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Orimar loves deeply and unapologetically.

He always has, he always will, it's only somewhat of a character flaw of his. If he was maybe six (four) tankards down, he'd admit that it was maybe a tiny bit of a problem for him. There are dozens of hundreds of ports all across the world where Orimar Vale, The Orimar Vale, yes ladies, yes gentlemen, yes assorted personages, That Great and Fantastic Orimar Vale, Legendary Corsair, unparalleled in all of the skies and seas and lands, undoubtedly broke at least one heart.

He loathes to do it, of course, but his greatest love is the skies, the adventure, the faint smell of salt and the strong smell of iron. That's just the way it is, darlings, there's nothing he could do about it. He's charisma on legs, and adventure calls him too sweetly for him to deny it.

And he didn't have favorites, of course not. (And not at all anyone one specific Queen hidden at the edge of the world. Of course not.) Some people could call that sort of this dishonest, or that he was only interested in the more carnal aspects of a relationship, which was, honestly, the funniest thing he's ever heard.

What's the point of sleeping with someone if they can't look you in the eyes and just know your entire life story from just one glance?

It's true, he's a romantic. Guilty as charged. Lock him up and throw away the key.

And anyone who said otherwise was obviously paid to slander his name.

He loves his ship too, and all of his gold, and his feather weave. He loves all of his crew, even the sicklier orphans who are most certainly on their way off of the mortal coil already.

He picks up a scrawny nervous kid from a tiny monastery because he needs a doctor, and so does his crew, and so does his ship and not for any other reason at all.


Orimar loves deeply and unapologetically.

It's not all romantic, or horny. Sometimes he can understand that people aren't into that, and Orimar Vale is nothing if not respectable, and if anyone tells you otherwise point them in his direction because he has a slander charge he'd like to raise against them.

Dref Wormwood, as he prefers to be called, is a slim tiny thing with maybe seven separate anxiety disorders that Orimar Vale adores. He's so sharp and so clever, give him a problem of any kind it'll be solved in a day or two. Sure, the kid might have worked himself up into thirty different states, but he'll get you a solution.

Signed sealed delivered, there it is.

He gives him an office, gives him tools and texts and lab coats. Robs several churches and doesn't ask questions.

Whatever his doctor needs, Orimar will get for him, because it's Dref. If he wants something, it'll just help him out later.

Orimar's pretty smart, actually. He has to be to stay alive for so long, in his line of work.

He does get hurt sometimes, mostly when he's robbing churches, or when he's running away from the fucking Red Feathers because he was robbing a church, and hey- it's not like they have any proof he was doing that, they weren't there.

He sinks most of them, some he doesn't bother with, because he's nothing without his legacy. Someone has to be around to tell everyone else that it was Orimar Vale, greatest corsair alive, who sunk them like an excited child sunk a paper boat in a puddle.

Regardless of the military's ineptitude, and back to the infinity more interesting point.

He would give his doctor relics and then watch as he worked, spinning profane miracles like they're nothing at all. Dref would always get this smile, it would spread over his entire face like the prettiest bloom, and he would take notes and shout 'yes' to himself whenever he something worked out just right.

Orimar gets his arm shot off at some point.

Who actually cares how it happened.

(Fucking Red Feathers)

He sits on Dref's examining table and watches his poor sweet doctor try and not vomit at the sight of all of the exposed muscle. It's a good thing he wears a red coat because otherwise, the staining would be way more obvious.

Dref stutters through an apology, and Orimar gives him a wink.

"Full faith." He says and means it, and Dref Wormwood gives him his arm back like it never even really left. "What a saint you are."

And he'd blush all the way up to his ears, and Orimar gets to marvel at him all on his own.


Orimar loves deeply and unapologetically.

Being dead isn't actually going to stop him from doing that. What is he, an amateur?

His wonderful, brilliant, talented doctor fixed him, just like he always did. Things are stiff, and his body is not his own, not fully, and he can barely, really, barely move at all without Dref's wonderful distortion of magic coursing through his veins. Well okay, not his veins, cause he's not really using those anymore. Through the meat of his arms and his legs and his spine.

Would you believe how hard it is to stand upright with non-functional nerve endings?

Significantly harder than one would think, it turns out.

It is a bit embarrassing, and not at all how he hoped Dref would end up in his bedroom one day, but he's here regardless, sewing foreign muscle and real and true magic into his body. He gets to enjoy Dref's excitement when he gets the wink right for the first time, gets to enjoy Dref's confused face when he can only begin walking with his left foot, gets to enjoy Dref's exhaustion, so wiped from all of the godhood in his body that he falls face-first onto the bed and passes out for a few hours.

He cherishes every vague and distant moment, just vaguely aware of his doctor at the best of times.

Death isn't so bad when he's got someone to share it with.


Orimar loves deeply and unapologetically.

Sorry, Gable. Nothing personal, obviously. Orimar would love nothing more than to get to know you, get to know the real you, whatever weird celestial stuff you got going on sounds great. It really does.

But Orimar severs their strings like gossamer thread and bolts out the window because as much as he'd like to sit here with Gable and Jonnit, great kids really both of them, and hold his Queen's heart tight and close and warm it as much as he can in his very not warm hands, there's somewhere he really has to be.

He's never run this fast before, alive or otherwise. He's pretty sure something snapped, but Dref will understand, Dref will fix him, everything will be just fine, just good, as long as he can get to their hotel room.

Does he shove past people? Yes.

Does he apologize? Morally, sure.

He bounds up stair after stair after stair when he feels it, the stab in his chest that-

He falters.


No- No- No- He's such a problem solver, such a smart kid, so clever-

It has to be just- just phantom pains or something. He gets them sometimes, when he remembers his first mate, or when he remembers her. That's all-

and again- even sharper- right up against his heart (if it was still beating he'd be bleeding by now) no-

move harder, move faster, use the muscles his brilliant doctor sewed into him, another step another stair-

he's so cold.

he's never been this cold before.

He's only a few moments from the door before the satisfaction floods him. Like his new second life, the sensation is so all-encompassing and so profusely- well fucking satisfying that he stills for a moment. He's honestly kind of upset they never got a chance to work out the tear ducts again because his face would be so wet right now.

For a dozen reasons, sure, but now, more than anything, he's so happy for Dref Wormwood.

He takes his moment.

Alone for the first time in months. Unspeakably miserable. He thinks that's fair.

He's always been a man of company.

The fear ebbs away- no- he forces it away because that's not what Dref would have wanted.

Orimar Vale, pretty great memory, as it turns out. Probably cause he's pretty smart. So he can remember every question Dref ever asked about what it was like, what that great final slumber was like. Orimar always wished he could tell then, or at the very least joke about how he wouldn't Really know. Cause he was there, and not like. Dead dead.

He's so proud, ecstatic, over every moon that Dref's finally got his answers.

Maybe, he'd be happier, overall, if it was peaceful and in his sleep and a million miles away from his god awful brother, but peaceful and in his sleep wouldn't have netted him nearly as many answers.

One last moment, to remember a lifetime of swordcraft, to remember just how to bring down a blade, so it Hurt. So it Hurt more than anything in the entire fucking world. Where the muscles join the bone, where the joints were fragile, just how deep he could stab before some piece of shit started fainting.

He shoves through the door, blade raised, and gives his biggest brightest smile before doing his very utmost best to rip Tiberius Youngblood to fucking shreds and to make the process last.