phantasmaree

SeaCat kicked out, landing a strike square on Scarblade’s jaw, sending him backwards. “Insolent wretch–” he spat blood, “maybe some time in the brig will make you a little more amenable.” The cell was dark and damp, and a smell reminiscent of rotting sea life lingered in the air. They had taken her to the very back of the brig, presumably hoping the leakiest and dankest cell would scare some sense into her. Still, Seacat saw it as an improvement. She may have given herself up hostage voluntarily, but like hell was she going to let that deranged lupe get handsy with her. She pulled against the ropes binding her wrists. Scarblade had left her hands tied ever since she’d offered herself hostage–the one smart thing he’d done all night. If her hands had been untied, she thought to herself, he would’ve received much worse than a kick in the face. She looked around for anything useful. It was a clear night, with a bright full moon, and slivers of said moon’s light managed to slip in