Jade would probably chase it around. Another dog was probably a bad idea – Becquerel was a handful as it was. Maybe one of those weird animals that used to live in the Troll lands? Nah, definitely a bad idea. He had no idea how to take care of those. He frowned, scratching his chin. Well, he'd take a look anyway. Maybe something would jump out at him? Possibly even literally!
“Esteemed Pirate Captain sir, you are coming to look for wonderful beasts yes?” He frowned, brow wrinkling as he felt a hand tug on the sleeve of his coat. It was a Troll, a goldblood from the colour of his irises. He had small curly horns, looking like a pair of pointed springs heading directly upwards, and a cheerfully smiling face. “Well yes, but I'm not a Pirate!” Why did everyone keep assuming he was a Pirate? So he had a fancy coat, and a bandana around his forehead, and maybe he was carrying a big hammer across his back, but he wasn't a Pirate! He was just a Sky Captain! The Goldblood winked at him. “Of course, Captain sir, of course.” His tone was conspiratorial, as if he was sharing in on some secret joke. He wasn't a damn Pirate!
Reluctantly, he let the Goldblood drag him away, presumably to his own store or whatever passed for it. It couldn't hurt! Well... the Goldblood seemed to believe he was a Pirate Captain, and said 'beasts'. Trolls tended to refer to all animals as 'beasts', mostly because when Alternia was still around, their wildlife was a lot more vicious. Still, it kind of worried him slightly. He didn't want a pet tiger or a pouncebeast. He wanted cute, and fluffy, and cuddly and definitely not sharp and angry.
What he got, he found, was a strange mix of both.
“Good, yes? Strong, powerful! Excellent pit fighter if temperamental. They captured it on the coastline of the Furthest Ring. No buyers yet, but definitely worth the investment! Champion Figher, I think.” 'It' was tall. Very tall. Taller than the cage he was imprisoned in, that was for sure. He was practically wrapped in chains, arms and legs strung out and taut, unable to so much as twitch. Purple eyes stared at them almost lazily, the way a lion did because it knew it couldn't reach them. Hatred and fury was there, controlled and restrained, not out of choice, but out of necessity. Twisted, candy-corn coloured horns stretched up from the messy tendrils of black hair, resembling almost a goat's horns. For some reason, John's first reaction was 'I want to touch them'.
He crouched down, leaning close to the bars, studying the troll's face. It wasn't uncommon for those unfortunate enough to be captured by Slavers to be sold at Port Tyras, human and troll alike. He had never seen a Purpleblood in person before – especially not so close! Purples grew up close to the sea, often in the great floating city of Derse or on the base of spires.
“I'll take him.” He said suddenly, gazing into those violent eyes. The goldblood blinked before grinning widely. Before he could even specify a price, John just flung a hefty bag of gold coins at him. “Oh! Will sir be requiring assistance in transporting-” John shrugged him off, clapping his hands together. “I'll be fine.” He said quietly, eyes flashing with a cerulean hue, and he began to Breathe.
Magic was something John was lucky enough to have a natural talent for. Wispy tendrils of light blue energy coalesced and danced, whirling and twirling, wrapping themselves around the bars of the cage and around the cage itself. With an irreverent gesture from John, it began to float. The chained passenger seemed only mildly startled but otherwise, did nothing. The Goldblood let out a startled squeak and scrabbled away slightly. Magic was frightening and relatively rare since the Reckoning. It was generally wielded by those who had a natural talent for it, or those who had the drive and aptitude to learn it. It was also, as a general rule, used to destroy one's enemies.
The Breath lent itself to warfare easily in the culture of the Sky and the Spires, so to witness it used so casually and easily would be frightening to the people that called Port Tyras home. If John willed it, he could probably bring the entire Spire crashing to the ground unless someone stopped him. He didn't, however, will it at all and in all likelihood, would not in the near future.
The walk back to his airship was an interesting experience, full of people cowering and even some fleeing.
“John, I know you’re a complete fucking tool who couldn’t tell his own waste chute from his bulge, but what in the name of the SPHERES MADE YOU BELIEVE THAT THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA?!” John’s ‘impulse buy’ is met with vivid resistance from his Quartermaster. Wearing a white duster and with one pencil behind a pointed ear and another precariously held between claw-tipped fingers. His expression is one of impressive vitriol, a sublime and uniquely Karkat-like blend of irritation, frustration and sheer exasperation as he stares almost dumbfounded at his Captain’s new ‘slave’. The assembled dock workers, a motley of trolls and humans of all kinds, pause in their task of loading the Airship with the various things that the mutant troll deemed necessary for their continued travels, Karkat’s watchful eye distracted by John’s ridiculousness.
The Captain of ‘The Windy Thing’ only rolled his eyes behind his glasses, and made a disinterested noise. “Jeez, relax Karkat.” A vein begins to bulge above the troll’s left eye.
“Relax? RELAX?! YOU JUST BOUGHT A FUCKING PURPLEBLOOD YOU TAINTSUCKING BAG OF LIMPID DICKS! HOW CAN I FUCKING RELAX WHEN MY CAPTAIN IS APPARENTLY SO ASSBACKWARDS IMBECILIC HE DECIDES THAT ‘HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE A GOOD AND WONDERFUL ADDITION TO MY HIDEOUSLY UNCREATIVELY NAMED SHIP? A GIANT MURDERING FUCK!’” John frowned at the nubby-horned quartermaster.
“He’s not a murdering fuck. At least, I don’t think so?”
“... There are no words, Egbert, no words in the lexicon of ANYONE that can properly summarise how utterly moronic you are. I will have to create an entire language on the spot just to properly describe how stupid you are. Thank you for nothing, you pan-deformed amoeba.” His attention was snatched back to his job when the assorted labourers began to snicker. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LITTLE WRIGGLERS LAUGHING AT? I DON’T REMEMBER YOU BEING PAID TO STAND AROUND AND LOOK PRETTY BUT THAT MIGHT BE BECAUSE NONE OF YOU COULD WIN A BEAUTY PAGEANT IF THE ONLY OTHER CONTESTANTS WERE A BUNCH OF GROUND UP CRUSTACEANS! GET BACK TO WORK!” Taking the chance whilst he could, John waved his hand lightly, the cage containing his new crew member (and that’s really what he was) wafting over the heads of everyone and settling nicely on the deck. “I don’t know why you’re so cranky Karkat.” He said offhandedly, grinning brightly at the glare he received. “After all, this is how you joined us as well!”
It was true. Karkat had been sold into slavery by his neighbours after they discovered that he was ‘filthy fucking mutant scum’, and had been taken to a large auction. John was only passing through at the time and had gotten into a fierce competition against a Seadweller (a rare sight) for ‘possession’ of the ‘rare mutant breed’, that had ended ultimately with violence when the Seadweller did not take being outbid too well.
It was a little hypocritical of him to be so against the purchase and what would undoubtedly be the freeing of another being, but John was an ignorant dumbass who didn’t know how dangerous Purple’s were (or people in general). Legends and fables ran like water of the power and reach of the Purple caste before the Reckoning, weaving a story of a behemoth troll known only as the ‘Grand Highblood’ who could crush a grown troll in his fists for fun and ground up grubs for paint. Purples were bad news. He wanted to complain further but he knew that general look about his Captain - he wouldn’t budge from this decision. The entire world could go through a second Reckoning and he wouldn’t give in. Although he’d never admit it (least of all to the idiot’s face), he secretly admired that part of his Captain.
Sighing with reluctant acceptance, he turned back to monitoring the loading of the airship, ticking off each item was it was brought onboard. “... Strider. What the fuck are you doing?” ‘Strider’ was a tall, lanky pale blonde, dressed in very light and flexible plate armour the colour of red dust, and pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. For some reason that Karkat couldn’t fathom, he was also sporting a shiny, completely and utterly obviously fake, moustache. “Eh? Who iz Strideir? This iz Francois, here to load ze supplies.” Karkat tapped his pencil against his clipboard.
“Uh-huh. Right. I believe you.” He glanced down at the particularly large steel barrel the male was rolling up the rampart. “... Is that another barrel of apple juice?”
“Eh? Why are you asking Francois? Francois iz ‘ere only to do ze loading and speak in third poyson!”
“Dave, what accent is that even?” John chimed in, sitting on the rail of the deck, legs kicking about almost childishly. “Who iz ‘Dave’? Francois believes he sounds very attractive and iz eh, probably cool!” ‘Francois’ seemed indignant now, puffing his chest up in ‘anger’.
“Oh my god, Dave, you are so lame!” To accentuate his point, he let loose a small breeze, dislodging ‘Francois’s moustache. ‘Francois’ let out a startled yelp, hands immediately reaching for it with a cry of ‘MY MUZZSTACHE!’. “Damn it Strider, you’re keeping everyone up! Just load the fucking AJ! I’ll let it slide just this once.”
“Aw thanks, Vantas, you’re a peach. I owe you a smooch later.” His ‘Francois’ act forgotten rapidly, the grinning swordsman rolled the large barrel up and began carting it over to the hold.
“Save it for later by which I mean never, Strider. Move it you grubfucking morons! If we could finish sometime today, that would be just fucking super!”
Finding watching a bunch of big sweaty men and women carry crates and barrels to be relatively boring, John turned to his new crew member (and hopefully friend). “So! What do you think of my ship? Preeeetty nifty huh?” He waggled his eyebrows at this, grinning at the bound troll. “Oh! I should probably get your chains undone!” He fumbled in his pockets for a few minutes, before realising, relatively belatedly, that he never got the key. The slave trader was too busy being shocked and frightened by his magical display to give him it. Oh well!
“Um... I may have forgotten to get the key, but that’s okay! If you hold still, I’m pretty sure I can get the chains broken!” He said cheerfully, with that same optimistic smile. Dave paused by the hold, crossing his arms with a smirk. Gamzee only blinked owlishly. Even powered by the Rage, he couldn’t even crack these chains - whatever they were made of, they were strong. The Captain of ‘The Windy Thing’ simply grinned brightly and held out his hands. Those same glowing blue tendrils began to waft from his body, snaking inbetween the gaps in the links of the chains, and then when the glowing human clenched his hands into fists and pulled the chains began to strain in all directions simultaneously. He hissed lightly, clenching his fists tighter and calling upon more of the Breath, until he was nearly obscured entirely by a blue haze. He pulled harder and harder but the chain’s refused to give by the tiniest scrap.
Seeing that his new ‘owner’ had reached the limits of his own power, Gamzee decided that perhaps if he wanted to be free of the chains, he had to assist. So he did. His eyes flashed the same bright violet of the Rage, and his arms and legs rippled. Letting out an earsplitting roar, he began to pull at the chains as well, feeling them strain further under their combined efforts.
Still the chains did not break. Not even under the Breath/Rage double reach around Combo x 2 did they so much as crack. “Jesus! What the hell did they make these things out of?” John exclaimed, panting lightly as he let go of the Breath. Gamzee said nothing, ‘relaxing’ as best he could in his bonds.
Gamzee isn’t sure what to make of the strange human who commands the Breath as if it was just another arm. He seemed either apathetic or just oblivious to the way the people of Port Tyras scattered before him fearfully, and had even begin whistling an offbeat but jaunty tune. The Rage inside of him whispered and pined for blood and violence, slowly attempting to convince him to sate it’s desire by tearing the Sky Captain limb for limb, and normally he probably wouldn’t have disagreed too much, but the Breath that winds between the bars and hefts it so carelessly and the view he has of the cold stone hammer across the man’s back dissuade him.
With the Rage’s assistance, he has no doubt he’d be capable of fighting the Breath wielder on even ground but that was the issue - he wasn’t sure he was capable of overpowering him. That alone would normally not stop him - what was more exhilarating than a battle you didn’t know you could win? Nothing he had ever experienced that was for sure. But Sky Captain’s had crews. He had already lost a battle against five pirates, who, individually, would not even be a match for the Purple if he tied both hands behind his back. Admittedly, he hadn’t been armed then, but he wasn’t armed now either.
So a fight, one he could win, was out of the question. The strange human was clearly formidable (if overly cheerful) and probably had friends who may not be as formidable but would prove a challenge to take on as a group. The second solution to the problem of ‘What the motherfucking messiah is going on?’ was then to just go with the flow, something Gamzee liked to believe he was fairly good at. The human seemed friendly enough but Messiah knew looks could be deceiving. He seemed friendly enough, at least, as friendly as a not-quite-mature Purpleblood could seem. He could perhaps ask to be set free and returned to his Hive, but if he was honest, he had no idea where his Hive even was. He’d never had to really know it’s location and he never really had an interest in finding out. That, and he wasn’t sure it was even worth it.
The Pirates had probably ransacked the place of everything that wasn’t bolted down and possibly even took the time to unbolt everything that was and take that too. His Lusus was dead, something he preferred not to dwell on (the old Goat was never around anyway, it figures he had to be home the one time it would’ve been better for him to be away). So returning to his hive would probably be pointless.
The answer he was then left with was ‘Stick with the Strange Human’.
His contemplation of his choices, an act quite rare, was interrupted by the sounds of bickering. A short, nubby-horned troll wearing a bright white coat and a shockingly red sash was waving a clipboard in his general direction, spewing vitriol and general vehement hate like a caliginous fountain. The insults don’t sound particularly heartfelt however, at least not in an obsidian way. They aren’t exactly ashen either, so he comes to the rough conclusion that this is just standard fare for the white-wearing troll. Watching him roar with thick bilious fury tugs at something in his chestmeats, but he doesn’t react, choosing only to inhale slowly.
There’s a faint scent of copper, and the general odour of Troll mixed in with the slight fragrance of Blood. ‘Slight’ is a bit of a misnomer, but it was subtle for it’s Sphere. It isn’t strong enough to suggest that the angry troll is particularly proficient in Magic, but it was interesting to know these things about people. Spheres may not govern your personality or demeanour, but they were still an undeniable influence. Each also imparted it’s own unique ‘scent’, and he found himself with the possibly unique talent of being able to smell people’s alignments. There’s a slightly stronger but not really significant waft of rust and dust and forgotten tomes that herald the presence of someone gifted with Time, and he cranes his neck slightly to get a better look at them. A tall blonde man, wearing loose rust red (but polished and smooth) plate mail, a ridiculously fake moustache attached to his upper lip and rolling a steel keg of something he couldn’t discern. There’s a faint hint of apples, but that seems to radiate from the human as opposed to the keg, and he wonders how many apples you have to eat before you start smelling like them just normally.
The short troll and the armoured human argue over nothing whilst the strange human watches on amused. The situation is clearly reconciled after an interjection by the strange human and a waft of Breath, before the armoured human rolls the barrel up and over to where Gamzee can only assume is the cargo hold. The strange human turned to him then, and asked him what thought of the ship.
It was impressive looking, not particularly large but sleek and well designed. Carapacean Technology was mostly magical based, and was mostly obscure and hard to understand, but people had learned how to adapt it and recreate it - especially the parts of it that let things defy gravity. He didn’t know much about airships, but he did know a thing or two about marine ships, and ‘The Windy Thing’ reminded him vaguely of a large metal merchant ship floating in the sky - only with more cannons. The human babbled on about something or other before sheepishly admitting he didn’t have the key.
Well. That was a motherfucking miracle then wasn’t it? Tendrils of Breath snaked in between the bars and into the links of the chain and began to pull lightly. Realising what the human was attempting to do, he let him exert himself fully as a way to subtly gauge just how powerful his command of the Breath was and found it unable to break the chains as well - that was fine. Calling on the Rage, which was all too happy to answer if it meant breaking things, he attempted to assist in the chain breaking to no avail.
The Slavers knew what they were doing evidently. But before he could muse on that further (there was little else to do but muse on things when you couldn’t move an inch), the clacking of low heeled shoes on metal and the most powerful stench of Light Gamzee had ever smelled caused him to crane his neck to the side, attempting to glimpse the newcomer.
She was slender, almost like a willow tree, with the pale complexion of a human who grew up on Derse or within the thicker parts of the Veil, wearing a deep velvet dress that hung off her frame as if it was a flowing curtain. Her violet eyes were tinged with amusement, neatly arranged pale blonde bangs falling in perfect order across her face. All of that took second stage to the sheer overpowering smell of Light that she exuded. If she smelled any stronger of it, she’d probably start glowing like a lantern. Their eyes met briefly, and he could see the brief flash of orange gold, the magic of fortune and knowledge simmering lightly in her pupils, searing over him almost gently.
A Seer. Gamzee had only ever run into one other Seer in his life, and he was a giant bag of writhing bulges who delighted in telling you all the misfortunes that would befall you for the next week. Admittedly, that was a Seer of Doom, and one with a stick up his waste chute and a chip on his shoulder. Well, until Gamzee punched him. From what he knew, Seers of Light weren’t exactly uncommon. It tended to be the main focus of anyone aligned with Light as the Sphere lent itself naturally to the art. Which wasn’t to say that actual, honest to Messiah ‘I can see the future’ Seers were a dime a dozen, only that there was a surplus of half-rate jokers out there claiming to be able to predict your fortune for five gold pieces just because they were aligned with the Sphere of Light.
She smiles at him, advances slowly, dress trailing and flowing around her almost like water, and smiles again for good measure. “Rose. Rose Lalonde.”
At this point, the strange human finally realises he hasn’t even gotten Gamzee’s name yet and has the decency to look embarrassed about this fact, even if he ignores it for the most part. “Gamzee Makara. I’d shake a sister’s hand but I ain’t really got the mobility to all up and get my manners on, so y’ll have to forgive a motherfucker.” It’s the first time the strange human has actually heard him speak after purchasing him, and the little face he makes is amusing. “Oh! I’m John! John Egbert, Captain of ‘The Windy Thing’.” He reflexively goes to hold out his hand before realising that it’s a useless gesture. Rose ignores him, and proceeds to study the bound troll further.
Gamzee doesn’t doubt she could probably decipher his entire life story down to the time he fell down the stairs when he was a grub and scraped his thorax. She doesn’t, though, preferring only to analyse him through mundane methods. “From that little display earlier, I suppose brute force is not working in order to remove your bondage?” She says smoothly, voice like honeyed silk hiding an edge sharper than any blade. The edge is not directed at anyone, or even presented as such, but it’s there all the same, an underlying omnipresent warning, almost like the brightly coloured fish that made him sick when he was six sweeps. I am dangerous.
That was fine. He had no intention of getting on a Seer of Light’s bad side, not the least one that was actually competent. If a proper Seer wanted revenge, there was very little that could stop them from ruining your day with the subtlest of things. Something as simple as understanding the far reaching consequences of a pebble on a road meant they could and sometimes would set up almost impossibly long chain’s of events, just to get back at people.
At least, that’s what most people thought. Gamzee didn’t want to find out if that was true.
“Yeah! We both tried and it was reaaaally strong! Whatever they made it out of is super tough!” John nods vigorously to emphasize his point, gesturing with his hands almost childishly. “It’s carapace steel John.” She wrinkled her nose lightly in a frown. “Well made too.” That explained why they failed to break it. Carapace steel was one of the hardest alloys in the world, capable of being forged by magic alone. It warped, it bent, and it twisted, but it never broke or stretched. It was useless as a weapon or armour but it was invaluable as chains. The Seer plucked a pair of needles from inside her dress, Gamzee isn’t entirely sure where and fiddles with them in a lock almost idly. There’s a ‘click’ and the door to the cage swings open easily. She approaches him calmly, uncaringly and certainly unafraidly regarding him with those analytical eyes.
“Y’r takin’ a bit of a chance with a motherfucker, just all freeing him and shit, sis’.” His eyes are half-lidded and his tone is casual, but the meaning is clear. She smiles back at him. “I’m hardly taking a chance, Mister Makara. My Captain, bless his hand-knitted socks, has once again decided to take in a stray. As a member of his crew, I can only trust in his choices and judgement and assist him as best I can.” The needles find their way into the bindings on his left hand, and fiddle idly in the lock once more. She seemed completely uninterested in what her hands were doing, but Gamzee knows she’s exactly sure of how to move them to unlock the binds. The smell of Light is only a touch stronger than her normal levels, and picking a lock no matter how complex is child’s play to a Seer of her caliber, least of all one of Light. When his left arm is free, it hangs limply at his side. He hasn’t been able to move it for a sweep now, with the exception of the occasional twitch in his sleep, and it’ll probably be a while before he can actually function properly. Another reason a fight would’ve ended badly.
She frees his neck and then his legs next, and they (the legs) at least have had the exercise of somewhat supporting his body for most of a sweep. Not that they feel any more alive than his arms. He has the sneaking suspicion he’s going to collapse onto his face the moment she frees him entirely. It’s a feeling that’s apparently shared by the Seer, because she stands clear of his front when she unlocks his right arm. “Oh! Are you okay?” The Captain’s well meaning inquiries do not matter to Gamzee, because the floor of the cage is very comfortable to a troll who has been strung up for such a long time. Veeeery comfortable.
He doesn’t sleep, he’s not mentally tired enough for that. He just can’t find the energy to move. Literally the only exercise he got the past sweep was occasionally attempting to break the chains to no avail and maybe rolling over in his dreams. He glances up blearily when John approaches, ignoring him as he decides that best thing to do in this situation is poke him. He should at least snap his teeth at him for that but he’d probably just fall over again. “Woah, dude! You okay?” He grips the troll by the shoulders and grunts a small ‘Upsy daisy’ before Breath works its way under him and props him up like a slack marionette. His tendency to use the Breath for just about everything was probably why he smelt like it so much, but it spoke for his control and aptitude at it. It feels a little odd, being supported only by immaterial wind that coils around his limbs and shoulders, but it helps work life back into his legs.
Now free of the chains, he shrugs what little parts are left wrapped around his body, staring only briefly at the indentations they leave in his flesh. It will pass with time. He was stripped of most of his clothes during his capture, left with only a tattered leather breechcloth to preserve his modesty. A very dirty, grimy loincloth. His muscles have atrophied but not by a particularly great deal he’s pleased to note, but the majority of his skin is covered with a layer of grime and filth. Being dirty doesn’t really bother him usually, but even he bathed at least once a week. Which is once a week more than he was allowed to as a prospective slave.
“We’ll get you to a bed or something for now. Hey, Karkat! You almost done?”
“WHERE THE FUCK IS THE SALTED MOOBEAST? I BOUGHT A WHOLE FUCKING BARREL YOU HALFWITS AND I-Oh. Thank you. Yeah, we’re done. Get the fuck out of here, chucklefucks.” He glared at every labourer that passed him by as if they murdered his lusus, and began to go through the process of untethering the ship. John whirled around, coat flaring lightly as he ducked into the ship, Gamzee floating behind him. “I’ll give you the tour!” He said brightly, ducking down some stairs. “Cabins and the mess hall is on this floor, cargo hold and the armoury’s a level under us... oh! Bathrooms, toilets, all that’s on the bottom floor, across from the Engine Room.” He shuffled over to a particularly large cabin, swinging the door open to reveal the relatively luxurious room.
The general decor was a soft forest green, with a dressing table covered in strange little knick knacks and figurines. There was a small dining table, with a few chairs and an unlit silver candlestick, but the majority of the room was occupied by a large king-sized bed, covered in what looked like silken sheets and soft blue pillows. “We don’t have any spare beds, so you can take my bed and I’ll sleep on the floor for now.” He lowered the troll onto the bed gently and flashed him another bright grin. It was as soft as it looked, and suddenly, his body resisted any and all thoughts of getting up. “I’ll get Karkat to prepare a bath for you or something. Try and get some sleep though, you look like you need it!” He left the room at that point, coat billowing around him dramatically, and if Gamzee wanted to protest, it died in his throat.
The bed was really comfortable. He supposed a nap wouldn’t hurt...
He was asleep within minutes.
“What the fuck are you thinking Egbert? You can’t just go around randomly buying people off the slave market and making them crew members!” John blinked at the mutant troll, studying his familiar frustrated frown easily. “Why not? That’s what I did with you.” He grinned when Karkat began to fluster slightly at that, flailing his arms lightly. “I thought you were a dumbass for it then and I still do! You don’t know who he is, or what’s he capable of! Fuck, Egbert, you didn’t know what I was capable of!” The Captain shrugged lightly, placing his hands behind his head as he calmly strolled towards the mess hall.
“Mmm. If I knew you were half as a good at cooking as I did then I probably would’ve paid more.” That only caused the quartermaster to palm his face. “Oh come off it, Karkat! It’ll be fine! Rose accepted him.” That seemed to quell the frustration and worries a bit, but the troll still gave him a wary look of exasperation. “Look, I get that you’re ‘John Egbert, Friend to all Living Things, Oh look at me go I’m on an Adventure, Whee fun’, but you can’t just go around buying random trolls. Or people. Or fuck, anything for that matter, no I haven’t forgiven you for buying three hundred cakes, fuck you for ruining cake for me Egbert, I’ll never forgive you for that but the point is people are dangerous and unpredictable and you can’t just go barging around making people your crewmembers!”
John blinked at him once. Twice. He didn’t seem to comprehend what Karkat was saying. “Sure I can though! I mean, that’s how I recruited everyone so far!” He said brightly, grinning again and ignoring Karkat’s spluttering and flustered irritation. “Spheres damn it Egbert, I’m serious! Okay, so five times lucky, but one day you’re going to come across an honest to Hope psychopath or something and then we’re all going to be lying in pools of our own blood, thinking ‘Well fuck, if only Egbert wasn’t a giant dickhumping cuntbag whose thinkpan oozed out of his giant fucking ears, we wouldn’t have picked up Stabby McHappyknife.’”
“My ears aren’t big.” Naturally, the only thing he complains about completely misses the point.
“They are but the frankly ridiculous size of your facial features aren’t the point of this discussion, your alarming tendency to just go around picking up random fucks and slapping a crew sticker on them is.” John gave him a scrutinising look, before grinning widely again, with a knowing glint in his eyes. Karkat crossed his arms, huffing preemptively - his Captain had probably come to some stupid conclusion and was no doubt about to inform him that ‘he knew what was going on’.
“I know what’s going on...” Karkat’s ability to predict his Captain is simply the best there is. He is the Seer of John. It is him. “You’re jealous!” Okay, that was unexpected.
“What?! What in the Twelve Spheres gives you that idea, Egbert? I knew you were ridiculously fucked in the pan but even that’s too much for your stupidity!” John jabs a finger at his face teasingly, grinning so wide it’s amazing his head remained in one piece. “You so are! You’re jealous I brought along a new troll, one that was being sold as a slave just like you! You’re jealous of him!” He repeated, still grinning. Karkat is going to kill him. He’s going to draw his captain’s intestines out and tear out his eyes and nobody is going to be able to stop him. Not even Dave.
“John, let me be absolutely clear. That is the most moronic, shitpanned, bulgefisted thing you have ever said in the entirety of your miserable shitsack of a life. Ever, John; that means it tops everything you’ve ever said before, and considering what you have said before, frankly, I am impressed at your dedication to being the most panfried being in all of existence or at least, I would be if it weren’t for the fact that it is so nookshittingly stupid. It is so idiotic that I am this close to just emptying my bile sac over you, which would serve you right for making me hear that festering pile of barkbeast feces.” John blinked silently at that, still grinning but not as largely. “Wow. That was a long one. Where do you keep coming up with these, Karkat?” He grunted at him, elbowing past him and heading towards the kitchen. “My Thinkpan, dingus. Some of us have to use ours seeing as you won’t.” John laughed again, bright and cheerful. Karkat poked him in the chest lightly but affectionately.
“One day, Egbert, mark my words. Your ‘I love everyone!’ attitude will get us all killed and I’ll be there to tell you I told you so.”