-The Mythics RP-

[RDchicken99]

"Yes," Liam said with a forward head tilt. We wouldn't want that. He turned heel again and led Pinchbeck aboard the fine brig. The deck, smooth and without a creak, shone gracefully against the sun's setting light. The for'c'sle, which stood better as a gallows block than a stage, held her 32-pounders proudly, each ready to paralyze her enemies' sides.
"I'm sure there's no need to tour the above," Liam hinted as though there was humor to be given, relenting it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. It was below deck that needed touring, and joking around with one as sophisticated as Pinchbeck was uncalled for. "I'm sure you'll better appreciate the knowledge below."
Liam paused before taking the stairs down. At least those would be pleasing to the Satyr. "Now, mind you, some supplies are a little disorganized down here. No need to worry; everything will be in their proper places and secured by the time we set sail."
The air surrounding Liam darkened with each step he descended. Lamps hung on the walls, still unlit for their need had not yet come. More 32-pounders greeted them with their dull glow, and unpacked ammo sat by their dignified sides. Further on, promised the captain's quarters, and before, a ladder to another floor down.
"Here," Liam held his hand out toward the dark barrels, "I'm sure, is no place you'll want to stay." It was the safest place to be included in the battle, but for Pinchbeck's fine clothes and boastful posture, he doubted any place of sweat and fear would accept the Satyr's wrinkling nose. He led the way to the ladder which greeted them with the busy crew's rough voices and heavy work. Down there was where Pinchbeck would hide, if he didn't pay his way into the captain's closet, that is.
Two crewmen appeared from the floor below and passed Contour and Pinchbeck like towering gorillas hunting for their next meal. One stopped on the stairs, giving Pinchbeck a sneer of disgust. Liam held his chest high, gripping his sword. He was not to be intimidated by them. Or at least show it, anyway. He moved to the ladder and gripped the coarse floorboard on his way down. The men would have to grow accustomed to the Satyr's fine clothes, especially when they shared the same quarters.

(I’M HERE NOW I’M HERE AND I AM VERY SORRY
I will be flying by the seat of my pants for this one so fingers crossed it’s intelligible. Also I love how both Liam and Fitz are just radiating contempt— in their own separate ways of course )

Now, while Fitzpatrick could certainly talk of ships— and very well hold his own in such conversation— the matter of liking ships was another question.
And Fitz did not like them.
Not one bit.
As one possessing hooves, he was much more suited to land and its particulars. Ships and their particulars —definition; a sort of sturdy place to stand that on frequent occasion rocks about, often violently— did not get along well with Fitz.
He could not imagine himself climbing up ratlines or climbing down ladders through narrow little hatchways that smelled lightly of gunpowder and sweaty hands.
Now, he was certainly light on his hooves, as all Satyrs were, and could dart about along fairly difficult terrain in double-quick time.
But ships?
Fitz swallowed a sigh as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. He caught the scent of salted meats in barrels, along with the warm sort of sharpness that belonged to rum.
And the sailors that passed by smelled of it too, with their meager attempt at intimidation. Did they know who Fitzpatrick was? Certainly not, otherwise they would’ve been much more wary of the trouble he could get them into.
Contour was as grating as a razor’s edge, with his odd way of condescension, poorly hidden by a mask of concern. Fitz had been around enough aristocrats to recognize the air, though Contour’s held a sort of lower-class quaintness to it.
“She’s well stocked.” Said Fitz, after a moment of silence.
He made a show of removing his pocketwatch and flipping back the little gold cover. If he had a pair of pince-nez to flourish and place upon the nose, it would’ve held even more weight.
“I really must be on my way. Thank for this tour. It’s been,” he sought for a word, “enlightening.”
Before Contour could respond, Fitz firmly clasped his hand and shook it in farewell, “pleasure meeting you, I’m certain we’ll see each other again on the coming journey.”
Upon returning his watch and straightening his waistcoat, he started up the ladder and was out on the deck. When one walks with his head high and shoulders back people often clear out of the way; this was the case on the gleaming weatherdeck, and Fitz was off the ship and down the cobbles to his carriage. The driver had finally stopped talking.

 

[Lacy Duckwing]

(I’M HERE NOW I’M HERE AND I AM VERY SORRY
I will be flying by the seat of my pants for this one so fingers crossed it’s intelligible. Also I love how both Liam and Fitz are just radiating contempt— in their own separate ways of course )

Now, while Fitzpatrick could certainly talk of ships— and very well hold his own in such conversation— the matter of liking ships was another question.
And Fitz did not like them.
Not one bit.
As one possessing hooves, he was much more suited to land and its particulars. Ships and their particulars —definition; a sort of sturdy place to stand that on frequent occasion rocks about, often violently— did not get along well with Fitz.
He could not imagine himself climbing up ratlines or climbing down ladders through narrow little hatchways that smelled lightly of gunpowder and sweaty hands.
Now, he was certainly light on his hooves, as all Satyrs were, and could dart about along fairly difficult terrain in double-quick time.
But ships?
Fitz swallowed a sigh as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. He caught the scent of salted meats in barrels, along with the warm sort of sharpness that belonged to rum.
And the sailors that passed by smelled of it too, with their meager attempt at intimidation. Did they know who Fitzpatrick was? Certainly not, otherwise they would’ve been much more wary of the trouble he could get them into.
Contour was as grating as a razor’s edge, with his odd way of condescension, poorly hidden by a mask of concern. Fitz had been around enough aristocrats to recognize the air, though Contour’s held a sort of lower-class quaintness to it.
“She’s well stocked.” Said Fitz, after a moment of silence.
He made a show of removing his pocketwatch and flipping back the little gold cover. If he had a pair of pince-nez to flourish and place upon the nose, it would’ve held even more weight.
“I really must be on my way. Thank for this tour. It’s been,” he sought for a word, “enlightening.”
Before Contour could respond, Fitz firmly clasped his hand and shook it in farewell, “pleasure meeting you, I’m certain we’ll see each other again on the coming journey.”
Upon returning his watch and straightening his waistcoat, he started up the ladder and was out on the deck. When one walks with his head high and shoulders back people often clear out of the way; this was the case on the gleaming weatherdeck, and Fitz was off the ship and down the cobbles to his carriage. The driver had finally stopped talking.

Liam's hand shook limply in the Satyer's and his face bore momentarily confusion. Pinchbeck tucked away his trinket of lies and scurried up the ladder in absolute abandonment. Liam's fist tightened around his sword, strangling the little life the handle bore. He shook his head.
Yep, another fraud. How was it he was surprised? He turned away. No, he wasn't; just taken off guard, that's all. It was to be expected from one dressed in such fine clothes. None of them could stand the lovely stench that Liam had grown so accustomed to.
Liam descended further into the ship's hole and passed by the stronger men moving cargo. The lamps flickered down here, and he stopped to ensure each was secure from falls. A midshipman pushed against the crates a little too hard, causing two to crash in front of Liam.
"Watch it, will ya?" Liam snapped at the boy. "Those are valuable, you know!" The youngster of maybe fourteen years trembled at the grip Liam still bore on his blade. "Sorry, sir," he said. He lowered his gaze to the damaged crates. His mouth twisted and his shoulders shrugged. "I'm sure they can't be that valuable, sir, if I may." A cocky twinkle lit up his eyes. "Or they wouldn't have fallen."
Liam puffed up his chest. He recognized such the type. On a King's ship today, and serving a pirate's ship tomorrow. He placed both hands on the boy's shoulders and squeezed hard. Looking into his eyes, he said, "If they weren't valuable, then they wouldn't be on this ship!"
The boy went silent, his fear returning as quickly as it had left. Liam's grip loosened. Threatening him? The boy was too young. Too young to be on this ship and too young to be without his family. He let the boy go with a nod. "Check them and make sure nothing is broken. If anything is, report it to the quartermaster and he'll tell you what to do."
"Yes, sir," the midshipman sank back. He walked to the crates and began examining their contents. Liam watched him and frowned. If anything was broken, the boy would certainly pay the price. He turned away. He couldn't take the blame himself, or else it could result in his own unnecessary punishment, not to mention the risk of his position for being caught in a lie.
Overwhelming guilt rubbed against Liam before he escaped the view of the boy. It wasn't his job, he told himself, but it was no use. Accident or not, he couldn't bear knowing the young lad would walk into a lashing by merely telling the truth.
"Change that," his words escaped his fear's reasoning. "Report all damage to me, and I'll be sure to get the information to the Quartermaster myself." He glanced over his shoulder to the midshipman. "No need to slow your work down to fetch someone who is too busy anyway."
The lad gave a slight nod and Liam left him to his softening problems. He climbed the ladder, leaving the shadows behind and pushing away the trouble he may face instead. He had to defend the young soul, even if it was to ease his regrets enough for a good night's sleep.

 

[_-Captain BRM-_]

Backstory dropppp.

Spoiler: I am addicted to myytthhiiccsss... Part one?.

Rain spat upon the cobbled stone and moonlight glared. She ran, thin soled boots slapping against the stone, and the wind tore at her skirts.

Houses and shops lined the street, each shutter closed, every door locked, and lamps burned ahead, flickering as the rain pounded. Her raw eyes analyzed, scrambling for safety.

She slipped, falling into her left leg. Her ankle grew hot and fizzed.

Rain saturated her vision, and slopped gnarled hair down her forehead. Ahead a single lamp burned, and it drew her eyes in, coaxing her onward, a comfort in the cold. She tripped and veered, disturbing great pools of water, which filled the fabric of her skirts and exploited her balance. She turned toward a blurred storefront, stealing into a shallow, roofed space between buildings, and waited.

The woman shook, listening to hooves echo and cut into the main road. She hunched down, clutching the neck of her blouse, and held her breath. The talisman in her white hand burned, but she could not relax the muscles, and the paper inside her shirt had warped and pasted to her ribs. The ink would have run like blood by now, staining her pale skin, and proving the document useless.

Proving this job wasteful, and her maddening discretion faulty.

Earth rumbled and the horse tore past, diving ahead into darkness, and she slumped against the wet wall, breathing rain.

She had made a condemning mistake. This job was a hideous miscalculation.

She took a breath and her body spasmed. Spitting again, the woman pushed pasty hair off her forehead and eyes, then stood and rocked on trembling muscles.

The rain grew dense, and shouted off the cobblestone. She lifted her head, listening.

Hooves.

Slower than previous.

Crisp and wet and approaching.

She tripped back on battered feet and fell and scrambled up again, avoiding debris, skirts heavy and wet.

Everything sacred, she cursed and cursed. Breath hiccupped in her chest and stuck in her throat. The shadows gripped her frame, and with wild, prey-like eyes she watched the horse come into view. Its coat shone with lantern light, and sweat and water splattered off its flank. The shadowed rider maintained a tense reign, and the horse bounced its head, rolling and chewing the bit. Foam flopped from its mouth and slapped the ground.

She hunched low, backing into the alley, and her foot caught a glass bottle. It broke against the wall.

The rider turned and she felt heat thrill her spine, and again she was spitting things up and rushing backwards, no longer acute to the noise she was making, deafened by fear.

A miscalculation to the finest extent. She had ruined herself.

The back of the alley greeted her with a cold, solid grip, and she flattened herself against it, pushing. The wall gave, and hinges screamed. She fell back. Wafting dust lathered in her throat, and she coughed and breathed musty air as her eyes searched the dank shed. The talisman bit into her palm. She crawled backwards, reaching her bloody hand to clutch the neck of her blouse.

The handle of a shovel ran itself hard into the place between her shoulder blade and back, and she flinched forward, then ducked beneath, and pushed herself to the cluttered corner. Everything was black and unknown, and it all danced in her red eyes as she thrust her hand out, brushing callused fingers over her surroundings. She hit glass and the jar fell, spitting yellow across her chest. The woman jerked away, biting her teeth.

Hooves popped through the air, and she forced herself deeper and found a set of shelving lined with heavy preservatives. She stumbled on and ran her numb hand along a warped shelf, blinking hair from her eyes. The document had grown warm, a film staining her ribcage, and she lifted her free white fist to her mouth and worked open the cold, rigid fingers. The blood was wet and bitter. Her stained teeth found the talisman, and she tensed and leaned on the shelves, then used her tongue to pry it from the ravaged skin, flicking blood with trembling hands.

Heavy boots and spurs clicked, and she ducked low, breathing. She spat the talisman into her free hand, and slowly placed the object behind a set of jars, holding her breath to ease the shaking.

Heat ailed her skin.

She shifted away from the shelf, moving deeper into the cellar. Straw lay thick on the ground, breaking beneath her shoes, shuffling tiny sounds. She reached for the document in her blouse and sucked the skin tight to her ribs. The paper broke upon retrieval, and she scraped it up, moving hurriedly as things fell and jars smashed in the dark behind her. She twisted her fingers into the soft paper, tearing and destroying. The shelving creaked and leaned. Jars cascaded off the side opposite to her, and she hunched down, shoving the paper into her mouth. Preservatives sprayed up the left side of her body and face. A foreign hand caught the back of her blouse and slammed her chin into the ground.

A dreadful mistake. Her heart faltered. He would kill her.

His hands trapped her arms and pulled her from the ground with a bruising grip. The floor lay thick with canned-slosh, and his boots tossed it around as he started toward the door, kicking glass. He covered her mouth with a thick hand and dragged her forward. She tripped ahead of him, half carried, and remained quite agreeable until they had exited the warming cellar, stumbling over her cold feet.

The document waited, compressed to the back of her tongue.

The man shuffled between tools, grunting and crushing her skin, and as he pulled her close to traverse a particularly difficult passage, she flung her head back into his nose.

His grip did not lessen.

She twisted, and kicked into his knees. He repositioned his hold and jerked her away by the hair, and her forehead hit the door frame as they stumbled out into the street.

The stone was wet and he propped her on his knees, and she lay there, dazed, watching mud drip down the horse’s dark forelegs as he searched her clothing.

Her mouth was warm, and the paper bobbed, half-swallowed in her throat.

Rain tore through her eyes.

He breathed heavy sounds along with his horse.

She made an attempt to swallow as the man’s hand slipped to her neck, and she lifted her hands to grip his wrists. Saliva bubbled in her throat, and she coughed. Then coughed again.

He ran his hand along her neck, and she arched her back, twisting away, but he fit her head between the bones of his knees and worked his rough fingers between her teeth, using his free hand to rub the skin of her throat and coax up the document as she gagged and heaved.

She could feel it on the back of her tongue now, and she winced, clenching her jaw over thick, leather gloved hands. He hit her, and she faltered, coughing raw sounds and squirming. He hit her again, and her head sprang against his knee, and her ears roared.

The horse shifted weight, glistening.

Water streaked her eyes.

The back of his hand cracked over her forehead, and her body tottered, temple throbbing. The paper fell loose from her mouth, and her eyes rolled.



|



The horse beat across the cobblestone, shattering rock. Her head swayed in a dark, woven fabric. The animal below lunged long, digging strides, her legs bounced against its muscular shoulders. Hands tied and gripping coarse mane, she felt a forearm locked tight round her waist, and she drove her elbows back. His grip tightened and she braced herself for an impact of some kind, but none came. Rain increased in volume, and hail stung. She could see nothing through the bag, and kept her head down.

The horse turned, sudden and sharp, and its hooves gave and slipped on the slick road. Her heart caught as the creature steadied itself and sprung another wild turn, it's panic evident and contagious. She felt his hand leave her waist, and she leaned into him, reaching her bound hands to his wet trousers, then up to his shirt, pushing into him as the animal reared. He leaned forward, countering his steed, and the animal pitched left, then slipped again, shaking on worn muscles as it sprang into another wild turn. The man grunted suddenly, the noise loud and pained, and she felt him tense and keel into her back.

The horse pitched, and the man began to fall.

She released his shirt, gripping the saddle as he slipped away, then ducked low, sliding her head beside the horse's neck.

An explosion fired, somewhere nearby, and the horse rounded and ran. She could feel the creature leaning right, feel the saddle slipping, and hear his body drag across the stone. She clutched the horse’s wet skin, breathing hard through the bag as the saddle began slipping and the creature's pace grew faster, and her body scrambled.

There was another explosion.

She could see it through the bag, through her shut eyes, and she could feel it throw her through the air. The heat, and that terrible moment of processing.

Her empty stomach flitted.

And then she hit the cobblestone

 

[_-Captain BRM-_]

CLOUDSSSZZZAGAHAHHHHAAA

 

[Somewhere_In_The_Clouds]

CLOUDSSSZZZAGAHAHHHHAAA

What

 

[_-Captain BRM-_]

What

I was rereading an old Tay post, and mourning my contraction between calling her 'a girl' AND 'a woman', and trying to decide which better suited, and I was JUST about to sign off when I saw a notif, and I was like, no way, and then itWASYOU. You have like internal notifications

 

[Somewhere_In_The_Clouds]

I was rereading an old Tay post, and mourning my contraction between calling her 'a girl' AND 'a woman', and trying to decide which better suited, and I was JUST about to sign off when I saw a notif, and I was like, no way, and then itWASYOU. You have like internal notifications

I was reading BYC while I ate dinner

 

[_-Captain BRM-_]

I was reading BYC while I ate dinner

DINNEH? Where do you LIVVEEE.

 

[Somewhere_In_The_Clouds]

DINNEH? Where do you LIVVEEE.

Oh wow Australia

 

[RDchicken99]

Backstory dropppp.

Spoiler: I am addicted to myytthhiiccsss... Part one?.

Rain spat upon the cobbled stone and moonlight glared. She ran, thin soled boots slapping against the stone, and the wind tore at her skirts.

Houses and shops lined the street, each shutter closed, every door locked, and lamps burned ahead, flickering as the rain pounded. Her raw eyes analyzed, scrambling for safety.

She slipped, falling into her left leg. Her ankle grew hot and fizzed.

Rain saturated her vision, and slopped gnarled hair down her forehead. Ahead a single lamp burned, and it drew her eyes in, coaxing her onward, a comfort in the cold. She tripped and veered, disturbing great pools of water, which filled the fabric of her skirts and exploited her balance. She turned toward a blurred storefront, stealing into a shallow, roofed space between buildings, and waited.

The woman shook, listening to hooves echo and cut into the main road. She hunched down, clutching the neck of her blouse, and held her breath. The talisman in her white hand burned, but she could not relax the muscles, and the paper inside her shirt had warped and pasted to her ribs. The ink would have run like blood by now, staining her pale skin, and proving the document useless.

Proving this job wasteful, and her maddening discretion faulty.

Earth rumbled and the horse tore past, diving ahead into darkness, and she slumped against the wet wall, breathing rain.

She had made a condemning mistake. This job was a hideous miscalculation.

She took a breath and her body spasmed. Spitting again, the woman pushed pasty hair off her forehead and eyes, then stood and rocked on trembling muscles.

The rain grew dense, and shouted off the cobblestone. She lifted her head, listening.

Hooves.

Slower than previous.

Crisp and wet and approaching.

She tripped back on battered feet and fell and scrambled up again, avoiding debris, skirts heavy and wet.

Everything sacred, she cursed and cursed. Breath hiccupped in her chest and stuck in her throat. The shadows gripped her frame, and with wild, prey-like eyes she watched the horse come into view. Its coat shone with lantern light, and sweat and water splattered off its flank. The shadowed rider maintained a tense reign, and the horse bounced its head, rolling and chewing the bit. Foam flopped from its mouth and slapped the ground.

She hunched low, backing into the alley, and her foot caught a glass bottle. It broke against the wall.

The rider turned and she felt heat thrill her spine, and again she was spitting things up and rushing backwards, no longer acute to the noise she was making, deafened by fear.

A miscalculation to the finest extent. She had ruined herself.

The back of the alley greeted her with a cold, solid grip, and she flattened herself against it, pushing. The wall gave, and hinges screamed. She fell back. Wafting dust lathered in her throat, and she coughed and breathed musty air as her eyes searched the dank shed. The talisman bit into her palm. She crawled backwards, reaching her bloody hand to clutch the neck of her blouse.

The handle of a shovel ran itself hard into the place between her shoulder blade and back, and she flinched forward, then ducked beneath, and pushed herself to the cluttered corner. Everything was black and unknown, and it all danced in her red eyes as she thrust her hand out, brushing callused fingers over her surroundings. She hit glass and the jar fell, spitting yellow across her chest. The woman jerked away, biting her teeth.

Hooves popped through the air, and she forced herself deeper and found a set of shelving lined with heavy preservatives. She stumbled on and ran her numb hand along a warped shelf, blinking hair from her eyes. The document had grown warm, a film staining her ribcage, and she lifted her free white fist to her mouth and worked open the cold, rigid fingers. The blood was wet and bitter. Her stained teeth found the talisman, and she tensed and leaned on the shelves, then used her tongue to pry it from the ravaged skin, flicking blood with trembling hands.

Heavy boots and spurs clicked, and she ducked low, breathing. She spat the talisman into her free hand, and slowly placed the object behind a set of jars, holding her breath to ease the shaking.

Heat ailed her skin.

She shifted away from the shelf, moving deeper into the cellar. Straw lay thick on the ground, breaking beneath her shoes, shuffling tiny sounds. She reached for the document in her blouse and sucked the skin tight to her ribs. The paper broke upon retrieval, and she scraped it up, moving hurriedly as things fell and jars smashed in the dark behind her. She twisted her fingers into the soft paper, tearing and destroying. The shelving creaked and leaned. Jars cascaded off the side opposite to her, and she hunched down, shoving the paper into her mouth. Preservatives sprayed up the left side of her body and face. A foreign hand caught the back of her blouse and slammed her chin into the ground.

A dreadful mistake. Her heart faltered. He would kill her.

His hands trapped her arms and pulled her from the ground with a bruising grip. The floor lay thick with canned-slosh, and his boots tossed it around as he started toward the door, kicking glass. He covered her mouth with a thick hand and dragged her forward. She tripped ahead of him, half carried, and remained quite agreeable until they had exited the warming cellar, stumbling over her cold feet.

The document waited, compressed to the back of her tongue.

The man shuffled between tools, grunting and crushing her skin, and as he pulled her close to traverse a particularly difficult passage, she flung her head back into his nose.

His grip did not lessen.

She twisted, and kicked into his knees. He repositioned his hold and jerked her away by the hair, and her forehead hit the door frame as they stumbled out into the street.

The stone was wet and he propped her on his knees, and she lay there, dazed, watching mud drip down the horse’s dark forelegs as he searched her clothing.

Her mouth was warm, and the paper bobbed, half-swallowed in her throat.

Rain tore through her eyes.

He breathed heavy sounds along with his horse.

She made an attempt to swallow as the man’s hand slipped to her neck, and she lifted her hands to grip his wrists. Saliva bubbled in her throat, and she coughed. Then coughed again.

He ran his hand along her neck, and she arched her back, twisting away, but he fit her head between the bones of his knees and worked his rough fingers between her teeth, using his free hand to rub the skin of her throat and coax up the document as she gagged and heaved.

She could feel it on the back of her tongue now, and she winced, clenching her jaw over thick, leather gloved hands. He hit her, and she faltered, coughing raw sounds and squirming. He hit her again, and her head sprang against his knee, and her ears roared.

The horse shifted weight, glistening.

Water streaked her eyes.

The back of his hand cracked over her forehead, and her body tottered, temple throbbing. The paper fell loose from her mouth, and her eyes rolled.



|



The horse beat across the cobblestone, shattering rock. Her head swayed in a dark, woven fabric. The animal below lunged long, digging strides, her legs bounced against its muscular shoulders. Hands tied and gripping coarse mane, she felt a forearm locked tight round her waist, and she drove her elbows back. His grip tightened and she braced herself for an impact of some kind, but none came. Rain increased in volume, and hail stung. She could see nothing through the bag, and kept her head down.

The horse turned, sudden and sharp, and its hooves gave and slipped on the slick road. Her heart caught as the creature steadied itself and sprung another wild turn, it's panic evident and contagious. She felt his hand leave her waist, and she leaned into him, reaching her bound hands to his wet trousers, then up to his shirt, pushing into him as the animal reared. He leaned forward, countering his steed, and the animal pitched left, then slipped again, shaking on worn muscles as it sprang into another wild turn. The man grunted suddenly, the noise loud and pained, and she felt him tense and keel into her back.

The horse pitched, and the man began to fall.

She released his shirt, gripping the saddle as he slipped away, then ducked low, sliding her head beside the horse's neck.

An explosion fired, somewhere nearby, and the horse rounded and ran. She could feel the creature leaning right, feel the saddle slipping, and hear his body drag across the stone. She clutched the horse’s wet skin, breathing hard through the bag as the saddle began slipping and the creature's pace grew faster, and her body scrambled.

There was another explosion.

She could see it through the bag, through her shut eyes, and she could feel it throw her through the air. The heat, and that terrible moment of processing.

Her empty stomach flitted.

And then she hit the cobblestone

Man, Cap, this was enthralling
And poor Tay, she's been through the ringer, hasn't she