Participants:
| Scene Title | Ill Omens Bring Bad Tidings, Part II |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Long after Richard has left, Silas grapples with the truth he's left behind. |
| Date | June 15, 2021 |
The Second Star Captain's Quarters, The Pelago
The hour is late, the sky is dark, and Silas Mackenzie sits alone.
The momentary quieting of the storms that had allowed him to converse with Richard without getting rained on has passed, and the rain has swept back in, as it always does during storm season. The barbecue has been packaged and prepared for its intended recipients, the myriad tasks that fall to him are caught up, there is no meaningful work that he can do at this late hour and he's not tired enough to sleep. On another night, he might use this time to plan for the future…
…but the future he sees now is very different from the one he once hoped to build.
The jovial facade he'd kept up with Richard no longer needs to be maintained; here, now, he is alone. Only his own thoughts keep him company now, and for the first time in a long time, Silas finds himself tormented by them. The steady susurrus of rain, the distant mutterings of thunder, the swaying of the boat in the tide; these things might have brought him a measure of comfort on another occasion, but not tonight. Not now.
Irritably, he pushes his chair back. Behind him, on the wall, is a rough map of the world, covered with alterations and annotations Silas has pieced together from the journey to the west he'd undertaken; in the lower right corner, near the compass rose, is a crude drawing of a smiling sun rising over the waves, the words Morningstar Trading Co. scrawled underneath it. The map had been a point of pride; now, the sight of it sees Silas's expression twist into a sneer as a surge of something black and ugly and hopeless sweeps over him. One hand twists, fingers splaying into claws, rises up to rip the thing down…
… then he slumps, his hand coming to rest gently on the map instead. He takes a breath, marshalling his thoughts. Silas Mackenzie, you stop this shit right now, he thinks, turning his earlier speech to Richard on himself. It wasn't a mistake to hope for something better. To try to build something more than the scraps the Sentinel left us. It wasn't, dammit.
Silas lets out a long, slow breath. "It isn't," he growls out loud, his face hardening for a moment… then he sighs and settles back into his chair, one hand coming up to rub at his forehead. His hand strays to the bottom drawer of his desk; there, a small treasure trove of spirits waits. He rummages around a bit, drawing out a bottle, then another, then another. He reaches for the shot glass he has in there, too… then shakes his head, opting to unscrew the lid and take a drink straight from the bottle.
It's going to be a long night — hell, it's already been a long night — but it's not done yet, either.
He's still got to tell Aces.