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alias: Ellie
age in ##: 26
story: Moby Dick
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Joined: 14-March 17
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Last Seen: Yesterday at 02:53 pm
Local Time: Oct 22 2017, 07:04 PM
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Permanent Rose Owens

Enchanted Forest

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Yesterday at 02:53 pm
This, Permanent Rose thought as she edged along an oddly greenish corridor with cutlass in one hand and service pistol in the other, was one of the stupidest things she’d ever done. And she’d run away disguised as a boy and joined the navy as a pre-teen before going on to sail with an obsessed whaling captain after a ship-sinking, man-eating whale, so she’d made some really stupid decisions in her life and knew what she was talking about.

But what else was she meant to do? Drizella would have gone in with or without her, determined that this would be a fantastic work opportunity, and she couldn’t let her Drizella go into a greenish, zombie-infested castle all on her own even if she did promise to run straight back out at the first sign of trouble. What if they cut her off? What if she had to fight her way free? Permanent Rose knew she barely registered as a fighter in terms of the other Storybrook residents, men and women who’d slain dragons, led armies and could withstand all but a direct nuclear blast with scratches at best, but damnit, she’d still fought with the navy for nearly half her life, she knew how to handle her cutlass and pistols and how to watch for ambushes and their retreat getting cut off. It was more than Drizella, a lady to the core and Permanent Rose oved her for it even as she wished she’d talked her into taking a self defence class or two with her, could do.

She’d have felt better backed up by a contingent of marines, true, but at least the familiar weight of her uniform jacket on her shoulders and the weapons in her hand were comforting as she quietly paced along after Drizella, eyes darting all around and ears straining for any indication that they weren’t alone in here. She’d even wrapped her hair back in a queue, a gesture she’d started making with a stray bit of ribbon purely out of habit after settling the coat on her shoulders, wrapping it around and knotting it as neatly and firmly as if she expected to be assessed on her smartness or buffeted by a gale. Admittedly the ribbon was a red one that clashed with her hair rather than the customary black or navy, but still. She’d have worn her hat if she’d been able to find it as well.

Under her guidance they’d slipped in around the back, near where the kitchens should have been and therefore nothing terribly important from the opinion of the uptops. She’d slipped in first through a narrow window, sword and pistol at the ready and almost hoping that they’d meet a zombie straight off and she’d be able to convince Drizella to abandon this mad plan of hers, but no such luck. Her lover had slipped in behind her and after a whispered debate they’d taken the stairs leading up instead of the corridor to the left, both deserted at the time, and Permanent Rose had taken moments at every turn to pause and apply red lipstick arrows to mark their progress, in case they needed to run back out too fast to have any sort of debate about which corner or passage they needed to take.

Drizella Tremaine
Yesterday at 02:11 pm
She’d kissed Drizella goodbye and slipped out of the apartment just as the sun was coming up, turning the word from deep blues and blacks to soft greys as she walked the short distance to the harbour with a spring in her step and a sea shanty she’d learned as a cabin boy on her lips. Not a popular one with the officers, it being about the pirate gods of matelotage and mutiny, but Jackrum had taught it to her all the same as part of her transition from landlubber to able seaman. After all, you never knew who you’d run into on a dark and stormy night and it was best to be prepared.

The sky was definitely lighter but the sun wasn’t yet fully risen as she set foot in the harbour proper, sparing a bit of her time on her walk to her office to make sure the place was in some semblance of order – this being Storybrook the standards were regrettably low, seeing as nothing being obviously on fire or under the influence of unexpected or hostile magic being the starting point – before stepping inside. Once there she grabbed her jacket and gloves, changed her boots over, armed herself with a thermos of coffee and her work toolbelt – which included powerful torch, whistle and radio, amongst other things – and finally picked up the keys to the boat shed.

Once there she could have set herself up in a motor boat, there were two at her disposal as harbourmaster and they were both in good working order, but she settled in the dingy instead, the Swallow, stowing her thermos before getting the oars out and casting off, carefully steering the small craft out of the shed and then – with longer and more powerful strokes – towards the exit of the harbour. There was something about the act of rowing that pleased her sailor’s heart even though these days she didn’t really have the calluses for it and definitely needed the gloves to protect her hands no matter how warm it got wearing them. In fact despite the coolness of the air she was warm from the exertion before she’d cleared the harbour and by the time she was getting the sails up she’d stripped off her waterproof jacket although she left her cardigan on, a grey one Drizella said had looked good on her once.

With the sails up and a fair breeze her small craft began almost skipping over the water, responding to a touch of her hand on the tiller or sail easily as she began the hunt for her friend, the notoriously bad tempered whale Moby Dick.

Will Graham
Yesterday at 02:05 pm
The next wave hurled the ship upwards again, sending men staggering and a few of the more recently pressed flying from their feet. In the seconds it took them to right themselves the second lieutenant’s voice screamed at them to move, the ship came to something approaching level and then began to plunge. The man at the wheel turned it frantically so the ship was once more facing into the waves – being hit side on would have them over on their side in no time and then there’d be nothing but a trip to the bottom of the sea in store for them – but Ishmael, fifteen-year-old midshipman and artist’s daughter masquerading as a boy after running away from home, wasn’t even sure how often the rudder was in the water as she scrambled up the mast along with her fellow riggers to try and get the sails in.

A witch’s storm, that was what the men had been shouting between curses when it hit them out of the blue and all hands were turned out to man the ship. Someone magical, somewhere out there, was playing silly buggers with the weather and out here on the ocean whatever alterations they’d made had combined to whip up a storm with not so much as two minutes warning. The sky had turned dark, the heavens had opened, the seas heaved and Ishmael, along with every other sailor in the hold, had been alerted to something going on as the ship shook with the sudden impact of waves moments before the second lieutenant had bellowed at them to get up and the bell had thundered overhead.

Lightning cracked as Ishmael started scrambling out instead of up, the thunder a deafening roar as the rain hammered down as an almost physical push on her thin shoulders, as if it was trying to shove her off the rigging as she edged along to her post, feet braced and hands clinging tightly as gravity shifted from one gasped breath to the next. She didn’t dare look down – it was one thing to see nothing below you but the sea when it was calm, in weather like this only lightning would show where the sea was and she’d no wish to see it, to realise that there was nothing but air between her and its fury.

Beside her other men – actual men as far as she knew – slid into their posts, grasping and clinging with the same single minded ferocity she was as with hollers and shouts they began their work, fighting the wind, the rain, the sails themselves, all as the ship heaved and shook until Ishmael could almost imagine it was trying to shake them off like a dog might try to shake loose fleas.

They were nearly done when it happened – when her foot slipped and handholds were wrenched away from her with a heave of the ship and she was falling through the air, the ship flashing past her and the waves reaching up for her and the terrible, awful crash as she hit the water and what little air her wailing scream had left in her lungs was smashed from them.

Arista
Yesterday at 02:00 pm
“Be back here by first light!” Ishmael – third lieutenant, sailor in his majesty’s navy since being yea high to a grasshopper as the first lieutenant liked to say and a woman masquerading as a man these past six years at least – yelled at the retreating backs of the able seamen scattering in all directions to explore this new port. Or new to her at any rate, a few of the older hands had seen it before and had been greatly enamoured of some of the lady’s fashions and had described them in such great detail that Ishmael’s cheeks had gone as red as her sunburnt ears.

The captain, she knew, had been against letting so many of the men ashore for fear of mass desertion and not seeing half of them again but the first lieutenant – Jackrum – had talked him into to. Godless and bloodthirsty place though it undoubtedly was (anywhere that wasn’t home was populated by godless and bloodthirsty savages as far as their captain was concerned, an attitude which couldn’t have done much to foster international goodwill with the people he met) it was nothing to the blaspheming and mutinous mutterings that would be going on on board if the men were forbidden from going ashore at all after months at sea. Personally she rather suspected that Jackrum had ulterior motives other that trying to keep their crew happy but had been disinclined to ask questions as she was also to go ashore and Jackrum wouldn’t have answered anyway.

So there she was, stood on the docks of a foreign port, crew vanishing into the distance, sun beating down on a straw hat a midshipman had kindly lent her with a whole afternoon and night to play with. She even had some coins secreted about her person that the purser – another sailor who’d been everywhere and seen everything – had sworn would be accepted close to the docks although perhaps not further inland. Straw hat aside she was still in uniform – she didn’t have any other clothes at this stage in her life – and already her feet felt swollen in her boots while sweat was pooling under her arms and she envied the men in their plain shirts and wooden clogs for the coolness of them.

Noting the position of the dock and ship in her mind she started walking, not ignoring the curious and occasionally hostile looks thrown her way but smiling politely and keeping her hands firmly fixed on her sword and purse, and it didn’t take her long to find a market. Rows of stalls piled high with fish, fruits, fabrics that made the artist’s daughter in her quiver in delight for their colour and people pushing, haggling and living all around her.

There was no doubt in her that she loved the sea, but this? This wasn’t a bad place to be.

Jasmine Alaoui
Sep 11 2017, 04:00 PM
Permanent Rose had awoken to the sound of rain, slapped her alarm off with a groan and rolled over to get another two, maybe five minutes of rest before getting up.

Half an hour later she rolled over, glanced at her alarm clock and bolted upright. She didn't even have time to sit there and will it to be wrong, for her eyes to be deceiving her, for her to have more than fifteen minutes to get up, washed, dressed, breakfasted and out the door to fool a bunch of impressionable kids that she was a responsible adult and being in charge of a harbour was fun and not ageing her terribly.

She hit the shower at a run, diving under the cold spray and hissing as she skidded and smacked her knee into a tiled wall. From the feel of it she'd have impressive bruising there later but she'd no time to stop and examine it or slap on an ointment that would help keep any swelling down. She banged her other knee into her bed as she hopped around the room trying to get dressed in something clean and presentable - she was sure she'd laid out a good shirt last night but now she couldn't find it and everything was crumpled and she could only find one sock.

With three point five minutes to go she hit the kitchen and slapped on the coffee maker (a gift from her sisters for her birthday) before spending a good minute and a half to two minutes rummaging around trying to find something to eat that didn't involve a lot of cooking and aware that there wasn't much in as she'd planned to use up the eggs in an omelette for breakfast and go food shopping after the school party had gone home. Last night this had been a welcome excuse not to brave the cold and wet when she'd just got her boots off and was feeling properly dry for the first time in hours, in the morning light when she was damp, cold, hungry and about to be late this seemed like terrible oversight.

As she jogged the short distance from her home to her office on the harbour she alternately took gulps of scalding coffee and bites of cheese that she'd meant to put in her omelette and had also meant to scrape the blue spots of mould off, something she only remembered after swallowing her third mouthful.

Ah well, if the navy's food couldn't poison her a bit of mould would do her no harm.

She hoped.

There was no one else there when she arrived to unlock her office and stagger inside, gratefully placing her thermos on the desk and flicking the fan heater on. She crouched in front of it for a few seconds, hands extended, and slowly the bits of her closest to it began to feel a bit less damp. Then the flashing of her office phone's answering machine caught her attention and reluctantly she got up, hit play and sat herself back down in front of the fan heater.

After all that rushing around and panic the school was going to be late because there was a transport problem - the bus either hadn't turned up or had broken down or some combination thereof - and they were walking over. With a sigh Permanent Rose grabbed her thermos and settled herself in front of the fan heater, thinking wistfully of omelettes.

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