<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c4/a2/eb/c4a2eb3622a5fd5f4149b8e094a22fa3.jpg)</div><strong>Name: </strong>Danae Vine-Lott (https://www.dndbeyond.com/characters/13428552/mqOlTT)<br/><strong>Location: </strong>The Mercy, Deck, Captain's Quarters<br/><strong>Wearing: </strong>White cotton jodhpurs, loose grey muslin riding shirt with collar open and sleeves rolled up, barefoot<br/><strong>Content: </strong>A little disturbed<br/><strong>Tagging: </strong>Jacqueline, Colleen<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Baykur did not disclose information gladly.  Danae's thoughts drowned in doubt, the Captain's sudden and brisk exit compounding her suspicions.  She knew idiots and lunatics were to be confined.  That was a clear imperative of any healthy society.  Such people were capable of seeing, knowing, and speaking to things best left outside the world of the sane.<br/><br/><em>And what of I?  Am I not become a lunatic?</em>She glanced around herself, and saw Jacqueline in contemplation and Colleen's unsettling, self-assured affect.  A creeping sense of unease skittered under her veins.  Was she going mad?  Would the good doctor, whoever she was, see through her facade?  The world was corrupt, and wicked - suffused with witchcraft.  No, she was not mad.  It was the madness around that sought to claim back one of the few remaining islands of sanity.<br/><br/>Danae rose, fixed Colleen, "Does the Captain treat you well?  Are you glad you are no longer in Martira Bay?"  She sought a reaction, any reaction gauge what sort of woman she might have before her.  The dull throbbing of the anodyne's comedown had left her irritable, and her questions were pointed with a hungry, demanding glower.  It was her best soldier's intimidation tactic, and one she raised defensively, most conscious that she and the rest of the shipwrecked passengers of the<em>Charlotte</em>remained at the mercy of captors who may or may not have been reporting to a rogue alienist presiding over a bedlam.<br/><br/>Before her she contemplated Colleen and puzzled over the enigma.  Vivid in her mind, the image unfolded - Captain Baykur, dark and rope-scarred, lips salty like sea-spray, claiming the pale and willing flesh of Colleen.  A tangle of limbs, rustling of sheets, throaty moans and plaintive sighs.  Images from a tawdry pirate romance.  She had been punished at school for hoarding such a book once, and had reached a guilty orgasm, white-knuckled and panting, during her caning...<br/><br/><em>No, enough memories.  Don't let them get out.</em><br/><br/>Danae pressed her fingers to her temples to banish the thoughts.  The ship rocked, and she realised she could no longer look Colleen in the eye without conjuring a maelstrom of ungovernable echoes.  She felt her away around the rough walls of the captain's cabin and settled on the clothes trunk, musket aslant on her lap.