damia ravin speaks fluent sarcasm (contrabandist) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-08 13:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, cian wilde, damia ravin |
Who: Damia Ravin & Cian Wilde
What: Planning a mutiny
Where: The Blue Bear
When: After this
Rating: PG-13? Language, discussions of murder, basically it's a Cian and Damia thread herp derp
Status: Complete!
Her boots fell heavily against cobblestone. It was with annoyance and determination that she walked, hands already balled up into fists, ponytail whipping against the back of her shoulders from the force that she pressed forward with. Damia was already tired of this dilemma, frustrated with the turn of events: her father's ship (it would always be his ship) coming in mid-Pisces, over a week later than expected. Had she really been so stupid as to think she would dock in a timely manner? Such things couldn't be so accurately predicted, and annoyed partly with herself but also for the unexpectedly delayed arrival, she pushed into The Blue Bear, nerves long since frayed. The bartender, already alerted to her imminent arrival, nodded towards the hallway that led to the back. She'd been here before — on business even — so it wouldn't be hard to find the room at the end of the hall with its uncommonly thick door (and, unexpected in an establishment of this low caliber but unsurprising if you knew the owner, fully soundproofed walls). Cian was already at the table, sipping on a glass of water; no gentleman, he did not rise when she arrived, but he did nod his greeting. "Take a seat, blondie. Make yourself comfortable." Though he doubted this would be a quick (or particularly comfortable) conversation. "Want anything? I'll send out for it before we get started." The corsair was sliding into the chair across from him, her face a near mask of indifference. Rather than returning the nod, she dropped an elbow onto the tabletop, fingers coming up to brush at her nose. "I'm good," she said. Talk over food wasn't much their style, and Damia didn't think drinking was going to solve anything. She needed a clear head for this. "Have it your way." He waited for her to speak, realized that she seemed to be waiting for the same thing. "If I'm going to help you," he said, "you're going to have to give me a couple breadcrumbs, at least." She'd been evasive at best — something about her father's ship, that was all he really knew or had cared to know — but if he was going to be involved in this, it was time to get informed. "What's the problem?" Step one in figuring out a solution, since he was pretty sure that would be the bulk of the favor. Might as well get started. There was a lot to inform him about, so Damia took in a breath, hesitating before speaking. "I want to reclaim my father's ship," she started, getting straight to the point. "He never willed the ship to me for a reason I've never known, but he must have thought he'd be alive by the time I inherited it from him. After they slit his throat—" something quick and untraceable flickered in her eyes "—his second-in-command took over. I was nineteen." The corner of her lips twitched. "I wasn't ready to be her captain. I was too inexperienced. "I thought I could let it slide for a few years. Thought maybe he'd honor the memory of my father, a man I thought he respected, and continue in his footsteps, not do whatever he wanted." She sighed, already tired of the topic of him. "I kicked him out, told him I'd strangle him with his innards if he came back— something of that nature. I helped find her a more suitable captain until I could figure out what I wanted. And when the little shit came back months later when she was out of the city, looking for ways to ruin or reclaim her — I can't say I know what's going through that rat-sized brain of his — I thought, that was it." Meeting Cian's eyes more evenly, she flattened her palm on the table. "I need to clear her name. She's mine by blood alone, and I'm the only living Ravin. I'm tired of people shitting all over my father's memory like he meant nothing to them. She deserves better." With all of that said, Damia finally allowed the distress to flash across her face, quick as lightning. "So," Cian said, as though he hadn't just seen the naked vulnerability in her expression, "just to get this straight, who's flying the ship now? And why would this this rat of yours be able to waltz in and take it back anytime he likes? Are the crew members loyal to him, or is there something I'm missing?" She rapped a nail on the table. "Fly a ship for long enough, and your crew will still be loyal if you aren't a raging dick. But they were more loyal to my father. One of his old crewmates is flying it now. Word is my little rat is cooking something up to ruin her for good, and I'm not going to let it happen. He's tarnished her reputation enough." "Got it." Corsairs and their fucking ships. "Hostile takeover is out of the question, I take it?" Before she could dismiss it, he warned, "It's the quickest and easiest way. Simple enough: he could turn up dead in a mugging tomorrow, and anyone who has a problem with that could follow. Your hands look clean if you prefer that — no problems on that end — and you're your father's daughter, so you'll just have to dust your leadership skills off and talk the rest over, since some of them are still loyal to his memory." Across from him, Damia paused, considering his words. It would be quicker and easier, yes. Maybe a little too quick and easy, something he didn't deserve. A voice in the back of her mind reminded her none of this mess would've been possible if she had simply slit his throat months earlier when the shop had been docked then. If she'd wanted him dead, he'd be dead. No, he deserved something worse. She straightened in her seat. "For as much as that appeals," she started slowly, half-caught in her thoughts, still, "a quick death doesn't feel justified. For stomping all over my father's memory, he needs to learn that there's no forgiving that." Her gaze drifted back up. "Even if it ends with him taking his own life in his shame." "Death's too good for him, huh?" Cian asked. He wasn't much of a proponent of extended revenge (time-consuming, messy to erase the signs of it, and usually excessive) but he was kind of known for it, of his own volition. No surprise she'd come to him, then, for several reasons. He thought a moment before saying, "So then, two options. We set him up to take the fall for something — and let the EKP offer him their legendary hospitality — or we just let his own crew turn on him and tear him to shreds. Either or, you come in to save the day, play his polar opposite when he's muddied up enough. Even if he survives the aftermath, you're unlikely to have any further trouble." His smile was not kind. "There are criminals, and then there's scum. We make him into the latter." Damia's smile in return wasn't unkind to mirror his, but it was her first since sitting down. "The hero look is really good on me, I have to say," she admitted with some sarcasm, tapping her fingers against the table again. "My father never listened to me when I said that rat felt like a liar, like he was always plotting something behind the scenes but never telling him. But," a sigh, "all the world's a stage, isn't it? Off the top of your head, what are you thinking?" Cian shrugged slightly, saying, "Depends. If you want it quick and easy, I'd say, implicate him in something shady as fuck, then for good measure make sure the crew thinks he's pocketing the change from the side venture without sharing. Even if they've gotten immune to whatever atrocities we pin on him, they'll care about the money. So whichever way they fall — noble intentions or otherwise — all they'll want is to bury him. You expose the conspiracy, then sit back and let them decide whether to turn him over to the peacekeepers or take care of things on their own. Done." She tongued the roof of her mouth in thought. Quick and easy, as long as it didn't involve having him shanked in an alleyway, made the most sense. The Lareine wasn't going to be docked in the city forever, and time was of the essence if she wanted this over with as soon as possible— and she did. A hand drifted up, fingers absently tapping the tip of her nose. "Say we've only got a month. Is that enough time?" He sighed, clearly a little annoyed. "Well, good thing you don't want it tomorrow," he said. "You want it to look real, I need some time, for fuck's sake." He thought it over, then told her, "Two and a half weeks, I guess, to get the documentation together, start dropping hints about the money he's supposedly hiding." That'd be his greatest loss on this project, but if he wanted it tidy, he had to cough up the stake. Damn it, but he owed her, more than the equivalent of a few thousand gil. "Once I've got the papers drawn up, I'll tell you more," he told her. Then, "Get me the names of the crew members, known associates, whatever might be useful. After that, just sit back and wait." Damia fell silent for a short time, thinking on what would be plausible. "I'll see what I can do about keeping her in the city longer. If we're going to make this work—" we're, not you're "—I don't want to half-ass it." The I want this went unsaid, but was implied. She looked to Cian again. "Thank you." The words tasted foreign, even if they were genuine. "When I say I'll do something, I don't half-ass it," he told her, an admonition. He owed her a debt, and he knew better than most what happened to those who didn't pay properly. No, he wouldn't half-ass this. "Thank me when it's done," he told her. He downed the rest of his water, then said, "Business is over for tonight — let's get you a drink. You look about ready to jump out of your skin otherwise." He stood, walking past her and putting his hand lightly on her shoulder for a moment, not quite comfort but something like it. "Don't worry, blondie," he said. "I've got this." If he were the sort for sympathy, he'd almost feel sorry for the poor bastard. He'd never see it coming. |