[Raikov]

It was with a determined purpose that the Captain walked today.

The sun was bright and harsh on his back, soaked up the warmth that gave him more strength to press on. Heavy paws sunk into the sand as he walked down the beach front, nostril flaring as he picked up Albatross' scent. They had been established in the territory long enough now that he was familiar with their landmarks; picking pathways to navigate around. The denning around was made up of small, abandoned huts that the crafters had cleaned up. Not quite the traditional den, but they had never been quite the traditional pack. Tortuga was familiar with humans and their strange objects, they had little issue with residing in their handmade homes too.

Sand eventually turned to soft blades of grass, the Leviathans form slithering between the line of trees and away from the sea breeze. Alby didn't live at the floor level, but there was many levels on the mountain that held a nest of dens. The Captain's tongue swiped over his nose, feeling the ridge in the scar that was made the last time they had spoken. He had learnt a lot since then, had practised the art of patience with Eremiel, so he didn't  make the same mistakes as last time.

The brute paused outside the den, decorated with seashells and feathers that chimed gently in the wind. Navy ears perked upward as he inhaled Trout's fresh scent on the ground, confirming that she was here. There was an uncharacteristic nervousness, but only fleeting. They had been at odds since she was young, the Bermuda strangling his conscious mind at the lightest tick and tock. It was unfortunate that Trout had bore the brunt of his fury not once, but twice now. He'd spoken to Brielle and then to Eremiel regarding their... relationship.

It was with some amount of guilt, that he would never admit nor show, that he came here. The absence of Rita and Shark meant he was head of their family, as both eldest and as Captain. He didn't want to rule like they did, splintering and shattering their family into unrecognisable pieces. He would be the glue that would mend them together, for the good of themselves, for the good of the Empire.

”Trout. Come out, I got somethin' fer ye,” He'd rumble, deep voice like a brewing thunder; though it held no bite, no sharpness to it. Raikov stood a few steps back, enough for Trout to slither out of the den to see it was just him, there was no ambush waiting. The captain's haunches lowered to the ground, claws digging into the soft soil of the mountain path as he fixation sharp sulphur eyes on her.

”We need ta talk.”

[Triteia (Trout)]

TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm, depression, anxiety
Timeline: after the challenge, before x marks the spot.

---

I vomited
her hungers.
Now the bitch is burning.

I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.

The first time Triteia met her elder brother Raikov, she was in the old territory, and her family was whole. Hook and Loch and Reef, siblings lost to the fire, were there. Baal was there. They were still friends. Triteia was lovingly called Trout by her family, and she still looked at her father and did not realize his imperfections, because when you stare into the sun, it always blinds you. She was so young and stupid that she did not grasp the distinct absence of enthusiasm from the older generations of siblings: skeptical Morgan and Tripp, both now gone, questioning . Raikov, who counted ten siblings, and blurted out in complete shock. What a welcome into the family.

Fast forward a few months. Triteia had, through sheer desperation, managed to impress a noble (who too would come to disappoint and abandon her) at the auction, and had been accepted into his family. She wanted to do them proud. She was overzealous, coasting on childhood obliviousness and Barbados-fueled impulsivity, so at the first sniff of conflict, she lunged in headfirst, screeching some... regrettable things into the face of her Quartermaster. She didn't expect much in the way of retribution. After all, they were siblings. She picked fights with her littermates all the time.

It didn't matter if she was a loud-mouthed youngster or especially his sister. Raikov demonstrated just how much kinship mattered to him. He held her underwater while she thrashed and blubbered and cried, doing everything she could to keep the water from infiltrating her lungs. The wretched event was mercifully blurred in her memory, but she still remembered that she couldn't keep her eyes screwed shut and her mouth closed forever. She gaped into the water. She screamed. Bubbles frothed in her eyes and funneled down her throat. When he was at last satisfied, he let her limp off to lick her wounds, sopping wet and delirious and choking on humiliating chest-wrenching sobs. ”If you ever speak to me like that again," he had threatened her through a shit-eating grin, not giving a wretched fuck that he had plunged a whelp underwater in front of her siblings and protege, "I'll gut you like the little fishy you are. Get out my fucking sight.”

She did not see him again for a while. See, Triteia didn't remember anything about the fire, or the fact that Raikov was there to help move her catatonic body.

Third encounter: Raikov met her in Mortar's den. He tried to entice her into the open. He tried to get her to go fishing with him. Condescending bullshit. Apparently, the worthless little fishie wasn't even deserving of rehearsed contrition. They fought. He tried to drag her out. He called her a coward. A scum-sucking coward hiding from the world, and if he wanted to see how fucking cowardly she was, SHE FUCKING SHOWED HIM. Raikov wore the scars of that skirmish today; a big honking badge plastered in the center of his face that anyone who looked him in the eyes would be forced to see.

The fourth time they met -- we all know how that went.

Though he had continued to allow her to live, Raikov's judgment was ultimately a death sentence. He had cast her aside like garbage and turned his back on her. Don't test me girl, I'll win every time, he had thought to himself. The underlying message: I'll win every time because I'm Quartermaster. I'm king of this pack. Everyone loves me. I have a mate. I have respect. I command hundreds.

Who the fuck are you?

Triteia stewed in her own vomit and piss, half-catatonic, bludgeoned, infected, bloodied, forgotten by the whole of Tortuga, and disowned by the lingering vestiges of her family. She was tossed into the Abyss and ignored, because by doing so, Raikov had put her out of sight, out of mind. Brielle did nothing. Mortar exalted her tormentor. Baal--

she would never have that warmth or love again. never.

Albatross scooped her out of her prison and tried to reform her. She was getting better, and now, she was back at the beginning. Brielle had been overthrown, Triteia was miles away from her birthland, and she was still rotting in a den, too miserable to move. All that was different was the locale. Certain days were easier than others. Today was one of those bad days. She had made mincemeat of her legs, and she was so spaced out she could barely muster the energy to clean off the blood and look presentable. Malaise and anxiety kept her frozen in place; can't leave the den because someone might see her. Raikov or a Striker or a Scallywag could turn up on her doorstep and punish the unruly slave caught without her mistress.

Triteia did not eat or bathe unless subjected to Albatross's encouragement. She let the blood dry on her lacerated legs. She stank of dirt and blood and misery. Her eyes were hollow as she looked into the outside world, letting the blue skies turn into a blue void that ate up everything. She liked to imagine that the water was coming to swallow her up again. She wouldn't feel the burning in her lungs anymore. That was how Raikov found her: silent, barely present, face wet with tears, unkempt, of questionable hygiene, legs riddled with fresh wounds. It was not as terrible a picture as it could have been, and that was thanks to Albatross's diligence. But her sister could not be there for every waking moment--

--which was how Raikov found himself at the entrance to her den, unimpeded by her hovering guardian. Triteia blinked. A dark blue shape asserted itself in the fog. They had changed locations, but Raikov still had remnants of his old scent clinging to him. That was enough to startle Triteia out of her dissociative state, and from there she-- rapidly deteriorated. She gaped at him, wide-eyed, shuddering, floundering paws slapping aimlessly at the ground.

RAIKOV IS IN FRONT OF MY DEN.

RAIKOV IS IN FRONT OF MY DEN.

WHY? WHY IS HE HERE? It did not even occur to Triteia, immediately, that his tone was different. That there was no malice in his eyes. All she could think of was the drowning and the snicker-snap of her tail popping free of her last vertebrae and the way he had said, Are you too much of a shit-sucking coward? Fuck yes. Fuck yes, I am a coward. I'm a coward who's afraid of you.

Indeterminable time passed where Raikov did not force her out of the den and where she did not die. Triteia wondered, for a moment, if this was an illusion. When the sleep deprivation and night terrors were bad, she had hallucinations. She was glad that phase of her life was over, or, oops, maybe it wasn't.

"Wh," Triteia mumbled, numb mouth flopping uselessly around the syllables. She sounded, quite frankly, like she had gargled a mouthful of thumbtacks. "Why're ya here?" She was trembling uncontrollably. If she hadn't left to take a drink in a while, she would have pissed herself. "Did-- did somethin'--" Lightbulb. She knew why Raikov was here. Someone had to have squealed on her. Maybe it was Caligula. Maybe he didn't like how she talked about Baal. Maybe it was one of the Strikers. "Did somebody say I was fuckin' up? I--I wasn't. They're fuckin' LYIN'!"

The ragged, guttural way that Triteia roared exhausted the last of her misused voice.  She did not realize it, but tears were running down her face. She pushed herself back, against the wall of the den, and straightened her back, like she was trying to protect herself. "I don't wanna go back t' the pit. Yer not takin' me back t' the GODDAMN PIT!"

She couldn't survive another month in the Abyss. She couldn't. Triteia wanted to think that she was capable of fighting that fate tooth and claw, but in reality, if the decision came down to that, she would have been crawling to Raikov's paws and begging for his mercy. Don't take me back to the Abyss. Please. I've been good. I won't bother you anymore. Please. Just pretend I'm not here. She wasn't proud, or good. She wasn't sure how she ever convinced herself of that. She was pathetic, and she was at the world's mercy.

For poor Raikov, who arrived on Triteia's doorstep with arms wide open, reconciliation was an uphill battle.